KEMPY KAYE. From Sharpe's Ballad Book, p. 81. There is a resemblance in two points between this ballad and the Danish Greve Genselin (Grundtvig, No. 16, translated by Jamieson, Illustrations, p. 310). The characters in both are giants: the smallest kemp that danced at Genselin's bridal was "fifteen ells to his knee." Secondly, the bridal in the one ballad and the wooing in the other are described in a style of extravagant parody; more gross in the English, however, than in the Danish, where it is confined to the bride's enormous appetite. This portion of Greve Genselin occurs also in Tord af Havsgaard (Grundtvig, No. 1), which ballad is founded upon the story of Thor's Hammer in the Edda. Kempy Kaye's a wooing gane,
Far far ayont the sea,
An' he has met with an auld auld man,
His gudefather to be.
"What's the matter wi' you, my fair maiden,
You luk so pale and wan? 10
I'm sure you was once the fairest maiden
That ever the sun shined on."
His teeth they were like tether sticks,
His nose was three feet lang;
Between his shouthers was ells three,
Between his een a span. 20
"I'm coming to court your dochter dear,
An' some pairt of your gear:"
"An' by my sooth," quo' Bengoleer,
"She'll sair a man o' weir.
"My dochter she's a thrifty lass; 25
She span seven year to me;
An' if it war weil counted up,
Full ten wobs it would be."
He led his dochter by the han',
His dochter ben brought he; 30
"O is she not the fairest lass
That's in great Christendye?"
She had lauchty teeth, an' kaily lips,
An' wide lugs fu' o' hair;
Her pouches fu' o' pease-meal daigh,
War hinging down her spare. 40
Ilka ee intil her head
Was like a rotten ploom,
An' down down browit was the quean,
An' sairly did she gloom.
Ilka nail upon her hand 45
Was like an iron rake,
An' ilka teeth into her head
Was like a tether stake.
She gied to him a gay gravat
O' the auld horse's sheet, 50
And he gied her a gay gold ring
O' the auld couple reet.
7, 8. Var. For Kempy Kaye's to be here the nicht,
Or else the morn at een.
16-20. See King Henry, v. 21,22, vol. i. p. 148, and The Wee Wee Man, vol. i. p. 126, note. Also Carle of Carlile, v. 177-188 in Madden's Syr Gawayne, p. 256.36. Var. Was like a brucket yowe.
KEMPY KAYE. From Kinloch's Ballad Book, p. 41. Kempy Kaye is a wooing gane
Far far ayont the sea,
And there he met wi' auld Goling,
His gudefather to be, be,
His gudefather to be. 5
"Whar are ye gaun, O Kempy Kaye,
Whar are ye gaun sa sune?"
"O I am gaun to court a wife,
And think na ye that's weel dune, dune,
And think na ye that's weel dune?" 10
"And ye be gaun to court a wife,
As ye do tell to me,
'Tis ye sall hae my Fusome Fug,
Your ae wife for to be, be,
Your ae wife for to be." 15
"Rise up, rise up my Fusome Fug,
And mak your foul face clean,
For the brawest wooer that ere ye saw
Is come develling doun the green, green,
Is come develling doun the green." 20
Up then raise the Fusome Fug,
To mak her foul face clean;
And aye she curs'd her mither
She had na water in, in,
She had na water in. 25
She rampit out, and she rampit in,
She rampit but and ben;
The tittles and tattles that hang frae her tail
Wad muck an acre o' land, land,
Wad muck an acre o' land. 30
She had a neis upon her face
Was like an auld pat-fit;
Atween her neis bot and her mou
Was inch thick deep o' dirt, dirt,
Was inch thick deep o' dirt. 35
She had twa een intil her head
War like twa rotten plooms;
The heavy brows hung down her face,
And O I vow she glooms, glooms!
And O I vow she glooms! 40
Ilka hair that was on her head
Was like a heather cow,
And ilka louse that lookit out
Was like a lintseed bow, bow,
Was like a lintseed bow. 45
When Kempy Kaye cam to the house,
He lookit thro' a hole,
And there he saw the dirty drab
Just whisking oure the coal, coal,
Just whisking oure the coal. 50
He gied to her a braw silk napkin,
Was made o' an auld horse brat;
"I ne'er wore a silk napkin a' my life,
But weel I wat Is'e wear that, that,
But weel I wat Is'e wear that. 55
"He gied to her a braw gowd ring,
Was made frae an auld brass pan,
"I ne'er wore a gowd ring in a' my life,
But now I wat I'se wear ane, ane,
But now I wat Is'e wear ane." 60
Whan thir twa loves had met thegither,
O kissing to tak their fill,
The slaver that hang atween their twa gabs
Wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill, bill,
Wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill. 65
THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE. From Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, edited by Robert Bell, p. 124. This ballad, says the editor, "has long been popular in Worcestershire and some of the adjoining counties. It was printed for the first time by Mr. Allies of Worcester, under the title of The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the adjoining county of Warwick, it has always been called The Old Man and his Three Sons—the name given to a fragment of the ballad still used as a nursery song in the north of England, the chorus of which slightly varies from that of the ballad: (see p. 250 of the same publication.)" Mr. Bell imagines that there is an allusion to this ballad in As You Like It, i. 2, where Le Beau says "There comes an old man and his three sons,"
and Celia replies, "I could match this beginning with an old tale."
Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And one of them was Sir Ryalas,
For he was a jovial hunter.
He ranged all round down by the wood side, 5
Wind well thy horn, good hunter,
Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied,
For he was a jovial hunter.
"O, what dost thee mean, fair lady?" said he,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 10
"The wild boar's killed my lord, and has thirty men gored,
And thou beest a jovial hunter.
"O what shall I do this wild boar for to see?"
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
"O, thee blow a blast, and he'll come unto thee, 15
As thou beest a jovial hunter.
Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west and south,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And the wild boar then heard him full in his den,
As he was a jovial hunter. 20
Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong, 25
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along,
To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.
"O what dost thee want of me?" wild boar, said he,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 30
"O I think in my heart I can do enough for thee,
For I am the jovial hunter."
Then they fought four hours in a long summer day,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Till the wild boar fain would have got him away 35
From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.
Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite,
For he was a jovial hunter. 40
Then out of the wood the wild woman flew,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
"O my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew,
For thou beest a jovial hunter.
"There are three things, I demand them of thee, 45
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
"It's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady,
As thou beest a jovial hunter."
"If these three things thou dost ask of me,"
Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 50
It's just as my sword and thy neck can agree,
For I am a jovial hunter."
Then into his long locks the wild woman flew,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Till she thought in her heart to tear him through, 55
Though he was a jovial hunter.
Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And he fairly split her head into twain,
For he was a jovial hunter. 60
In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby,
Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.
THE BLUDY SERK. The Bludy Serk, both story and morality, is taken from the Gesta Romanorum; see two forms of the tale in Madden's Old English Versions, &c. p. 22, p. 404. This poem is preserved in the Bannatyne Manuscript, and has been several times printed. The present copy is from Laing's Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland. The author is Robert Henryson, whose ballad of Robene and Makyne has been given in the fourth volume of this collection. 58. MS. deir.
THE WANTON WIFE OF BATH. Evans's Old Ballads, i. 277; Collection of 1723, ii. 173. This excellent ballad, to adopt the encomium of Addison, (Spectator, No. 247,) was admitted by Percy into the earlier editions of the Reliques, (iii. 146, 1st ed.) though excluded from the revised edition of 1794. The same story circulates among the peasantry of England and Scotland in the form of a penny tract or chap-book; Notices of Popular Histories, p. 16, Percy Soc. vol. xxiii., Notes and Queries, New Series, vol. iii. p. 49. The jest is an old one. Mr. Halliwell refers to a fabliau in Barbazan's collection, which contains the groundwork of this piece; Du Vilain qui conquist Paradis par Plait, Meon's ed. iv. 114. In Bath a wanton wife did dwell,
As Chaucer he doth write,
Who did in pleasure spend her days,
In many a fond delight.
Upon a time love sick she was, 5
And at the length did die;
Her soul at last at Heaven's gate
Did knock most mightily.
Then Adam came unto the gate:
"Who knocketh there?" quoth he: 10
"I am the Wife of Bath," she said,
"And fain would come to thee."
"Thou art a sinner," Adam said,
"And here no place shall have;"
"And so art thou, I trow," quoth she, 15
"And gip, a doting knave!
"I will come in in spite," she said,
"Of all such churls as thee;
Thou wert the causer of our woe,
Our pain and misery; 20
"And first broke God's commandments,
In pleasure of thy wife:"
When Adam heard her tell this tale,
He run away for life.
Then down came Jacob at the gate, 25
And bids her pack to hell:
"Thou false deceiver, why?" said she;—
"Thou mayst be there as well.
"For thou deceiv'dst thy father dear,
And thine own brother too:" 30
Away slunk Jacob presently,
And made no more ado.
She knocks again with might and main,
And Lot he chides her straight:
"Why then," quoth she, "thou drunken ass, 35
Who bid thee here to prate?
"With thy two daughters thou didst lie,
On them two bastards got:"
And thus most tauntingly she chaft
Against poor silly Lot. 40
"Who calleth there," quoth Judith then,
"With such shrill sounding notes?"
"This fine minks surely came not here,"
Quoth she, "for cutting throats!"
Good Lord, how Judith blush'd for shame, 45
When she heard her say so!
King David hearing of the same,
He to the gate did go.
Quoth David, "Who knocks there so loud,
And maketh all this strife?" 50
"You were more kind good sir," she said,
"Unto Uriah's wife.
"And when thy servant thou didst cause
In battle to be slain,
Thou causedst then more strife than I, 55
Who would come here so fain."
"The woman's mad," said Solomon,
"That thus doth taunt a king;"
"Not half so mad as you," she said,
"I trow, in many a thing. 60
"Thou hadst seven hundred wives at once,
For whom thou didst provide,
And yet three hundred wh...., God wot,
Thou didst maintain beside.
"And those made thee forsake thy God, 65
And worship stocks and stones;
Besides the charge they put thee to
In breeding of young bones.
"Hadst thou not been besides thy wits,
Thou wouldst not thus have ventur'd; 70
And therefor I do marvel much
How thou this place hast entered."
"I never heard," quoth Jonas then,
"So vile a scold as this;"
"Thou wh...son runaway," quoth she, 75
"Thou diddest more amiss."
"They say," quoth Thomas, "women's tongues
Of aspen leaves are made;"
"Thou unbelieving wretch," quoth she,
"All is not true that's said." 80
When Mary Magdalen heard her then,
She came unto the gate;
Quoth she, "Good woman, you must think
Upon your former state."
"No sinner enters in this place," 85
Quoth Mary Magdalen then;
"'Twere ill for you, fair mistress mild,"
She answered her again.
"You for your honesty," quoth she,
"Had once been ston'd to death, 90
Had not our Saviour Christ come by,
And written on the earth.
"It was not by your occupation
You are become divine;
I hope my soul, by Christ's passion, 95
Shall be as safe as thine."
Then rose the good apostle Paul;
Unto this wife he cried,
"Except thou shake thy sins away,
Thou here shalt be denied." 100
"Remember, Paul, what thou hast done
All thro' a lewd desire,
How thou didst persecute God's church
With wrath as hot as fire."
Then up starts Peter at the last, 105
And to the gate he hies;
"Fond fool," quoth he, "knock not so fast;
Thou weariest Christ with cries."
"Peter," said she, "content thyself,
For mercy may be won; 110
I never did deny my Christ
As thou thyself hast done."
When as our Saviour Christ heard this,
With heavenly angels bright,
He comes unto this sinful soul, 115
Who trembled at his sight.
Of him for mercy she did crave;
Quoth he, "Thou hast refused
My proffer'd grace and mercy both,
And much my name abused." 120
"Sore have I sinn'd, O Lord," she said,
"And spent my time in vain;
But bring me, like a wand'ring sheep,
Into thy fold again.
"O Lord my God, I will amend 125
My former wicked vice;
The thief for one poor silly word
Past into Paradise."
"My laws and my commandments,"
Saith Christ, "were known to thee; 130
But of the same, in any wise,
Not yet one word did ye."
"I grant the same, O Lord," quoth she;
"Most lewdly did I live;
But yet the loving father did 135
His prodigal son forgive."
"So I forgive thy soul," he said,
"Through thy repenting cry;
Come you therefore into my joy,
I will not thee deny." 140
THE GENTLEMAN IN THRACIA. From Collier's Roxburghe Ballads, p. 17. This ballad is founded on a tale in the Gesta Romanorum, (Old English Versions, &c. p. 140.) Nearly the same story occurs in Barbazan's Fabliaux, ii. 440, and also, says Madden, in the Contes Tartares of Gueulette, iii. 157, and many other places. The model for all these is of course the Judgment of Solomon, in 1 Kings, iii. 16-27. See Douce, ii. 385. Mr. Collier remarks that this ballad is without date, but was undoubtedly written late in the sixteenth, or early in the seventeenth, century. In searching ancient chronicles,
It was my chance to finde
A story worth the writing out,
In my conceit and mind.
It is an admonition good 5
That children ought to have,
With reverence for to thinke upon
Their parents laid in grave.
In Thracia liv'd a gentleman,
Of noble progeny, 10
Who rul'd his household with great fame,
And true integrity.
This gentleman did take to wife
A neat and gallant dame,
Whose outward shew and beauty bright 15
Did many hearts inflame.
The luster that came from her lookes,
Her carriage and her grace,
Like beauteous Cynthia did outshine
Each lady in that place. 20
And being puffed up in pride,
With ease and jollity,
Her husband could not her content;
She other men must try.
Lasciviously long time she liv'd, 25
Yet bore it cunningly;
For she had those that watch'd so well,
That he could nought espy.
With bribes and gifts she so bewitch'd
The hearts of some were neere, 30
That they conceal'd her wickednesse,
And kept it from her deare.
Thus spending of her time away
In extreme wantonesse,
Her private friends, when she did please, 35
Unto her had accesse.
But the all-seeing eye of heaven
Such sinnes will not conceale,
And by some meanes at last will he
The truth of all reveale. 40
Upon a time sore sicke she fell,
Yea to the very death,
And her physician told her plaine
She must resigne her breath.
Divines did likewise visit her, 45
And holy counsell gave,
And bade her call upon the Lord,
That he her soule might save.
Amongst the rest, she did desire
They would her husband bring; 50
"I have a secret to reveale,"
She said, "my heart doth sting."
Then he came posting presently
Unto her where she lay,
And weeping then he did desire, 55
What she to him would say.
She did intreat that all might voyd
The roome, and he would stay;
"Your pardon, husband, I beseech,"
Unto him she did say: 60
"For I have wrong'd your marriage-bed,
And plaid the wanton wife;
To you the truth I will reveale,
Ere I depart this life.
"Foure hopefull sonnes you think you have; 65
To me it best is knowne,
And three of them are none of yours;
Of foure but one's your owne,
And by your selfe on me begot,
Which hath a wanton beene; 70
These dying teares forgivenesse beg;
Let mercy then be seene."
This strooke her husband in a dump,
His heart was almost dead;
But rouzing of his spirits up, 75
These words to her he said.
"I doe forgive thee with my heart,
So thou the truth wilt tell,
Which of the foure is my owne sonne,
And all things shall be well." 80
"O pardon me, my husband deare,"
Unto him she did say;
"They are my children every one,"
And so she went away.
Away he goes with heavy heart; 85
His griefes he did conceale,
And like a wise and prudent man,
To none did it reveale.
Not knowing which to be his owne,
Each of his love did share, 90
And to be train'd in vertues paths
Of them he had a care.
In learning great and gentle grace
They were brought up and taught,
Such deare affection in the hearts 95
Of parents God hath wrought.
They now were growne to mens estates,
And liv'd most gallantly;
Each had his horse, his hawke, his hound,
And did their manhood try. 100
The ancient man did joy thereat,
But yet he did not know
Which was his sonne amongst the foure;
That bred in him much woe.
At length his glasse of life was run, 105
The fates doe so decree;
For poore and rich they all must dye,
And death will take no fee.
Unto some judges he did send,
And counsell that were grave, 110
Who presently to him did come
To know what he would have.
They coming then to his beds side,
Unto them he did say:
"I know you all to be my friends, 115
Most faithfull every way;
And now, before I leave the world,
I beg this at your hands,
To have a care which of my sonnes
Shall have my goods and lands." 120
And to them all he did relate
What things his wife had done.
"There is but one amongst the foure
That is my native sonne;
And to your judgement I commit, 125
When I am laid in grave,
Which is my sonne, and which is fit
My lands and goods to have."
He dying, they in councill sate
What best were to be done; 130
For 'twas a taske of great import
To judge which was his sonne.
The brothers likewise were at strife,
Which should the living have,
When as the ancient man was dead, 135
And buried in his grave.
The judges must decide the cause,
And thus they did decree:
The dead man's body up to take,
And tye it to a tree; 140
A bow each brother he must have,
And eke an arrow take,
To shoot at their dead fathers corps,
As if he were a stake.
And he whose arrow nearest hit 145
His heart, as he did stand,
They'd judge him for to be right heire,
And fit to have the land.
On this they all did straight agree,
And to the field they went; 150
Each had a man his shaft to beare,
And bow already bent.
"Now," quoth the judges, "try your skill
Upon your father there,
That we may quickly know who shall 155
Unto the land be heire."
The oldest took his bow in hand,
And shaft, where as he stood,
Which pierc'd so deep the dead mans brest,
That it did run with blood. 160
The second brother then must shoot,
Who straight did take his aime,
And with his arrow made a wound,
That blood came from the same.
The third likewise must try his skill 165
The matter to decide;
Whose shaft did make a wound most deep
Into the dead man's side.
Unto the fourth and youngest, then,
A bow and shaft were brought; 170
Who said, "D'ee thinke that ere my heart
Could harbour such a thought,
To shoot at my dear father's heart,
Although that he be dead,
For all the kingdomes in the world 175
That farre and wide are spread?"
And turning of him round about,
The teares ran downe amaine:
He flung his bow upon the ground,
And broke his shaft in twaine. 180
The judges seeing his remorse,
They then concluded all
He was the right, the other three
They were unnaturall.
And so he straight possest the lands, 185
Being made the heire of all,
And heaven by nature in this kind
Unto his heart did call.
His brothers they did envy him,
But yet he need not care, 190
And of his wealth, in portions large,
Unto them he did share.
SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON'S ADVANCEMENT. This ballad is taken from The Crowne-Garland of Golden Roses, p. 20, Percy Society, vol. vi. Another copy is in A Collection of Old Ballads, i. 130. A play called The History of Whittington was entered on the Stationers' books in Feb. 1604, and the "famous fable of Whittington and his puss" is mentioned in Eastward Hoe, 1605. (Weber and Halliwell.) "There is something so fabulous," (says the editor of Old Ballads, following Grafton and Stow,) "or at least, that has such a romantic appearance, in the history of Whittington, that I shall not choose to relate it; but refer my credulous readers to common tradition, or to the penny histories. Certain it is that there was such a man; a citizen of London, by trade a mercer, and one who has left public edifices and charitable works enow behind him, to transmit his name to posterity. Amongst others, he founded a house of prayer; with an allowance for a master, fellows, choristers, clerks, &c., and an almshouse for thirteen poor men, called Whittington College. He entirely rebuilt the loathsome prison, which then was standing at the west gate of the city, and called it Newgate. He built the better half of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, in West-Smithfield, and the fine library in Grey-Fryars, now called Christ's Hospital: as also great part of the east end of Guildhall, with a chapel, and a library in which the records of the city might be kept.... 'Tis said of him, that he advanced a very considerable sum of money towards carrying on the war in France, under this last monarch. He married Alice, the daughter of Hugh and Molde Fitzwarren: at whose house, traditions say, Whittington lived a servant, when he got his immense riches by venturing his cat in one of his master's ships. However, if we may give credit to his own will, he was a knight's son; and more obliged to an English king and prince, than to any African monarch, for his riches. For when he founded Whittington College, and left a maintenance for so many people, as above related, they were, as Stow records it, for this maintenance bound to pray for the good estate of Richard Whittington, and Alice his wife, their founders; and for Sir William Whittington, and Dame Joan his wife; and for Hugh Fitzwarren, and Dame Molde his wife; the fathers and mothers of the said Richard Whittington and Alice his wife; for King Richard the Second, and Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, special lords and promoters of the said Richard Whittington, &c." Richard Whittington was Sheriff of London in the 18th year of Richard the Second, 1394, was then knighted, and chosen Mayor in the 22d year of the same reign, 1398. He was again Mayor in the 9th year of Henry the Fourth, 1407, and the 8th of Henry the Fifth, 1420. Keightley has devoted a chapter of his Tales and Popular Fictions (the seventh) to the legend of Whittington and his Cat. He cites two similar stories from Thiele's Danish Popular Traditions, another from the letters of Count Magalotti, a Florentine of the latter half of the 17th century, another from the Facezie of Arlotto, a Tuscan humorist of the 15th century, another, of Venetian origin, from a German chronicle of the 13th century, and finally one from the Persian Tarikh al Wasaf, a work said to have been composed at the end of the 13th or the beginning of the 14th century. Mr. Halliwell adds one more of a Portuguese wrecked on the coast of Guinea, from the Description of Guinea, 1665. Here must I tell the praise
Of worthy Whittington,
Known to be in his dayes
Thrice Maior of London.
But of poor parentage, 5
Borne was he, as we heare,
And in his tender age
Bred up in Lancashire.
Poorely to London than
Came up this simple lad, 10
Where, with a marchant-man,
Soone he a dwelling had;
And in a kitchen plast,
A scullion for to be,
Whereas long time he past 15
In labour drudgingly.
His daily service was
Turning spitts at the fire;
And to scour pots of brasse,
For a poore scullions hire. 20
Meat and drinke all his pay,
Of coyne he had no store;
Therefore to run away,
In secret thought he bore.
So from this marchant-man, 25
Whittington secretly
Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty.
But as he went along,
In a fair summer's morne, 30
Londons bells sweetly rung,
"Whittington, back return!"
Evermore sounding so,
"Turn againe, Whittington;
For thou in time shall grow 35
Lord-Maior of London."
Whereupon back againe
Whittington came with speed,
A prentise to remaine,
As the Lord had decreed. 40
"Still blessed be the bells;
(This was his daily song)
They my good fortune tells,
Most sweetly have they rung.
If God so favour me, 45
I will not proove unkind;
London my love shall see,
And my great bounties find."
But see his happy chance!
This scullion had a cat, 50
Which did his state advance,
And by it wealth he gat.
His maister ventred forth,
To a land far unknowne,
With marchandize of worth, 55
As is in stories showne.
Whittington had no more
But this poor cat as than,
Which to the ship he bore,
Like a brave marchant-man. 60
"Vent'ring the same," quoth he,
"I may get store of golde,
And Maior of London be,
As the bells have me told."
Whittington's marchandise, 65
Carried was to a land
Troubled with rats and mice,
As they did understand.
The king of that country there,
As he at dinner sat, 70
Daily remain'd in fear
Of many a mouse and rat.
Meat that in trenchers lay,
No way they could keepe safe;
But by rats borne away, 75
Fearing no wand or staff.
Whereupon, soone they brought
Whittingtons nimble cat;
Which by the king was bought;
Heapes of gold giv'n for that. 80
Home againe came these men
With their ships loaden so,
Whittingtons wealth began
By this cat thus to grow.
Scullions life he forsooke 85
To be a marchant good,
And soon began to looke
How well his credit stood.
After that he was chose
Shriefe of the citty heere, 90
And then full quickly rose
Higher, as did appeare.
For to this cities praise,
Sir Richard Whittington
Came to be in his dayes 95
Thrise Maior of London.
More his fame to advance,
Thousands he lent his king,
To maintaine warres in France,
Glory from thence to bring. 100
And after, at a feast
Which he the king did make,
He burnt the bonds all in jeast,
And would no money take.
Ten thousand pound he gave 105
To his prince willingly,
And would not one penny have;
This in kind curtesie.
God did thus make him great,
So would he daily see 110
Poor people fed with meat,
To shew his charity.
Prisoners poore cherish'd were,
Widdowes sweet comfort found;
Good deeds, both far and neere, 115
Of him do still resound.
Whittington Colledge is
One of his charities;
Records reporteth this
To lasting memories. 120
Newgate he builded faire,
For prisoners to live in;
Christs-Church he did repaire,
Christian love for to win.
Many more such like deedes 125
Were done by Whittington;
Which joy and comfort breedes,
To such as looke thereon.
Lancashire, thou hast bred
This flower of charity: 130
Though he be gon and dead
Yet lives he lastingly.
Those bells that call'd him so,
"Turne again, Whittington,"
Call you back many moe 135
To live so in London.
CATSKIN'S GARLAND, OR, THE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN. Moore's Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry, p. 596. Only in a very debased form is this enchanting tale preserved by English tradition. The following ballad is given, in the collection cited above, from a modern broadside, but has here received a few improvements from two other copies cited by the editor. Mr. Halliwell has printed another version of Catskin in The Nursery Rhymes of England, p. 48, Percy Society, vol. iv. The story is possessed by almost every nation in Europe. It is found not only among the Northern races, but among the Hungarians, Servians, Wallachians, Welsh, Italians, and French. In Germany it is current in a great variety of forms, the two most noteworthy of which are Aschenputtel, to which correspond Cennerentola in the Pentamerone (i. 6), the Cendrillon of Perrault, and the Finette Cendron of Madame d'Aulnoy; and Allerlei-Rauh, which is the same as the Peau d'Ane of Perrault, the She-Bear of the Pentamerone (ii. 6), and the Doralice of Straparola (i. 4).—See the Grimms' Kinder-und-Haus-MÄrchen, No. 21, 65, and notes in vol. iii.; also the Swedish story of The Little Gold Shoe, and The Girl clad in Mouse-skin, from the Danish, in Thorpe's Yule Tide Stories, pp. vii. 112, 375. PART I.
PART III. This knight had a son both comely and tall,
Who often-times used to be at a ball, 70
A mile out of town, and one evening-tide,
To see a fine dancing away he did ride.
Catskin said to his mother, "Madam, let me
Go after your son, this ball for to see."
With that, in a passion this lady she grew, 75
And struck her with a ladle, and broke it in two.
Being thus served, she then got away,
And in her rich garments herself did array;
Then to see this ball she then did retire,
Where she danced so fine all did her admire. 80
The sport being done, this young squire did say,
"Young lady, where do you live, tell me, I pray?"
Her answer to him was, "Sir, that I will tell;
At the sign of the Broken Ladle I dwell."
She being very nimble, got home first, 'tis said, 85
And with her catskin robes she soon was arrayed;
Then into the kitchen again she did go,
But where she had been none of them did know.
Next night the young 'squire, himself to content,
To see the ball acted, away then he went. 90
She said, "Let me go this ball for to view;"
She struck her with a skimmer, and broke it in two.
Then out of doors she ran, being full of heaviness,
And with her rich garments herself she did dress;
For to see this ball she ran away with speed, 95
And to see her dancing all wonder'd indeed.
The ball being ended, the 'squire said then,
"Pray where do you live?" She answered again,
"Sir, because you ask me, account I will give;
At the sign of the Broken Skimmer I live." 100
Being dark, she left him, and home[ward] did hie,
And in her catskin robes she was drest presently,
And into the kitchen among them she went,
But where she had been they were all innocent.
[When] the 'squire came home and found Catskin there, 105
He was in amaze, and began for to swear,
"For two nights at the ball has been a lady,
The sweetest of beauties that e'er I did see.
"She was the best dancer in all the whole place,
And very much like our Catskin in the face; 110
Had she not been drest in that costly degree,
I would have sworn it was Catskin's body."
Next night he went to see this ball once more;
Then she ask'd his mother to go as before;
Who having a bason of water in hand, 115
She threw it at Catskin, as I understand.
Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run,
And dressed herself when this thing she had done;
To see this ball acted she then run her ways,
To see her fine dancing all gave her the praise. 120
And having concluded, the young squire he
Said, "From whence do you come, pray now tell me?"
Her answer was, "Sir, you shall know the same,
From the sign of the Bason of Water I came."
Then homeward she hurried, as fast as might be. 125
This young 'squire then was resolved to see
Whereto she belong'd, then follow'd Catskin:
Into an old straw-house he saw her creep in.
He said, "O brave Catskin, I find it is thee,
Who these three nights together has so charmed me; 130
Thou'rt the sweetest creature my eyes e'er beheld;
With joy and comfort my heart it is fill'd.
"Thou art the cook's scullion, but as I have life,
Grant me [but] thy love, and I'll make thee my wife,
And you shall have maids to wait at your call." 135
"Sir, that cannot be; I've no portion at all."
"Thy beauty is portion, my joy and my dear;
I prize it far better than thousands a year;
And to gain my friends' consent, I've got a trick;
I'll go to my bed and feign myself sick. 140
"There's none shall attend me but thee, I profess,
And some day or other in thy richest dress
Thou shalt be drest; if my parents come nigh,
I'll tell them that for thee sick I do lie."
PART IV. Having thus consulted, this couple partÈd. 145
Next day this young 'squire took to his bed.
When his dear parents this thing perceiv'd,
For fear of his death they were heartily griev'd.
To tend him they sent for a nurse presently:
He said, "None but Catskin my nurse now shall be."150
His parents said, "No." He said, "But she shall,
Or else I'll have none for to nurse me at all."
His parents both wonder'd to hear him say thus,
That no one but Catskin must be his nurse;
So then his dear parents their son to content, 155
Up into the chamber poor Catskin they sent.
Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepar'd,
Which betwixt this young couple was equally shar'd;
And when all alone, they in each other's arms
Enjoy'd one another in love's pleasant charms. 160
At length on a time poor Catskin, 'tis said,
In her rich attire she then was array'd;
And when his mother the chamber drew near,
Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear.
Which caus'd her to startle, and thus she did say; 165
"What young lady's this, son, tell me I pray?"
He said, "It is Catskin, for whom I sick lie,
And without I have her with speed I shall die."
His mother ran down for to call the old knight,
Who ran up to see this amazing great sight; 170
He said, "Is this Catskin we hold so in scorn?
I ne'er saw a finer dame since I was born."
The old knight said to her, "I pry'thee tell me,
From whence dost thou come, and of what family."
Then who was her parents she gave them to know, 175
And what was the cause of her wandering so.
The young 'squire said, "If you will save my life,
Pray grant this young creature may be my wife."
His father reply'd, "Your life for to save,
If you are agreed, my consent you shall have." 180
Next day, with great triumph and joy, as we hear,
There were many coaches came far and near;
She much like a goddess drest in great array,
Catskin to the 'squire was married that day.
For several days this great wedding did last, 185
Where was many topping and gallant rich guests;
And for joy the bells rung all over the town,
And bottles of claret went merrily round.
When Catskin was married, her fame to raise,
To see her modest carriage all gave her the praise; 190
Thus her charming beauty the squire did win,
And who lives so great as he and Catskin?
PART V. Now in the fifth part I'll endeavour to shew,
How things with her parents and sister did go;
Her mother and sister of life [are] bereft, 195
And all alone the old knight he was left.
And hearing his daughter being married so brave,
He said, "In my noddle a fancy I have;
Drest like a poor man a journey I'll make,
And see if on me some pity she'll take. 200
Then drest like a beggar he goes to the gate,
Where stood his daughter, who appear'd very great;
He said, "Noble lady, a poor man I be,
And am now forced to crave charity."
With a blush she asked him from whence he came, 205
With that then he told her, and also his name;
She said, "I'm your daughter, whom you slighted so,
Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I'll shew.
"Thro' mercy the Lord hath provided for me.
Now, father, come in and sit down," then said she. 210
Then the best of provisions the house could afford,
For to make him welcome was set on the board.
She said, "Thou art welcome; feed hearty, I pray;
And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay
So long as you live." Then he made this reply; 215
"I am only come thy love for to try.
"Thro' mercy, my child, I am rich, and not poor;
I have gold and silver enough now in store;
And for the love that at thy house I have found,
For a portion I'll give thee ten thousand pounds." 220
So in a few days after, as I understand,
This man he went home and sold off his land;
And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give,
And now altogether in love they do live.
61. thee.62. upon me.98. answered him.141. protest.
THE TAMING OF A SHREW. Ritson's Ancient Songs and Ballads, ii. 242. "From one of the Sloan MSS. in the Museum, No. 1489. The writing of Charles the First's time." A far superior poem on the very popular subject of the disciplining of wives is that of The Wife Lapped in Morels Skin, printed in Utterson's Select Pieces of Early Popular Poetry, ii. 173, and as an appendix to the Shakespeare Society's edition of the old Taming of a Shrew. As a counterpart to these pieces may be mentioned the amusing poem called Ane Ballad of Matrymonie, in Laing's Select Remains, or, The Honeymoon, Aytoun's Ballads of Scotland, i. 284. Al you that are assembled heere,
Come listen to my song,
But first a pardon I must crave,
For feare of further wrong;
I must entreat thes good wyves al 5
They wil not angrye be,
And I will sing a merrye song,
If they thereto agree.
Because the song I mean to sing
Doth touch them most of all, 10
And loth I were that any one
With me shold chide and brawle.
I have anough of that at home,
At boarde, and eake in bed;
And once for singing this same song 15
My wyfe did breake my head.
But if thes good wyves all be pleasd,
And pleased be the men,
Ile venture one more broken pate,
To sing it once agayne. 20
But first Ile tell you what it's cald,
For feare you heare no more;
'Tis calde the Taming of a Shrew,
Not often sung before.
And if I then shall sing the rest, 25
A signe I needs must have;
Hold but your finger up to me,
Or hem,—that's al I crave—
Then wil I sing it with a harte,
And to it roundelye goe; 30
You know my mynde, now let me see
Whether I shal sing't or no. Hem.
Well then, I see you willing are
That I shall sing the reste;
To pleasure al thes good wyves heire 35
I meane to do my best.
For I do see even by their lookes
No hurte to me they thinke,
And thus it chancte upon a tyme,
(But first give me a drinke.) 40
Not long agoe a lustye lad
Did woe a livelye lasse,
And long it was before he cold
His purpose bring to passe;
Yet at the lenth it thus fell out, 45
She granted his petition,
That she would be his wedded wyfe,
But yet on this condicion.
That she shold weare the breeches on
For one yeare and a day, 50
And not to be controld of him
Whatsoere she'd do or say.
She rulde, shee raignd, she had hir wil
Even as she wold require;
But marke what fell out afterwards, 55
Good wyves I you desyre.
She made him weary of his lyfe;
He wisht that death wold come,
And end his myserye at once,
Ere that the yeare was run; 60
He thought it was the longest yeare
That was since he was borne,
But he cold not the matter mend,
For he was thereto sworne.
Yet hath the longest day his date; 65
For this we al do know,
Although the day be neer soe long,
To even soone wil it goe.
So fell it out with hir at lenth,
The yeare was now come out; 70
The sun, and moone, and all the starres,
Their race had run about.
Then he began to rouse himselfe,
And to his wyfe he saide,
"Since that your raigne is at an end, 75
Now know me for your heade."
But she that had borne swaye so long
Wold not be under brought,
But stil hir tounge on pattens ran,
Though many blowes she caught. 80
He bet hir backe, he bet hir syde,
He bet hir blacke and blew;
But for all this she wolde not mend,
But worse and worse she grew.
When that he saw she wolde not mend, 85
Another way wrought hee;
He mewde hir up as men mew hawkes,
Where noe light she cold see.
And kept hir without meate or drinke
For four dayes space and more; 90
Yet for all this she was as ill
As ere she was before.
When that he saw she wold not mend,
Nor that she wold be quiet,
Neither for stroakes nor locking up, 95
Nor yet for want of dyet,
He was almost at his wits end,
He knew not what to doe;
So that with gentlenes againe
He gane his wyfe to woo. 100
But she soone bad him holde his peace,
And sware it was his best,
But then he thought him of a wyle
Which made him be at rest.
He told a frend or two of his 105
What he had in his mynde;
Who went with him into his house,
And when they all had dynde,
"Good wyfe," quoth he, "thes frends of myne
Come hither for your good; 110
There lyes a vayne under your toung,
Must now be letten blood."
Then she began to use hir tearmes,
And raylÉd at them fast;
Yet bound they hir for al hir strenth 115
Unto a poaste at laste,
And let hir blood under the toung,
And tho she bled full sore,
Yet did she rayle at them as fast
As ere she raylde before. 120
"Wel then," quoth he, "the faulte I see,
She hath it from her mother;
It is hir teeth infects hir toung,
And it can be noe other;
And since I now doe know the cause, 125
Whatsoever to me befall,
Ile plucke hir teeth out of hir toung,
Perhaps hir toung and all."
And with a payre of pinsers strong
He pluckt a great tooth out, 130
And for to plucke another thence,
He quicklye went about.
But then she held up both her hands,
And did for mercye pray,
Protesting that against his will, 135
She wold not doe nor saye.
Whereat hir husband was right glad,
That she had changde hir mynde,
For from that tyme unto hir death
She proved both good and kynde. 140
Then did he take hir from the poast,
And did unbind hir then;
I wold al shrews were served thus;
Al good wyves say Amen.
TITUS ANDRONICUS'S COMPLAINT. On the 6th of February, 1593-4, A noble Roman Historye of Tytus Andronicus, was entered in the Stationers' Registers, to John Danter, and also "the ballad thereof." The earliest known edition of Shakespeare's play was in 1600. The differences between this play and the ballad are thus stated by Percy. "In the ballad is no mention of the contest for the empire between the two brothers, the composing of which makes the ungrateful treatment of Titus afterwards the more flagrant: neither is there any notice taken of his sacrificing one of Tamora's sons, which the tragic poet has assigned as the original cause of all her cruelties. In the play, Titus loses twenty-one of his sons in war, and kills another for assisting Bassianus to carry off Lavinia; the reader will find it different in the ballad. In the latter she is betrothed to the Emperor's son: in the play to his brother. In the tragedy, only two of his sons fall into the pit, and the third, being banished, returns to Rome with a victorious army, to avenge the wrongs of his house: in the ballad, all three are entrapped, and suffer death. In the scene, the Emperor kills Titus, and is in return stabbed by Titus's surviving son. Here Titus kills the Emperor, and afterwards himself." * * * * * "The following is given from a copy in The Golden Garland, entitled as above; compared with three others, two of them in black letter in the Pepys collection, entitled The Lamentable and Tragical History of Titus Andronicus, &c. To the Tune of Fortune. Printed for E. Wright.—Unluckily, none of these have any dates." Percy's Reliques, i. 238. You noble minds, and famous martiall wights,
That in defence of native country fights,
Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Rome,
Yet reapt disgrace at my returning home.
In Rome I lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres, 5
My name beloved was of all my peeres;
Fulle five-and-twenty valiant sonnes I had,
Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad.
For when Romes foes their warlike forces bent,
Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent; 10
Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre
We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre.
Just two-and-twenty of my sonnes were slaine
Before we did returne to Rome againe:
Of five-and-twenty sonnes, I brought but three 15
Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see.
When wars were done, I conquest home did bring,
And did present my prisoners to the king,
The queene of Goths, her sons, and eke a Moore,
Which did such murders, like was nere before. 20
The emperour did make this queene his wife,
Which bred in Rome debate and deadly strife;
The Moore, with her two sonnes, did growe soe proud,
That none like them in Rome might bee allowd.
The Moore soe pleas'd this new-made empress' eie, 25
That she consented to him secretlye
For to abuse her husbands marriage bed,
And soe in time a blackamore she bred.
Then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde,
Consented with the Moore of bloody minde, 30
Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes,
In cruell sort to bring them to their endes.
Soe when in age I thought to live in peace,
Both care and griefe began then to increase:
Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter bright, 35
Which joy'd and pleased best my aged sight.
My deare Lavinia was betrothed than
To Cesars sonne, a young and noble man:
Who, in a hunting, by the emperours wife,
And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life. 40
He, being slaine, was cast in cruel wise
Into a darksome den from light of skies:
The cruell Moore did come that way as then
With my three sonnes, who fell into the den.
The Moore then fetcht the emperour with speed, 45
For to accuse them of that murderous deed;
And when my sonnes within the den were found,
In wrongfull prison they were cast and bound.
But nowe behold what wounded most my mind:
The empresses two sonnes, of savage kind, 50
My daughter ravished without remorse,
And took away her honour, quite perforce.
When they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre,
Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre,
They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell 55
How that dishonoure unto her befell.
Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite,
Whereby their wickednesse she could not write,
Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe
The bloudye workers of her direfull woe. 60
My brother Marcus found her in the wood,
Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud,
That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes:
Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes.
But when I sawe her in that woefull case, 65
With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face:
For my Lavinia I lamented more
Then for my two-and-twenty sonnes before.
When as I sawe she could not write nor speake,
With grief mine aged heart began to breake; 70
We spred an heape of sand upon the ground,
Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found.
For with a staffe, without the helpe of hand,
She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand:
"The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperesse 75
Are doers of this hateful wickednesse."
I tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head,
I curst the houre wherein I first was bred;
I wisht this hand, that fought for countries fame,
In cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame. 80
The Moore, delighting still in villainy,
Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free,
I should unto the king my right hand give,
And then my three imprisoned sonnes should live.
The Moore I caus'd to strike it off with speede, 85
Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed,
But for my sonnes would willingly impart,
And for their ransome send my bleeding heart.
But as my life did linger thus in paine,
They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe, 90
And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes,
Which filled my dying heart with fresher moanes.
Then past reliefe, I upp and downe did goe,
And with my teares writ in the dust my woe:
I shot my arrowes towards heaven hie, 95
And for revenge to hell often did crye.
The empresse then, thinking that I was mad,
Like Furies she and both her sonnes were clad,
(She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they)
To undermine and heare what I would say. 100
I cut their throates, my daughter held the pan 105
Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran:
And then I ground their bones to powder small,
And made a paste for pyes streight therewithall.
Then with their fleshe I made two mighty pyes,
And at a banquet, served in stately wise, 110
Before the empresse set this loathsome meat;
So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat.
Myselfe bereav'd my daughter then of life,
The empresse then I slewe with bloudy knife,
And stabb'd the emperour immediatelie, 115
And then myself: even soe did Titus die.
Then this revenge against the Moore was found;
Alive they sett him halfe in the ground,
Whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd:
And soe God send all murderers may be serv'd. 120
101. i. e. encouraged them in their foolish humours, or fancies. P.
JOHN DORY. This ballad, formerly a very great favorite, and continually alluded to in works of the 16th and 17th centuries, is found among the "Freemen's Songs of three voices" in Deuteromelia, 1609; also in Playford's Musical Companion, 1687, and for one voice in Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy, vol. i. 1698 and 1707. It is, however, much older than any of these books. Carew, in his Survey of Cornwall, 1602, p. 135, writes: "Moreover, the prowess of one Nicholas, son to a widow near Foy, is descanted upon in an old three-man's song, namely, how he fought bravely at sea with John Dory, (a Genowey, as I conjecture,) set forth by John, the French King, and, after much bloodshed on both sides, took, and slew him, in revenge of the great ravine and cruelty which he had fore committed upon the Englishmen's goods and bodies." The only King John that could be meant here is of course John II. the Good, (see v. 10,) who was taken prisoner at Poitiers, and died in 1364. No John Doria is mentioned as being in the service of John the Good.—Ritson's Ancient Songs, ii. 57, and Chappell's Popular Music, p. 67. As it fell on a holy-day,
And upon 'a' holy-tide-a,
John Dory bought him an ambling nag,
To Paris for to ride-a.
And when John Dory to Paris was come, 5
A little before the gate-a,
John Dory was fitted, the porter was witted,
To let him in thereat-a.
The first man that John Dory did meet,
Was good king John of France-a; 10
John Dory could well of his courtesie,
But fell downe in a trance-a.
"A pardon, a pardon, my liege and my king,
For my merie men and for me-a;
And all the churles in merie England, 15
Ile bring them all bound to thee-a."
And Nicholl was then a Cornish man,
A little beside Bohide-a,
And he mande forth a good blacke barke,
With fifty good oares on a side-a. 20
"Run up, my boy, unto the maine top,
And looke what thou canst spie-a:"
"Who ho! who ho! a goodly ship I do see,
I trow it be John Dory-a."
They hoist their sailes, both top and top, 25
The meisseine and all was tride-a;
And every man stood to his lot,
Whatever should betide-a.
The roring cannons then were plide,
And dub-a-dub went the drumme-a; 30
The braying trumpets lowd they cride,
To courage both all and some-a.
The grapling-hooks were brought at length,
The browne bill and the sword-a;
John Dory at length, for all his strength, 35
Was clapt fast under board-a.
SIR EGLAMORE. Courage Crowned with Conquest: Or, a brief relation how that valiant knight and heroick champion, Sir Eglamore, bravely fought with, and manfully slew, a terrible huge great monstrous dragon. To a pleasant new tune. This ballad is found in The Melancholie Knight, by Samuel Rowlands, 1615; in the Antidote to Melancholy, 1661; in Merry Drollery Complete, 1661; in Dryden's Miscellany Poems, iv. 104; in the "Bagford and Roxburghe collections of Ballads," &c. (Chappell.) The various editions differ considerably. The following is from Ritson's Ancient Songs, (ed. 1790,) p. 211, where it was reprinted from a black-letter copy dated 1672. Sir Eglamore, that valiant knight,
With his fa, la, lanctre down dilie,
He fetcht his sword and he went to fight,
With his fa, la, lanctre, &c.
As he went over hill and dale,
All cloathed in his coat of male,
With his fa, la, lanctre, &c.
A huge great dragon leapt out of his den, 5
Which had killed the Lord knows how many men;
But when he saw Sir Eglamore,
Good lack had ye seen how this dragon did roare!
This dragon he had a plaguy hide,
Which could both sword and spear abide; 10
He could not enter with hacks and cuts,
Which vext the knight to the very hearts blood and guts.
All the trees in the wood did shake,
Stars did tremble, and men did quake;
But had ye seen how the birds lay peeping, 15
'Twould have made a mans heart to fall a-weeping.
But it was too late to fear,
For now it was come to fight dog, fight bear;
And as a yawning he did fall,
He thrust his sword in, hilt and all. 20
But now as the knight in choler did burn,
He owed the dragon a shrewd good turn:
In at his mouth his sword he bent,
The hilt appeared at his fundament.
Then the dragon, like a coward, began to fly 25
Unto his den, that was hard by;
And there he laid him down and roar'd;
The knight was vexed for his sword.
"The sword, that was a right good blade,
As ever Turk or Spaniard made, 30
I for my part do forsake it,
And he that will fetch it, let him take it."
When all this was done, to the ale-house he went,
And by and by his two pence he spent;
For he was so hot with tugging with the dragon, 35
That nothing would quench him but a whole flaggon.
Now God preserve our King and Queen,
And eke in London may be seen
As many knights, and as many more,
And all so good as Sir Eglamore. 40
JEPHTHAH, JUDGE OF ISRAEL. We have thought it necessary to include in this collection one or two specimens of ballads founded on stories in the Jewish Scriptures. Besides those here selected, it may be well to refer to the following: The Constancy of Susanna, (cited in Twelfth Night,) Evans, i. 11; David and Bathsheba, id. p. 291; Tobias, Old Ballads, ii. 158; Holofernes, The Garland of Goodwill, p. 85, and Old Ballads, ii. 166. Every one will remember that the ballad of Jephthah is quoted in Hamlet (Act II. sc. 2). Percy published an imperfect copy of this piece, written down from the recollection of a lady (Reliques, i. 193). The following is from a black-letter copy reprinted in Evans, i. 7, which was entitled "Jepha, Judge of Israel." I have read that many years agoe,
When Jeph[th]a, judge of Israel,
Had one fair daughter and no moe,
Whom he loved passing well.
And as by lot, God wot, 5
It came to passe, most like it was,
Great warrs there should be,
And who should be the chiefe but he, but he.
When Jeph[th]a was appointed now
Chiefe captain of the company, 10
To God the Lord he made a vow,
If he might have the victory,
At his return, to burn,
For his offering, the first quick thing,
Should meet with him then, 15
From his house when he came agen, agen.
It chanced so these warrs were done,
And home he came with victory;
His daughter out of doors did run
To meet her father speedily: 20
And all the way did play
To taber and pipe, and many a stripe,
And notes full high,
For joy that he was so nigh, so nigh.
When Jeph[th]a did perceive and see 25
His daughter firm and formostly,
He rent his cloths, and tore his haire,
And shrieked out most piteously:
"For thou art she," quoth he,
"Hath brought me low—alas, for woe! 30
And troubled me so,
That I cannot tell what to doe, to doe.
"For I have made a vow," quoth he,
Which must not be diminishÉd;
A sacrifice to God on high; 35
My promise must be finishÉd."
"As ye have spoke, provoke
No further care, but to prepare
Your will to fulfill,
According to God's will, God's will. 40
"For sithence God has given you might
To overcome your enemies,
Let one be offer'd up, as right,
For to perform all promises.
And this let be," quoth she, 45
"As thou hast said; be not afraid;
Although it be I,
Keep promise with God on high, on high.
"But father, do so much for me
As let me go to wildernesse, 50
There to bewaile my virginity,
Three months to bemoan my heavinesse.
And let there go some moe,
Like maids with me." "Content," quoth he,
And sent her away, 55
To mourn till her latter day, her day.
And when that time was come and gone
That she should sacrificed be,
This virgin sacrificed was,
For to fulfill all promises. 60
As some say, for aye
The virgins there, three times a year,
Like sorrow fulfill
For the daughter of Jeph[th]a still, still, still.
SAMSON. Evans's Old Ballads, i. 283, from a black-letter copy. When Samson was a tall young man,
His power and strength increased then,
And in the host and tribe of Dan
The Lord did bless him still.
It chanced so upon a day, 5
As he was walking on his way,
He saw a maiden fresh and gay
In Timnath.
With whom he fell so sore in love,
That he his fancy could not move; 10
His parents therefore he did prove,
And craved their good wills:
"I have found out a wife," quoth he;
"I pray ye, father, give her me;
Though she a stranger's daughter be, 15
I pass not."
Then did bespeak his parents dear,
"Have we not many maidens here,
Of country and acquaintance near,
For thee to love and like?" 20
"O no," quoth Samson presently,
"Not one so pleasant in my eye,
Whom I could find so faithfully
To fancy."
At length they granted their consent, 25
And so with Samson forth they went;
To see the maid was their intent,
Which was so fair and bright.
But as they were a-going there,
A lion put them in great fear, 30
Whom Samson presently did tear
In pieces.
When they were come unto the place,
They were agreed in the case;
The wedding day appointed was, 35
And when the time was come,
As Samson went for beauty's fees,
The lion's carcass there he sees,
Wherein a sort of honey bees
Had swarmed. 40
Then closely Samson went his way,
And not a word thereof did say,
Untill the merry feasting-day,
Unto the company.
"A riddle I will shew," quoth he; 45
"The meaning if you tell to me,
Within seven days I will give ye
Great riches.
"But if the meaning you do miss,
And cannot shew me what it is, 50
Then shall you give to me i-wiss
So much as I have said."
"Put forth the riddle then," quoth they,
"And we will tell it by our day,
Or we will lose, as thou dost say, 55
The wager."
"Then make," quoth he, "the total sum.
Out of the eater meat did come,
And from the strong did sweetness run;
Declare it, if you can." 60
And when they heard the riddle told,
Their hearts within them waxed cold,
For none of them could then unfold
The meaning.
Then unto Samson's wife went they, 65
And threatened her, without delay,
If she would not the thing bewray,
To burn her father's house.
Then Samson's wife, with grief and woe,
Desired him the same to shew,
And when she knew, she straight did go, 70
To tell them.
Then were they all full glad of this;
To tell the thing they did not miss;
"What stronger beast than a lion is? 75
What sweeter meat than honey?"
Then Samson answered them full round,
"If my heifer had not ploughed the ground,
So easily you had not found
My riddle. 80
Then Samson did his losses pay,
And to his father went his way:
But while with them he there did stay,
His wife forsook him quite,
And took another to her love, 85
Which Samson's anger much did move:
To plague them therefore he did prove
His cunning.
A subtle thought he then had found,
To burn their corn upon the ground; 90
Their vineyards he destroyed round,
Which made them fret and fume.
But when they knew that Samson he
Had done them all this injury,
Because his wife did him deny, 95
They killed her.
And afterward they had decreed
To murder Samson for that deed;
Three thousand men they sent with speed,
To bring him bound to them. 100
But he did break his cords apace,
And with the jaw-bone of an ass
A thousand men, ere he did pass,
He killed.
When all his foes were laid in dust, 105
Then Samson was full sore athirst;
In God therefore was all his trust,
To help his fainting heart:
For liquor thereabout was none:
The Lord therefore from the jaw-bone 110
Did make fresh water spring, alone
To help him.
Then Samson had a joyfull spright,
And in a city lay that night,
Whereas his foes, with deadly spite, 115
Did seek his life to spill:
But he at midnight then awakes,
And tearing down the city gates,
With him away the same he takes
Most stoutly. 120
Then on Delilah, fair and bright,
Did Samson set his whole delight,
Whom he did love both day and night,
Which wrought his overthrow.
For she with sweet words did entreat, 125
That for her sake he would repeat
Wherein his strength, that was so great,
Consisted.
At length, unto his bitter fall,
And through her suit, which was not small, 130
He did not let to show her all
The secrets of his heart.
"If that my hair be cut," quoth he,
"Which now so fair and long you see,
Like other men then shall I be 135
In weakness."
Then through deceit which was so deep,
She lulled Samson fast asleep;
A man she call'd, which she did keep,
To cut off all his hair. 140
Then did she call his hateful foes,
Ere Samson from her lap arose,
Who could not then withstand their blows,
For weakness.
To bind him fast they did devise, 145
Then did they put out both his eyes;
In prison wofully he lies,
And there he grinds the mill.
But God remembered all his pain,
And did restore his strength again, 150
Although that bound he did remain
In prison.
The Philistines now were glad of this;
For joy they made a feast i-wiss,
And all their princes did not miss 155
To come unto the same.
And being merry bent that day,
For Samson they did send straightway,
That they might laugh to see him play
Among them. 160
Then to the house was Samson led,
And when he had their fancies fed,
He pluck'd the house upon their head,
And down they tumbled all.
So that with grief and deadly pain, 165
Three thousand persons there were slain;
Thus Samson then, with all his train,
Was brained.
QUEEN DIDO, OR, THE WANDERING PRINCE OF TROY. Percy's Reliques, iii. 240, and Ritson's Ancient Songs and Ballads, ii. 101. "Such is the title given in the Editor's folio MS. to this excellent old ballad, which, in the common printed copies, is inscribed, Eneas, wandering Prince of Troy. It is here given from that MS. collated with two different printed copies, both in black-letter, in the Pepys Collection." Percy. As other ballads on classical subjects, may be mentioned Constant Penelope, Reliques, iii. 324; Pyramus and Thisbe, in A Handfull of Pleasant Delites, p. 42 (Park's Heliconia, vol. ii.); and Hero and Leander in Collier's Roxburghe Ballads, p. 227, from which was formed the song, or ballad, in the Tea-Table Miscellany, ii. 138, Ritson's Scotish Songs, ii. 198, &c. When Troy towne had, for ten yeeres 'past,'
Withstood the Greekes in manfull wise,
Then did their foes encrease soe fast,
That to resist none could suffice:
Wast lye those walls, that were soe good, 5
And corne now growes where Troy towne stoode.
Æneas, wandering prince of Troy,
When he for land long time had sought,
At length arriving with great joy,
To mighty Carthage walls was brought; 10
Where Dido queene, with sumptuous feast,
Did entertaine that wandering guest.
And, as in hall at meate they sate,
The queene, desirous newes to heare,
Says, "Of thy Troys unhappy fate, 15
Declare to me, thou Trojan deare:
The heavy hap and chance soe bad,
That thou, poore wandering prince, hast had."
And then anon this comelye knight,
With words demure, as he cold well, 20
Of his unhappy ten yeares 'fight,'
Soe true a tale began to tell,
With wordes soe sweete, and sighes soe deepe,
That oft he made them all to weepe.
And then a thousand sighes he fet, 25
And every sigh brought teares amaine;
That where he sate the place was wett,
As though he had seene those warrs againe:
Soe that the queene, with ruth therfore,
Said, "Worthy prince, enough, no more." 30
And then the darksome night drew on,
And twinkling starres the skye bespred,
When he his dolefull tale had done,
And every one was layd in bedd:
Where they full sweetly tooke their rest, 35
Save only Dido's boyling brest.
This silly woman never slept,
But in her chamber, all alone,
As one unhappye, alwayes wept,
And to the walls shee made her mone; 40
That she shold still desire in vaine
The thing she never must obtaine.
And thus in grieffe she spent the night,
Till twinkling starres the skye were fled,
And Ph[oe]bus, with his glistering light, 45
Through misty cloudes appeared red;
Then tidings came to her anon,
That all the Trojan shipps were gone.
And then the queene with bloody knife
Did arme, her hart as hard as stone; 50
Yet, something loth to loose her life,
In woefull wise she made her mone;
And, rowling on her carefull bed,
With sighes and sobbes, these words shee sayd:
"O wretched Dido queene!" quoth shee, 55
"I see thy end approacheth neare;
For hee is fled away from thee,
Whom thou didst love and hold so deare:
What, is he gone, and passed by?
O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye. 60
"Though reason says thou shouldst forbeare,
And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke,
Yet fancy bids thee not to fear,
Which fetter'd thee in Cupids yoke.
Come death," quoth shee, "resolve my smart!"— 65
And with those words shee peerced her hart.
When death had pierced the tender hart
Of Dido, Carthaginian queene,
Whose bloudy knife did end the smart,
Which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene, 70
Æneas being shipt and gone,
Whose flattery caused all her mone,
Her funerall most costly made,
And all things finisht mournfullye,
Her body fine in mold was laid, 75
Where itt consumed speedilye:
Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde,
Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed.
Then was Æneas in an ile
In Grecya, where he stayd long space, 80
Whereas her sister in short while
Writt to him to his vile disgrace;
In speeches bitter to his mind
Shee told him plaine he was unkind.
"False-harted wretch," quoth shee, "thou art; 85
And traiterouslye thou hast betraid
Unto thy lure a gentle hart,
Which unto thee much welcome made;
My sister deare, and Carthage' joy,
Whose folly bred her deere annoy. 90
"Yett on her death-bed when shee lay,
Shee prayd for thy prosperitye,
Beseeching God, that every day
Might breed thy great felicitye:
Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend; 95
Heaven send thee such untimely end."
When he these lines, full fraught with gall,
Perused had, and wayed them right,
His lofty courage then did fall;
And straight appeared in his sight 100
Queene Dido's ghost, both grim and pale;
Which made this valliant souldier quaile.
"Æneas," quoth this ghastly ghost,
"My whole delight, when I did live,
Thee of all men I loved most; 105
My fancy and my will did give;
For entertainment I thee gave,
Unthankefully thou didst me grave.
"Therfore prepare thy flitting soule
To wander with me in the aire, 110
Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle,
Because of me thou tookst no care:
Delay not time, thy glasse is run,
Thy date is past, thy life is done."
"O stay a while, thou lovely sprite; 115
Be not soe hasty to convay
My soule into eternall night,
Where itt shall ne're behold bright day:
O doe not frowne; thy angry looke
Hath made my breath my life forsooke. 120
"But, woe is me! all is in vaine,
And bootless is my dismall crye;
Time will not be recalled againe,
Nor thou surcease before I dye.
O lett me live, and make amends 125
To some of thy most dearest friends.
"But seeing thou obdurate art,
And wilt no pittye on me show,
Because from thee I did depart,
And left unpaid what I did owe, 130
I must content myselfe to take
What lott to me thou wilt partake."
And thus, as one being in a trance,
A multitude of uglye feinds
About this woffull prince did dance: 135
He had no helpe of any friends:
His body then they tooke away,
And no man knew his dying day.
1, 21. war. MS. and pr. cop.
GEORGE BARNWELL. Percy's Reliques, iii. 297. "The subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. This was written by George Lillo, a jeweller of London, and first acted about 1730.—As for the ballad, it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century. "It is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of Roman and black-letter. It is also collated with another copy in the Ashmole Collection at Oxford, which is thus entitled: "An excellent ballad of George Barnwell, an apprentice of London, who ... thrice robbed his master, and murdered his uncle in Ludlow. The tune is The Merchant." There is another copy in Ritson's Ancient Songs, ii. 156. Throughout the Second Part, the first line of each stanza has, in the old editions, two superfluous syllables, which Percy ejected; and Ritson has adopted the emendation. THE FIRST PART. All youths of fair EnglÀnd
That dwell both far and near,
Regard my story that I tell,
And to my song give ear.
A London lad I was, 5
A merchant's prentice bound;
My name George Barnwell; that did spend
My master many a pound.
Take heed of harlots then,
And their enticing trains; 10
For by that means I have been brought
To hang alive in chains.
As I upon a day
Was walking through the street,
About my master's business, 15
A wanton I did meet.
A gallant dainty dame
And sumptuous in attire;
With smiling look she greeted me,
And did my name require. 20
Which when I had declar'd,
She gave me then a kiss,
And said, if I would come to her
I should have more than this.
"Fair mistress," then quoth I, 25
"If I the place may know,
This evening I will be with you;
For I abroad must go,
"To gather monies in,
That are my master's due: 30
And ere that I do home return
I'll come and visit you."
"Good Barnwell," then quoth she,
"Do thou to Shoreditch come,
And ask for Mrs. Milwood's house, 35
Next door unto the Gun.
"And trust me on my truth,
If thou keep touch with me,
My dearest friend, as my own heart
Thou shalt right welcome be." 40
Thus parted we in peace,
And home I passed right;
Then went abroad, and gathered in,
By six o'clock at night,
An hundred pound and one: 45
With bag under my arm
I went to Mrs. Millwood's house,
And thought on little harm.
And knocking at the door,
Straightway herself came down; 50
Rustling in most brave attire,
With hood and silken gown.
Who, through her beauty bright,
So gloriously did shine,
That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, 55
She seemed so divine.
She took me by the hand,
And with a modest grace,
"Welcome, sweet Barnwell," then quoth she,
"Unto this homely place. 60
"And since I have thee found
As good as thy word to be,
A homely supper, ere we part,
Thou shalt take here with me."
"O pardon me," quoth I, 65
"Fair mistress, I you pray;
For why, out of my master's house
So long I dare not stay."
"Alas, good sir," she said,
"Are you so strictly ty'd, 70
You may not with your dearest friend
One hour or two abide?
"Faith, then the case is hard;
If it be so," quoth she,
"I would I were a prentice bound, 75
To live along with thee.
"Therefore, my dearest George,
List well what I shall say,
And do not blame a woman much,
Her fancy to bewray. 80
"Let not affection's force
Be counted lewd desire;
Nor think it not immodesty,
I should thy love require."
With that she turn'd aside, 85
And with a blushing red,
A mournful motion she bewray'd
By hanging down her head.
A handkerchief she had,
All wrought with silk and gold, 90
Which she, to stay her trickling tears,
Before her eyes did hold.
This thing unto my sight
Was wondrous rare and strange,
And in my soul and inward thought 95
It wrought a sudden change:
That I so hardy grew
To take her by the hand,
Saying, "Sweet mistress, why do you
So dull and pensive stand?" 100
"Call me no mistress now,
But Sarah, thy true friend,
Thy servant, Milwood, honouring thee,
Until her life hath end.
"If thou wouldst here alledge 105
Thou art in years a boy;
So was Adonis, yet was he
Fair Venus' only joy."
Thus I, who ne'er before
Of woman found such grace, 110
But seeing now so fair a dame
Give me a kind embrace,
I supt with her that night,
With joys that did abound;
And for the same paid presently, 115
In mony twice three pound.
An hundred kisses then,
For my farewel she gave;
Crying, "Sweet Barnwell, when shall I
Again thy company have? 120
"O stay not hence too long;
Sweet George, have me in mind:"
Her words bewicht my childishness,
She uttered them so kind.
So that I made a vow, 125
Next Sunday, without fail,
With my sweet Sarah once again
To tell some pleasant tale.
When she heard me say so,
The tears fell from her eye; 130
"O George," quoth she, "if thou dost fail,
Thy Sarah sure will dye."
Though long, yet loe! at last,
The appointed day was come,
That I must with my Sarah meet; 135
Having a mighty sum
Of money in my hand,
Unto her house went I,
Whereas my love upon her bed
In saddest sort did lye. 140
"What ails my heart's delight,
My Sarah dear?" quoth I;
"Let not my love lament and grieve,
Nor sighing pine and die.
"But tell me, dearest friend, 145
What may thy woes amend,
And thou shalt lack no means of help,
Though forty pound I spend."
With that she turn'd her head,
And sickly thus did say: 150
"Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great;
Ten pound I have to pay
Unto a cruel wretch;
And God he knows," quoth she,
"I have it not." "Tush, rise," I said, 155
"And take it here of me.
"Ten pounds, nor ten times ten,
Shall make my love decay;"
Then from my bag into her lap,
I cast ten pound straightway. 160
All blithe and pleasant then,
To banqueting we go;
She proffered me to lye with her,
And said it should be so.
And after that same time, 165
I gave her store of coyn,
Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once;
All which I did purloyn.
And thus I did pass on;
Until my master then 170
Did call to have his reckoning in
Cast up among his men.
The which when as I heard,
I knew not what to say:
For well I knew that I was out 175
Two hundred pound that day.
Then from my master straight
I ran in secret sort;
And unto Sarah Milwood there
My case I did report. 180
But how she used this youth,
In this his care and woe,
And all a strumpet's wiley ways,
The second part may showe.
136. The having a sum of money with him on Sunday, &c., shows this narrative to have been penned before the civil wars: the strict observance of the Sabbath was owing to the change of manners at that period. Percy. THE SECOND PART. "Young Barnwell comes to thee,
Sweet Sarah, my delight;
I am undone, unless thou stand
My faithful friend this night.
"Our master to accompts 5
Hath just occasion found;
And I am caught behind the hand
Above two hundred pound.
"And now his wrath to 'scape,
My love, I fly to thee, 10
Hoping some time I may remaine
In safety here with thee."
With that she knit her brows,
And looking all aquoy,
Quoth she, "What should I have to do 15
With any prentice boy?
"And seeing you have purloyn'd
Your master's goods away,
The case is bad, and therefore here
You shall no longer stay." 20
"Why, dear, thou know'st," I said,
"How all which I could get,
"I gave it, and did spend it all
Upon thee every whit."
Quoth she, "Thou art a knave, 25
To charge me in this sort,
Being a woman of credit fair,
And known of good report.
"Therefore I tell thee flat,
Be packing with good speed; 30
I do defie thee from my heart,
And scorn thy filthy deed."
"Is this the friendship, that
You did to me protest?
Is this the great affection, which 35
You so to me exprest?
"Now fie on subtle shrews!
The best is, I may speed
To get a lodging any where
For money in my need. 40
"False woman, now farewell;
Whilst twenty pound doth last,
My anchor in some other haven
With freedom I will cast."
When she perceiv'd by this, 45
I had store of money there,
"Stay, George," quoth she, "thou art too quick:
Why, man, I did but jeer.
"Dost think for all my speech,
That I would let thee go? 50
Faith, no," said she, "my love to thee
I-wiss is more than so."
"You scorne a prentice boy,
I heard you just now swear:
Wherefore I will not trouble you:" 55
"Nay, George, hark in thine ear;
"Thou shalt not go to-night,
What chance soe're befall;
But man, we'll have a bed for thee,
Or else the devil take all." 60
So I by wiles bewitcht,
And snar'd with fancy still,
Had then no power to 'get' away,
Or to withstand her will.
For wine on wine I call'd, 65
And cheer upon good cheer;
And nothing in the world I thought
For Sarah's love too dear.
Whilst in her company,
I had such merriment, 70
All, all too little I did think,
That I upon her spent.
"A fig for care and thought!
When all my gold is gone,
In faith, my girl, we will have more, 75
Whoever I light upon.
"My father's rich; why then
Should I want store of gold?"
"Nay, with a father, sure," quoth she,
"A son may well make bold." 80
"I've a sister richly wed;
I'll rob her ere I'll want."
"Nay then," quoth Sarah, "they may well
Consider of your scant."
"Nay, I an uncle have; 85
At Ludlow he doth dwell;
He is a grazier, which in wealth
Doth all the rest excell.
"Ere I will live in lack,
And have no coyn for thee, 90
I'll rob his house, and murder him."
"Why should you not?" quoth she.
"Was I a man, ere I
Would live in poor estate,
On father, friends, and all my kin, 95
I would my talons grate.
"For without money, George,
A man is but a beast:
But bringing money, thou shalt be
Always my welcome guest. 100
"For shouldst thou be pursued
With twenty hues and cryes,
And with a warrant searched for
With Argus' hundred eyes,
"Yet here thou shalt be safe; 105
Such privy wayes there be,
That if they sought an hundred years,
They could not find out thee."
And so carousing both
Their pleasures to content, 110
George Barnwell had in little space
His money wholly spent.
Which done, to Ludlow straight
He did provide to go,
To rob his wealthy uncle there; 115
His minion would it so.
Unto his uncle then
He rode with might and main,
Who with a welcome and good cheer
Did Barnwell entertain.
One fortnight's space he stayed, 125
Until it chanced so,
His uncle with his cattle did
Unto a market go.
His kinsman rode with him,
Where he did see right plain, 130
Great store of money he had took:
When, coming home again,
Sudden within a wood,
He struck his uncle down,
And beat his brains out of his head; 135
So sore he crackt his crown.
Then seizing fourscore pound,
To London straight he hyed,
And unto Sarah Millwood all
The cruell fact descryed. 140
"Tush, 'tis no matter, George,
So we the money have
To have good cheer in jolly sort,
And deck us fine and brave."
Thus lived in filthy sort, 145
Until their store was gone:
When means to get them any more,
I-wis poor George had none.
Therefore in railing sort,
She thrust him out of door; 150
Which is the just reward of those,
Who spend upon a whore.
"O do me not disgrace
In this my need," quoth he:
She called him thief and murderer, 155
With all the spight might be.
To the constable she sent,
To have him apprehended;
And shewed how far, in each degree,
He had the laws offended. 160
When Barnwell saw her drift,
To sea he got straightway;
Where fear and sting of conscience
Continually on him lay.
Unto the lord mayor then, 165
He did a letter write,
In which his own and Sarah's fault
He did at large recite.
Whereby she seized was,
And then to Ludlow sent, 170
Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd,
For murder incontinent.
There dyed this gallant quean,
Such was her greatest gains;
For murder in Polonia, 175
Was Barnwell hang'd in chains.
Lo! here's the end of youth
That after harlots haunt,
Who in the spoil of other men
About the streets do flaunt. 180
120. i.e. for stopping and apprehending him at his father's. P.
THE DUKE OF ATHOL'S NURSE. From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, ii. 23. Annexed is a less perfect copy from Kinloch's collection. A fragment of this piece is printed in Cromek's Select Scottish Songs by R. Burns, (ii. 196,) with some stanzas of Willy's drowned in Yarrow, (vol. ii. p. 181, of this collection.) Mr. Aytoun has made up a very good ballad from several copies; Ballads of Scotland, 2, 236. As I gaed in yon greenwood side,
I heard a fair maid singing;
Her voice was sweet, she sang sae complete,
That all the woods were ringing.
"O I'm the Duke o' Athole's nurse, 5
My post is well becoming;
But I wou'd gie a' my half-year's fee,
For ae sight o' my leman."
"Ye say, ye're the Duke o' Athole's nurse,
Your post is well becoming; 10
Keep well, keep well your half-year's fee,
Ye'se hae twa sights o' your leman."
He lean'd him ower his saddle bow,
And cannilie kiss'd his dearie;
"Ohon, and alake! anither has my heart, 15
And I darena mair come near thee!"
"Ohon, and alake! if anither hae your heart,
These words hae fairly undone me;
But let us set a time, tryst to meet again,
Then in gude friends you will twine me!" 20
"Ye will do you down to yon tavern house,
And drink till the day be dawing;
And, as sure as I ance had a love for you,
I'll come there and clear your lawing.
"Ye'll spare not the wine, altho' it be fine, 25
Nae Malago, tho' it be rarely;
But ye'll aye drink the bonnie lassie's health
That's to clear your lawing fairly."
Then he's done him down to yon tavern house,
And drank till day was dawing; 30
And aye he drank the bonny lassie's health
That was coming to clear his lawing.
And aye as he birled, and aye as he drank
The gude beer and the brandy,
He spar'd not the wine, altho' it was fine, 35
The sack nor the sugar candy.
"It's a wonder to me," the knight he did say,
"My bonnie lassie's sae delaying;
She promis'd, as sure as she loved me ance,
She wou'd be here by the dawing." 40
He's done him to a shott window,
A little before the dawing,
And there he spied her nine brothers bauld,
Were coming to betray him.
"Where shall I rin, where shall I gang, 45
Or where shall I gang hide me?
She that was to meet me in friendship this day,
Has sent nine men to slay me!"
He's gane to the landlady o' the house,
Says, "O can you supply me? 50
For she that was to meet me in friendship this day,
Has sent nine men to slay me!
She gae him a suit o' her ain female claise,
And set him to the baking;
The bird never sang mair sweet on the bush, 55
Nor the knight sung at the baking.
As they came in at the ha' door,
Sae loudly as they rappit,
And when they came upon the floor,
Sae loudly as they chappit! 60
"O had ye a stranger here last night,
Who drank till the day was dawing?
Come, show us the chamber where he lyes in,
We'll shortly clear his lawing."
"I had nae stranger here last night, 65
That drank till the day was dawing;
But ane that took a pint, and paid it ere he went,
And there's naething to clear o' his lawing."
A lad amang the rest, being o' a merry mood,
To the young knight fell a-talking; 70
The wife took her foot, and gae him a kick,
Says, "Be busy, ye jilt, at your baking."
They stabbed the house, baith but and ben,
The curtains they spared nae riving,
And for a' that they did search and ca', 75
For a kiss o' the knight they were striving.
THE DUKE OF ATHOL'S NOURICE. Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 127. As I cam in by Athol's yetts,
I heard a fair maid singing;
"I am the Duke o' Athol's nourice,
And I wat it weel does set me;
And I wad gie a' my half-year's fee, 5
For ae sicht o' my Johnie."
"Keep weel, keep weel, your half-year's fee,
For ye'll soon get a sicht o' your Johnie;
But anither woman has my heart,
And I am sorry for to leave ye." 10
"Ye'll dow ye doun to yon change-house,
And drink till the day be dawing;
At ilka pint's end ye'll drink the lass' health,
That's coming to pay the lawing."
He hied him doun to yon change-house, 15
And he drank till the day was dawing;
And at ilka pint's end he drank the lass' health,
That was coming to pay for his lawing.
Aye he ranted, and aye he sang,
And drank till the day was dawing; 20
And aye he drank the bonnie lass' health,
That was coming to pay the lawing.
He spared na the sack, though it was dear,
The wine, nor the sugar-candy;
* * * *
* * * *
He has dune him to the shot-window, 25
To see gin she war coming;
There he saw the duke and a' his merry men,
That oure the hill cam rinning.
He has dune him to the landlady,
To see gin she wad protect him; 30
She buskit him up into woman's claise,
And set him till a baking.
Sae loudlie as they rappit at the yett,
Sae loudlie as they war calling;
"Had ye a young man here yestreen, 35
That drank till the day was dawing?"
"He drank but ae pint, and he paid it or he went,
And ye've na mair to do wi' the lawing."
They searchit the house a' round and round,
And they spared na the curtains to tear them; 40
While the landlady stood upo' the stair-head,
Crying, "Maid, be busy at your baking;"
They gaed as they cam, and left a' undone,
And left the bonnie maid at her baking.
THE HIREMAN CHIEL. From Scarce Ancient Ballads, p. 17. The same in Buchan, ii. 109, The Baron turned Ploughman. There was a knight, a barone bright,
A bauld barone was he,
And he had only but one son,
A comely youth to see.
He's brought him at schools nine, 5
So has he at schools ten,
But the boy learn'd to haud the plow
Among his father's men.
But it fell ance upon a day
The bauld barone did say, 10
"My son you maun gae court a wife,
And ane o high degree.
"Ye have lands, woods, rents, and bouirs,
Castels and touirs three;
Then go my son and seek some dame 15
To share that gift wi' thee."
"Yes, I have lands and woods, father,
Castels and touirs three;
But what if she like my lands and rents
Far more than she loves me? 20
"But I will go and seek a wife
That weel can please mine ee,
And I sall fairly try her love
Before she gang wi me."
He then took off the scarlet coat, 25
Bedeck'd wi shinin' gold,
And has put on the hireman's coat,
To keip him frae the cold.
He then laid past the studded sword,
That he could bravely draw, 30
And he's gone skipping down the stair,
Swift as the bird that flaw.
He took a stick into his hand,
Which he could bravely wiel,
And he's gane whistling o'er the lan', 35
Like a young hireman chiel.
And he gaed up yon high high hill,
And low down i the glen,
And there he saw a gay castell,
Wi turrets nine or ten. 40
And he has gone on, and farther on,
Till to the yett drew he,
And there he saw a lady fair,
That pleas'd the young man's ee.
He went streight to the greave's chamber, 45
And with humilitie,
Said, "Have ye any kind of work
For a hireman chiel like me?"
"What is the work that ye intend,
Or how can we agree? 50
Can ye plow, reap, and sow the corn,
And a' for meat and fee?"
"Yes, I can plow, and reap, and mow,
And sow the corn too;
I can weel manage horse and cow, 55
And a' for meat and fee."
"If ye can haud the plow right weel,
And sow the corn too,
By faith and troth, my hireman chiel,
We shall not part for fee." 60
He['s] put his hand in his pocket,
And taen out shillings nine;
Says, "Take ye that, my hireman chiel,
And turn in here and dine."
He acted all he took in hand, 65
His master lov'd him weel,
And the young lady of the land
Fell in love wi the hireman chiel.
How oft she tried to drown the flame,
And oft wept bitterlie; 70
But still she lov'd the hireman chiel,
So well's he pleas'd her ee.
She has written a broad letter,
And seal'd it wi' her hand,
And dropt it at the stable door, 75
Where the young man did stand.
"I am in love, my hireman chiel,
I'm deip in love wi thee;
And if ye think me worth your love,
I' the garden green meet me." 80
When he had read the letter o'er,
A loud loud laugh gae he;
Said, "If I manage my business well,
I'm sure to get my fee."
At night they met behind a tree, 85
Low in the garden green,
To tell their tale among the flowers,
And view the e'ening scene.
Next morning by the rising sun,
She, with her maries fair, 90
Walk'd to the fields to see the plow,
And meet the hireman there.
"Good morn, good morn, my lady gay,
I wonder much at you,
To rise so early in the morn, 95
While fields are wet wi dew,
To hear the linnets on the thorn,
And see the plow-boy plow."
"But I wonder much at you, young man,
I wonder much at you, 100
That ye no other station have
Than hold my father's plow."
"I love as weel to rise each morn
As ye can your maries fair;
I love as weel to hold the plow 105
As I were your father's heir.
"If ye love me, as ye protest,
And I trust weel ye do,
The morn's night at eight o'clock,
In gude green wood meet me." 110
"Yes, I love you, my hireman chiel,
And that most tenderlie,
But when my virgin honor's gone,
I soon will slighted be."
"Take ye no dread, my lady gay, 115
Lat a your folly be;
If ye com a maiden to green wood,
You'll return the same for me."
The lady she went home again
Wi a mary on every hand; 120
She was so very sick in love,
She could not sit nor stand.
It was a dark and cloudy night,
No stars beam'd o'er the lea,
When the lady and the hireman met 125
Beneath a spreading tree.
He took the lady in his arms,
Embraced her tenderlie,
And thrice he kiss'd her rosy lips
Under the green wood tree. 130
"Hold off your hands, young man, I pray;
I wonder much at thee;
The man that holds my father's plow,
To lay his hands on me."
"No harm I mean, my winsome dame, 135
No impudence at a';
I never laid a hand on you
Till your libertie I saw."
"It is a dark and dismal night, 140
The dew is falling down;
I will go home, least I should spoil
My cap and satin gown."
"If you are wearied so soon,
Why did ye tryst me here?" 145
"I would not weary with you, my dear,
Tho this night were a year."
When morning beams began to peep
Among the branches green,
The lovers rose, and part to meet, 150
And tell their tale again.
"Ye will go home unto the plow,
Where often ye hae been;
I'll tak my mantle folded up,
And walk i the garden green. 155
"The barone and my mother dear
Will wonder what I mean;
They'll think I've been disturbed sair,
When I am up so soon."
But this pass'd on, and farther on, 160
For two months and a day,
Till word came to the bauld barone,
And an angry man was he.
The barone swore a solemn oath,
An angry man was he, 165
"The morn, before I eat or drink,
High hanged shall he be."
"Farewell, my lovely maiden fair,
A long adieu to thee;
Your father's sworn a solemn swear 170
That hanged I shall be."
"O woe's me," the lady said,
"Yet do not troubled be;
If e'er they touch the hair on thy head,
They'll get no good of me." 175
He turn'd him right and round about,
And a loud loud laugh gae he;
"That man stood never in the court
That dare this day hang me."
The lady spake from her bouir door, 180
An angry woman was she;
"What insolence in you to tryst
Her to the green wood tree."
"If she had not given her consent,
She had not gone wi me; 185
If she came a maiden to green wood,
She return'd again for me."
He turn'd him right and round about,
And a loud loud laugh gae he;
"Ye may wed your daughter whan ye will, 190
She's none the worse for me."
He has gone whistling o'er the knowe,
Swift as the bird that flaw;
The lady stood in her bouir door,
And lout the salt tears fa. 195
But this pass'd on, and further on,
A twelve month and a day,
Till there came a knight and a barone bright
To woo this lady gay.
He soon gain'd the baronne's will, 200
Likewise the mother gay;
He woo'd and won the lady's love,
But by a slow degree.
"O weel befa' you, daughter dear,
And happy may ye be, 205
To lay your love on the grand knight,
And let the hireman be."
"O haud your tongue, my father dear,
And speak not so to me;
Far more I love the hireman chiel 210
Than a' the knights I see.
The morn was come, and bells were rung,
And all to church repair;
But like the rose among the throng
Was the lady and her maries fair. 215
But as they walked o'er the field,
Among the flowers fair,
Beneath a tree stood on the plain,
The hireman chiel was there.
"I wish you joy, my gay madam, 220
And aye well may ye be;
There is a ring, a pledge of love,
That ance I got from thee."
"O wae befa' ye, you hireman chiel,
Some ill death may ye die; 225
Ye might hae tauld to me your name,
Your hame, or what countrie."
"If ye luve me, my lady gay,
As ye protest ye do,
Then turn your love from this gay knight, 230
And reach your hand to me."
Then out spake the gay baronne,
And an angry man was he;
"If I had known she was belov'd,
She had never been lov'd by me." 235
When she was set on high horse-back,
And riding thro' the glen,
They saw her father posting quick,
With fifty armed men.
"Do for yourself, my hireman lad, 240
And for your safety flee;
My father he will take me back,
But married I'll never be."
When they were up yon rising hill,
There low down i' the glen, 245
He saw his father's gilded coach,
Wi' five hundred gentlemen.
"Come back, turn back, my hireman chiel,
Turn back and speak wi' me;
Ye've serv'd me lang for the lady's sake, 250
Come back, and get your fee."
"Your blessing give us instantly,
Is all we crave o' thee;
These seven years I've serv'd for her sake,
But now I'm paid my fee." 255
ARMSTRONG AND MUSGRAVE. From A Collection of Old Ballads, i. 175. The story of this ballad seems to be the same as that of Lord Livingston, in the third volume of this collection (p. 343). The whole title is as follows: A pleasant ballad shewing how two valiant knights, Sir John Armstrong and Sir Michael Musgrave, fell in love with the beautiful daughter of the Lady Dacres in the North; and of the great strife that happen'd between them for her, and how they wrought the death of one hundred men. As it fell out one Whitsunday,
The blith time of the year,
When every tree was clad with green,
And pretty birds sing clear,
The Lady Dacres took her way 5
Unto the church that pleasant day,
With her fair daughter fresh and gay,
A bright and bonny lass.
Sir Michael Musgrave, in like sort,
To church repaired then, 10
And so did Sir John Armstrong too,
With all his merry men.
Two greater friends there could not be,
Nor braver knights for chivalry,
Both batchelors of high degree, 15
Fit for a bonny lass.
They sat them down upon one seat,
Like loving brethren dear,
With hearts and minds devoutly bent
God's service for to hear; 20
But rising from their prayers tho,
Their eyes a ranging strait did go,
Which wrought their utter overthrow,
All for one bonny lass.
Quoth Musgrave unto Armstrong then, 25
"Yon sits the sweetest dame,
That ever for her fair beauty
Within this country came."
"In sooth," quoth Armstrong presently,
"Your judgment I must verify, 30
There never came unto my eye
A braver bonny lass."
"I swear," said Musgrave, "by this sword,
Which did my knighthood win,
To steal away so sweet a dame, 35
Could be no ghostly sin."
"That deed," quoth Armstrong, "would be ill,
Except you had her right good will,
That your desire she would fulfil,
And be thy bonny lass." 40
By this the service quite was done,
And home the people past;
They wish'd a blister on his tongue
That made thereof such haste.
At the church door the knights did meet, 45
The Lady Dacres for to greet,
But most of all her daughter sweet,
That beauteous bonny lass.
Said Armstrong to the lady fair,
"We both have made a vow 50
At dinner for to be your guests,
If you will it allow."
With that bespoke the lady free,
"Sir knights, right welcome shall you be;"
"The happier men therefore are we, 55
For love of this bonny lass."
Thus were the knights both prick'd in love,
Both in one moment thrall'd,
And both with one fair lady gay,
Fair Isabella call'd. 60
With humble thanks they went away,
Like wounded harts chas'd all the day,
One would not to the other say,
They lov'd this bonny lass.
Fair Isabel, on the other side, 65
As far in love was found;
So long brave Armstrong she had ey'd,
Till love her heart did wound;
"Brave Armstrong is my joy," quoth she,
"Would Christ he were alone with me, 70
To talk an hour, two, or three,
With his fair bonny lass."
But as these knights together rode,
And homeward did repair,
Their talk and eke their countenance shew'd 75
Their hearts were clogg'd with care.
"Fair Isabel," the one did say,
"Thou hast subdu'd my heart this day;"
"But she's my joy," did Musgrave say,
"My bright and bonny lass." 80
With that these friends incontinent
Became most deadly foes;
For love of beauteous Isabel,
Great strife betwixt them rose:
Quoth Armstrong, "She shall be my wife, 85
Although for her I lose my life;"
And thus began a deadly strife,
And for one bonny lass.
Thus two years long this grudge did grow
These gallant knights between, 90
While they a-wooing both did go,
Unto this beauteous queen;
And she who did their furies prove,
To neither would bewray her love,
The deadly quarrel to remove 95
About this bonny lass.
But neither, for her fair intreats,
Nor yet her sharp dispute,
Would they appease their raging ire,
Nor yet give o'er their suit. 100
The gentlemen of the North Country
At last did make this good decree,
All for a perfect unity
About this bonny lass.
The love-sick knights should be set 105
Within one hall so wide,
Each of them in a gallant sort
Even at a several tide;
And 'twixt them both for certainty
Fair Isabel should placed be, 110
Of them to take her choice full free,
Most like a bonny lass.
And as she like an angel bright
Betwixt them mildly stood,
She turn'd unto each several knight 115
With pale and changed blood;
"Now am I at liberty
To make and take my choice?" quoth she:
"Yea," quoth the knights, "we do agree;
Then chuse, thou bonny lass." 120
"O Musgrave, thou art all too hot
To be a lady's love,"
Quoth she, "and Armstrong seems a sot,
Where love binds him to prove.
Of courage great is Musgrave still, 125
And sith to chuse I have my will,
Sweet Armstrong shall my joys fulfil,
And I his bonny lass."
The nobles and the gentles both
That were in present place, 130
Rejoiced at this sweet record;
But Musgrave, in disgrace,
Out of the hall did take his way,
And Armstrong marryed was next day
With Isabel his lady gay, 135
A bright and bonny lass.
But Musgrave on the wedding-day,
Like to a Scotchman dight,
In secret sort allured out
The bridegroom for the fight; 140
And he, that will not outbraved be,
Unto his challenge did agree,
Where he was slain most suddenly
For his fair bonny lass.
The news whereof was quickly brought 145
Unto the lovely bride;
And many of young Armstrong's kin
Did after Musgrave ride.
They hew'd him when they had him got,
As small as flesh into the pot; 150
Lo! thus befel a heavy lot
About this bonny lass.
The lady young, which did lament
This cruel cursed strife,
For very grief dyed that day, 155
A maiden and a wife.
An hundred men that hapless day
Did lose their lives in that same fray,
And 'twixt those names, as many say,
Is deadly strife still biding. 160
FAIR MARGARET OF CRAIGNARGAT. "Craignargat is a promontory in the Bay of Luce. Though almost surrounded by the Barony of Mochrum, it was long possessed by a branch of the family of Macdowall, which was probably our heroine's surname.—On the head of Fair Margaret's lovers, it may be remarked, that the Agnews of Lochnaw are a very ancient family, and hereditary sheriffs of Wigton. The Gordon mentioned was probably Gordon of Craighlaw, whose castle was situated about five miles from Craignargat, in the parish of Kirkcowan, considered so remote before the formation of military roads, that the local proverb says,—'Out of the world, and into Kirkcowan.' The Hays of Park dwell on the coast, about six miles from Craignargat; but it is singular that the lady is not complimented with a Dunbar as her lover, the Place of Mochrum, as the old town is called, being only two miles from her reputed residence." Sharpe's Ballad Book, p. 71.
RICHIE STORIE. "John, third Earl of Wigton, had six sons, and three daughters. The second, Lady Lillias Fleming, was so indiscreet as to marry a footman, by whom she had issue. She and her husband assigned her provision to Lieutenant-Colonel John Fleming, who discharged her renunciation, dated in October, 1673." Sharpe's Ballad Book, p. 95. The Earl o' Wigton had three daughters,
O braw wallie, but they were bonnie!
The youngest o' them, and the bonniest too,
Has fallen in love wi' Richie Storie.
"Here's a letter for ye, madame, 5
Here's a letter for ye, madame;
The Erle o' Home wad fain presume
To be a suitor to ye, madame."
"I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie;
I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie; 10
For I've made a vow, and I'll keep it true,
That I'll have nane but you, Richie."
"O do not say so, madame;
O do not say so, madame;
For I have neither land nor rent, 15
For to maintain you o', madame.
"Ribands ye maun wear, madame,
Ribands ye maun wear, madame;
With the bands about your neck
O' the goud that shines sae clear, madame." 20
"I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie,
I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie;
And I'll be aye at your command
And bidding, whan ye like, Richie."
O he's gane on the braid braid road, 25
And she's gane through the broom sae bonnie,
Her silken robes down to her heels,
And she's awa' wi' Richie Storie.
This lady gaed up the Parliament stair,
Wi' pendles in her lugs sae bonnie; 30
Mony a lord lifted his hat,
But little did they ken she was Richie's lady.
Up then spak the Erle o' Home's lady;
"Was na ye richt sorrie, Annie,
To leave the lands o' bonnie Cumbernauld, 35
And follow Richie Storie, Annie?"
"O what need I be sorrie, madame,
O what need I be sorrie, madame?
For I've got them that I like best,
And was ordained for me, madame." 40
"Cumbernauld is mine, Annie,
Cumbernauld is mine, Annie;
And a' that's mine, it shall be thine,
As we sit at the wine, Annie."
THE FARMER'S OLD WIFE. The Carl of Kellyburn Braes, composed by Burns for Johnson's Museum, (p. 392,) was founded, he says, "on the old traditionary verses." These we have met with in no other form but the following, which is taken from Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, edited by Robert Bell, p. 204. What is styled the original of The Carle of Kellyburn Braes, in Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, p. 83, is, like many of the pieces in that volume, for the most part a fabrication. The place of the burden is supplied in Sussex, says Mr. Bell, by a whistling chorus. Of the same tenor is the ballad of The Devil and the Scold, Collier's Roxburghe Ballads, p. 35. We subjoin the first stanza of Burns's ballad for the sake of the burden, which is said to be old. There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days,
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime.
There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,
And he had a bad wife, as many knew well.
Then Satan came to the old man at the plough,—
"One of your family I must have now.
"It is not your eldest son that I crave, 5
But it is your old wife, and she I will have."
"O welcome, good Satan, with all my heart!
I hope you and she will never more part."
Now Satan has got the old wife on his back,
And he lugged her along like a pedlar's pack. 10
He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate:
Says he, "Here, take in an old Sussex chap's mate.
O then she did kick the young imps about,—
Says one to the other, "Let's try turn her out."
She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains, 15
She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains.
She knocked the old Satan against the wall,—
"Let's try turn her out, or she'll murder us all."
Now he's bundled her up on his back amain,
And to her old husband he took her again. 20
"I have been a tormentor the whole of my life,
But I ne'er was tormented till I met with your wife."
THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, iii. 77. The unhappy event upon which the following ballad is founded took place under the reign of James the VI. "The sufferers in this melancholy affair were both men of high birth, the heirs-apparent of two noble families, and youths of the most promising expectation. Sir James Stuart was a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Walter, first Lord Blantyre, by Nicholas, daughter of Sir James Somerville of Cambusnethan. Sir George Wharton was also a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Philip, Lord Wharton, by Frances, daughter of Henry Clifford, Earl of Cumberland. He married Anne, daughter of the Earl of Rutland, but left no issue." Scott. This ballad was printed in the first edition of Ritson's Ancient Songs, p. 199, from a black-letter copy in Major Pearson's collection, (afterwards part of the Roxburghe.) Scott's version appears to have been obtained from James Hogg. "Two verses have been added," says Sir Walter, "and one considerably improved, from Mr. Ritson's edition. These three stanzas are the fifth and ninth of Part First, and the penult verse of Part Second. I am thus particular, that the reader may be able, if he pleases, to compare the traditional ballad with the original edition. It furnishes striking evidence, that 'without characters, fame lives long.' The difference chiefly to be remarked betwixt the copies, lies in the dialect, and in some modifications applicable to Scotland; as, using the words "our Scottish Knight." The black-letter ballad, in like manner, terms Wharton "our English Knight." In this connection we may mention another ballad founded on a duel—Sir Niel and Mac Van, in Buchan's larger collection, ii. 16. A stall copy is called Sir Neil and Glengyle. PART FIRST. It grieveth me to tell you o'
Near London late what did befall,
'Twixt two young gallant gentlemen;
It grieveth me, and ever shall.
One of them was Sir George Wharton, 5
My good Lord Wharton's son and heir;
The other, James Stuart, a Scottish knight,
One that a valiant heart did bear.
No manner of treating, nor advice,
Could hold from striking in that place;
For, in the height and heat of blood, 15
James struck George Wharton on the face.
"What doth this mean," George Wharton said,
"To strike in such unmanly sort?
But, that I take it at thy hands,
The tongue of man shall ne'er report!" 20
"But do thy worst, then," said Sir James,
"Now do thy worst, appoint a day!
There's not a lord in England breathes
Shall gar me give an inch of way."
"Ye brag right weel," George Wharton said; 25
"Let our brave lords at large alane,
And speak of me, that am thy foe,
For you shall find enough o' ane."
"I'll interchange my glove wi' thine;
I'll show it on the bed of death; 30
I mean the place where we shall fight;
There ane or both maun lose life and breath!"
"We'll meet near Waltham," said Sir James;
"To-morrow, that shall be the day.
We'll either take a single man, 35
And try who bears the bell away."
Then down together hands they shook,
Without any envious sign;
Then went to Ludgate, where they lay,
And each man drank his pint of wine. 40
No kind of envy could be seen,
No kind of malice they did betray;
But a' was clear and calm as death,
Whatever in their bosoms lay:
Till parting time; and then, indeed, 45
They show'd some rancour in their heart;
"Next time we meet," says George Wharton,
"Not half sae soundly we shall part!"
So they have parted, firmly bent
Their valiant minds equal to try: 50
The second part shall clearly show,
Both how they meet, and how they die.
PART SECOND. George Wharton was the first ae man
Came to the appointed place that day,
Where he espyed our Scots lord coming, 55
As fast as he could post away.
They met, shook hands; their cheeks were pale;
Then to George Wharton James did say,
"I dinna like your doublet, George,
It stands sae weel on you this day. 60
"Say, have you got no armour on?
Have you no under robe of steel?
I never saw an Englishman
Become his doublet half sae weel."
"Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton said, 65
"For that's the thing that mauna be,
That I should come wi' armour on,
And you a naked man truly."
"Our men shall search our doublets, George,
And see if one of us do lie; 70
Then will we prove, wi' weapons sharp,
Ourselves true gallants for to be."
Then they threw off their doublets both,
And stood up in their sarks of lawn;
"Now, take my counsel," said Sir James, 75
"Wharton, to thee I'll make it knawn:
"So as we stand, so will we fight,
Thus naked in our sarks," said he;
"Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton says,
"That is the thing that must not be. 80
"We're neither drinkers, quarrellers,
Nor men that cares na for oursell,
Nor minds na what we're gaun about,
Or if we're gaun to heav'n or hell.
"Let us to God bequeath our souls, 85
Our bodies to the dust and clay:"
With that he drew his deadly sword,
The first was drawn on field that day.
Se'en bouts and turns these heroes had,
Or e'er a drop o' blood was drawn; 90
Our Scotch lord, wond'ring, quickly cry'd,
"Stout Wharton, thou still hauds thy awn!"
The first stroke that George Wharton gae,
He struck him thro' the shoulder-bane;
The neist was thro' the thick o' the thigh; 95
He thought our Scotch lord had been slain.
"O ever alack!" George Wharton cry'd,
"Art thou a living man, tell me?
If there's a surgeon living can,
He's cure thy wounds right speedily." 100
"No more of that," James Stuart said;
"Speak not of curing wounds to me!
For one of us must yield our breath,
Ere off the field one foot we flee."
They looked oure their shoulders both, 105
To see what company was there:
They both had grievous marks of death,
But frae the other nane wad steer.
George Wharton was the first that fell,
Our Scotch lord fell immediately; 110
They both did cry to Him above
To save their souls, for they boud die.
10. Sir George Wharton was quarrelsome at cards; a temper which he exhibited so disagreeably when playing with the Earl of Pembroke, that the Earl told him, "Sir George, I have loved you long; but by your manner in playing, you lay it upon me either to leave to love you, or to leave to play with you; wherefore choosing to love you still, I will never play with you any more."—Lodge's Illustrations, vol. iii. p. 350. Scott.
SADDLE TO RAGS. From Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 126. The editor took this piece down from the recitation of a Yorkshire yeoman. Other ballads are popular with nearly the same plot, one of them called The Crafty Ploughboy, or the Highwayman outwitted. Another of a similar description is Jock the Leg and the Merry Merchant, (Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, ii. 165,) formed on the model of some Robin Hood ballad. This story I'm going to sing,
I hope it will give you content,
Concerning a silly old man
That was going to pay his rent.
As he was a-riding along, 5
Along all on the highway,
A gentleman-thief overtook him,
And thus unto him did say.
"O well overtaken, old man,
O well overtaken," said he; 10
"Thank you kindly, sir," says the old man,
"If you be for my companie."
"How far are you going this way?"
It made the old man to smile;
"To tell you the truth, kind sir, 15
I'm just a-going twa mile.
"I am but a silly old man,
Who farms a piece of ground;
My half-year rent, kind sir,
Just comes to forty pound. 20
"But my landlord's not been at hame,—
I've not seen him twelve month or more;
It makes my rent to be large,
I've just to pay him fourscore."
"You should not have told any body, 25
For thieves there are ganging many;
If they were to light upon you,
They would rob you of every penny."
"O never mind," says the old man,
"Thieves I fear on no side; 30
My money is safe in my bags,
In the saddle on which I ride."
As they were a-riding along,
And riding a-down a ghyll,
The thief pulled out a pistÒl, 35
And bade the old man stand still.
The old man was crafty and false,
As in this world are many;
He flung his old saddle o'er t' hedge,
And said, "Fetch it, if thou'lt have any." 40
This thief got off his horse,
With courage stout and bold,
To search this old man's bags,
And gave him his horse to hold.
The old man put foot in stirrup, 45
And he got on astride,
He set the thief's horse in a gallop,—
You need not bid th' old man ride!
"O stay! O stay!" says the thief,
"And thou half my share shalt have:" 50
"Nay, marry, not I," quoth the old man,
"For once I've bitten a knave!"
This thief he was not content;
He thought these must be bags;
So he up with his rusty sword, 55
And chopped the old saddle to rags.
The old man gallop'd and rode
Until he was almost spent,
Till he came to his landlord's house,
And paid him his whole year's rent. 60
He opened this rogue's portmantle;
It was glorious for to behold;
There was five hundred pound in money,
And other five hundred in gold.
His landlord it made him to stare, 65
When he did the sight behold;
"Where did thou get the white money,
And where get the yellow gold?"
"I met a fond fool by the way,
I swapped horses, and gave him no boot; 70
But never mind," says the old man,
"I got a fond fool by the foot."
"But now you're grown cramped and old,
Nor fit for to travel about;"
"O never mind," says the old man, 75
"I can give these old bones a root!"
As he was a-riding hame,
And a-down a narrow lane,
He spied his mare tied to a tree,
And said, "Tib, thou'lt now gae hame." 80
And when that he got hame,
And told his old wife what he'd done,
She rose and she donned her clothes,
And about the house did run.
She sung, and she danced, and sung, 85
And she sung with a merry devotion,
"If ever our daughter gets wed,
It will help to enlarge her portion!"
THE FAUSE KNIGHT UPON THE ROAD. Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. lxxiv. "O whare are ye gaun?"
Quo' the fause knicht upon the road;
"I'm gaun to the scule,"
Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.
"What is that upon your back?" 5
Quo' the fause knicht upon the road;
"Atweel it is my bukes,"
Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.
"What's that ye've got on your arm?"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 10
"Atweel it is my peit,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.
"Wha's aucht they sheep?"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"They are mine and my mither's," 15
Quo' the wee boy, &c.
"How monie o' them are mine?"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"A' they that hae blue tails,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c. 20
"I wiss ye were on yon tree,"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"And a gude ladder under me,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.
"And the ladder for to break," 25
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"And you for to fa' doun,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.
"I wiss ye were in yon sie,"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 30
"And a gude bottom under me,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.
"And the bottom for to break,"
Quo' the fause knicht upon the road;
"And ye to be drowned," 35
Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.
GIFTS FROM OVER SEA. Appendix to p. 11. Wright's Songs and Carols, printed from a MS. in the Sloane Collection, No. 8. I have a zong suster fer bezondyn the se,
Many be the drowryis that [s]che sente me.
[S]che sente me the cherye withoutyn ony ston,
And so [s]che dede [the] dowe withoutyn ony bon:
Sche sente me the brere withoutyn ony rynde,
Sche bad me love my lemman withoute longgyng.
How xuld ony cherye be withoute ston?
And how xuld ony dowe ben withoute bon?
How xuld any brere ben withoute rynde?
How xuld I love myn lemman without longyng?
Quan the cherye was a flour, than hadde it non ston:
Quan the dowe was an ey, than hadde it non bon:
Quan the brere was on-bred, than hadde it non rynd:
Quan the mayden hazt that [s]che louth, [s]che is without longyng.
THE COURTEOUS KNIGHT. Appendix to p. 11, p. 83. From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, i. 91. There was a knight, in a summer's night,
Appear'd in a lady's hall,
As she was walking up and down,
Looking o'er her castle wall.
"God make you safe and free, fair maid, 5
God make you safe and free!"
"O sae fa' you, ye courteous knight;
What are your wills wi' me?
"My wills wi' you are not sma', lady,
My wills wi' you nae sma'; 10
And since there's nane your bower within,
Ye'se ha'e my secrets a'.
"For here am I a courtier,
A courtier come to thee;
And if ye winna grant your love, 15
All for your sake I'll dee."
"If that ye dee for me, sir knight,
Few for you will make meen;
For mony gude lord's done the same,
Their graves are growing green." 20
"O winna ye pity me, fair maid,
O winna ye pity me?
O winna ye pity a courteous knight,
Whose love is laid on thee?"
"Ye say ye are a courteous knight, 25
But I think ye are nane;
I think ye're but a millar bred,
By the color o' your claithing.
"You seem to be some false young man,
You wear your hat sae wide; 30
You seem to be some false young man,
You wear your boots sae side."
"Indeed I am a courteous knight,
And of great pedigree;
Nae knight did mair for a lady bright 35
Than I will do for thee.
"O I'll put smiths in your smithy,
To shoe for you a steed;
And I'll put tailors in your bower,
To make you for a weed. 40
"I will put cooks in your kitchen,
And butlers in your ha';
And on the tap o' your father's castle,
I'll big gude corn and saw."
"If ye be a courteous knight, 45
As I trust not ye be,
Ye'll answer some o' the sma' questions
That I will ask at thee.
"What is the fairest flower, tell me,
That grows in muir or dale? 50
Likewise, which is the sweetest bird
Sings next the nightingale?
Or what's the finest thing," she says,
"That king or queen can wale?
"The primrose is the fairest flower 55
That grows in muir or dale;
The mavis is the sweetest bird
Next to the nightingale;
And yellow gowd's the finest thing
That king or queen can wale. 60
"Ye ha'e asked many questions, lady,
I've you as many told;"
"But, how many pennies round
Make a hundred pounds in gold?
"How many of the small fishes, 65
Do swim the salt seas round?
Or, what's the seemliest sight you'll see
Into a May morning?"
"Berry-brown ale, and a birken speal,
And wine in a horn green; 70
A milk-white lace in a fair maid's dress,
Looks gay in a May morning."
"Mony's the questions I've ask'd at thee,
And ye've answer'd them a';
Ye are mine, and I am thine, 75
Amo' the sheets sae sma'."
"You may be my match, kind sir,
You may be my match and more;
There ne'er was ane came sic a length,
Wi' my father's heir before. 80
"My father's lord o' nine castles,
My mother she's lady ower three,
And there is nane to heir them all,
No never a ane but me;
Unless it be Willie, my ae brother, 85
But he's far ayont the sea."
"If your father's laird o' nine castles,
Your mother lady ower three;
I am Willie your ae brother,
Was far beyond the sea." 90
"If ye be Willie, my ae brother,
As I doubt sair ye be;
But if it's true ye tell me now,
This night I'll gang wi' thee."
"Ye've ower ill washen feet, Janet, 95
And ower ill washen hands,
And ower coarse robes on your body,
Alang wi' me to gang.
"The worms they are my bed-fellows,
And the cauld clay my sheet; 100
And the higher that the wind does blaw,
The sounder I do sleep.
"My body's buried in Dumfermline,
And far beyond the sea;
But day nor night, nae rest cou'd get, 105
All for the pride o' thee.
"Leave aff your pride, jelly Janet," he says,
"Use it not ony mair;
Or when ye come where I hae been,
You will repent it sair. 110
"Cast aff, cast aff, sister," he says,
"The gowd lace fray your crown;
For if ye gang where I ha'e been,
Ye'll wear it laigher down.
"When ye're in the gude church set, 115
The gowd pins in your hair,
Ye take mair delight in your feckless dress
Than ye do in your morning prayer.
"And when ye walk in the church-yard,
And in your dress are seen, 120
There is nae lady that sees your face
But wishes your grave were green.
"You're straight and tall, handsome withall,
But your pride owergoes your wit;
But if ye do not your ways refrain, 125
In Pirie's chair ye'll sit.
"In Pirie's chair you'll sit, I say,
The lowest seat o' hell;
If ye do not amend your ways,
It's there that ye must dwell." 130
Wi' that he vanish'd frae her sight,
Wi' the twinkling o' an eye;
Naething mair the lady saw,
But the gloomy clouds and sky.
50, 56, mire.54, wile. THE NORTHERN LORD AND CRUEL JEW. Appendix to p. 46. This ballad, which has some features of resemblance to Cymbeline, as well as to the Merchant of Venice, is taken from Buchan's Gleanings of Scotch, English, and Irish scarce old Ballads, p. 105. Another copy is in Mr. Halliwell's New Boke about Shakspeare, p. 19. A noble lord of high renown,
Two daughters had, the eldest brown,
The youngest beautiful and fair:
By chance a noble knight came there.
Her father said, "Kind sir, I have 5
Two daughters: which do you crave?"
"One that is beautiful," he cried;
The noble knight he then replied:
"She's young, she's beautiful and gay,
And is not to be given away, 10
But as jewels are bought and sold;
She shall bring me her weight in gold.
"The price I think ye need not grudge,
Since I will freely give as much
With her one sister, if I can 15
Find out some other nobleman."
With that bespoke the noble knight,
"I'd sooner have the beauty bright,
At that vast rate, renownÈd lord,
Than the other with a vast reward." 20
So then the bargain it was made;
But ere the money could be paid,
He had it of a wealthy Jew;
The sum so large, the writings drew
That if he failed, or miss'd the day, 25
So many ounces he should pay
Of his own flesh, instead of gold;
All was agreed, the sum was told.
So he returned immediately
Unto the lord, where he did buy 30
His daughter fine, I do declare,
And paid him down the money there.
He bought her there, it is well known
Unto mankind; she was his own;
By her a son he did enjoy, 35
A sweet and comely handsome boy.
At length the time of pay drew near,
When the knight did begin to fear;
He dreaded much the cruel Jew,
Because the money it was due. 40
His lady asked him why he grieved:
He said, "My jewel, I received
Such sum of money of a Jew,
And now the money it is due.
"And now the day of payment's come, 45
I'm sure I cannot pay the sum;
He'll have my flesh, weight for weight,
Which makes my grief and sorrow great."
"Hush, never fear him," she replied;
"We'll cross the raging ocean wide, 50
And so secure you from the fate:"
To her request he yielded straight.
Then having pass'd the raging seas,
They travelled on, till by degrees
Unto the German court they came, 55
The knight, his son, and comely dame.
Unto the Emperor he told
His story of the sum of gold
That he had borrowed of a Jew,
And that for fear of death he flew. 60
The Emperor he did erect
A court for them, and show'd respect
Unto his guests, because they came
From Britain, that blest land of fame.
As here he lived in delight, 65
A Dutch lord told our English knight,
That he a ton of gold would lay,
He could enjoy his lady gay.
From her, the lord he was to bring
A rich and costly diamond ring, 70
That was to prove and testify
How he did with his lady lie.
He tries, but never could obtain
Her favour, but with high disdain
She did defy his base intent; 75
So to her chambermaid he went,
And told her if she would but steal
Her lady's ring, and to conceal
The same, and bring it to him straight,
She should enjoy a fine estate. 80
In hopes of such a fine reward,
The ring she stole; then the Dutch lord
Did take it to the noble knight,
Who almost swooned at the sight.
Home he goes to the lady straight; 85
Meeting her at the palace gate,
He flung her headlong into the mote,
And left her there to sink or float.
Soon after that, in clothes of green,
She like a warlike knight was seen, 90
And in most gallant gay deport
She rode unto the Emperor's court.
Now when the Emperor beheld
Her brave deportment, he was fill'd
With admiration at the sight, 95
Who call'd herself an English knight.
The Emperor then did reply,
"We have an English knight to die
For drowning of his lady gay;"
Quoth she, "I'd see him, if I may." 100
'Twas granted; so to him she came,
And calling of him by his name,
She said, "Kind sir, be of good cheer;
Your friend I'll be, you need not fear."
She to the Emperor did ride, 105
And said, "Now let this cause be tried
Once more, for I've a mind to save
This noble gallant from the grave."
It being done, the court was set;
The Dutch lord came, seeming to fret, 110
About the ring seeming to fear,
How truth would make his shame appear.
And so it did, and soon they call
The maid, who on her knees did fall
Before the court, and did confess 115
The Dutch lord's unworthiness.
The court repliÉd, "Is it so?
The lady, too, for ought we know,
May be alive; therefore we'll stay
The sentence till another day." 120
Now the Dutch lord gave him a ton
Of gold, which he had justly won,
And so he did with shame and grief,
And thus the knight obtain'd relief.
The Dutch lord to revenge the spite 125
Upon our noble English knight,
Did send a letter out of hand,
And so the Jew did understand,
How he was in a German court;
So here upon this good report, 130
The Jew has cross'd the ocean wide,
Resolving to be satisfied.
Soon as e'er he fixed his eyes,
Unto the knight in wrath he cries,
"Your hand and seal I pray behold; 135
Your flesh I'll have instead of gold."
[Then] said the noble knight in green,
"May not your articles be seen?"
"Yes, that they may," replied the Jew,
"And I'm resolved to have my due." 140
So then the knight began to read;
At length she said, "I find, indeed,
Nothing but flesh you are to have;"
Answers the Jew, "That's all I crave."
The poor distressed knight was brought; 145
The bloody-minded Jew he thought
That day to be reveng'd on him,
And part his flesh from every limb.
The knight in green said, "Mr. Jew,
There's nothing else but flesh your due; 150
Then see no drop of blood you shed,
For if you do, off goes your head.
"Pray take your due, with all my heart,
But with his blood I will not part."
With that the Jew sneaked away, 155
And had not one word more to say.
No sooner were these troubles past,
But his wife's father came at last,
Resolving for to have his life,
For drowning his beloved wife. 160
Over the seas her father brought
Many brave horses; one was bought
By the pretended knight in green,
Which was the best that e'er was seen.
So to the German court he came, 165
Declaring, such a one by name
Had drowned his fair daughter dear,
And ought to die a death severe.
They brought him from the prison then,
Guarded by many armed men, 170
Unto the place where he must die,
And the young knight was standing by.
Then from her side her sword she drew,
And run her gelding through and through.
Her father said, "Why do you so?" 175
"I may; it is my own, you know.
"You sold your gelding, 'tis well known;
I bought it, making it my own,
And may do what I please with it;"
And then to her he did submit. 180
"Here is a man arraign'd and cast,
And brought to suffer death at last,
Because your daughter dear he slew;
Which if he did, what's that to you?
"You had your money, when you sold 185
Your daughter for her weight in gold;
Wherefore he might, it is well known,
Do what he pleased with his own."
So having chang'd her garments green,
And dress'd herself like a fair queen, 190
Her father and her husband straight
Both knew her, and their joys were great.
Soon they did carry the report
Unto the famous German court,
How the renowned English knight 195
Had found his charming lady bright.
So the Emperor and the lords of fame,
With cheerful hearts they did proclaim
An universal joy, to see
His lady's life at liberty.
GIGHT'S LADY. Appendix to p. 93. From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, i. 133. Buchan complains that all other editions of this ballad "have been deprived of their original beauty and catastrophe" by officious and sacrilegious hands, and adds that his copy "is quite at variance with all its printed predecessors." In this last remark he is certainly correct, but as for his affirmation that the ballad "recounts an affair which actually took place in the reign, or rather minority, of King James VI.," we ask for some authority beyond his note to the ballad. In another copy mentioned by Motherwell, Geordie, from jealousy, ungratefully drowns his deliverer in the sea. "First I was lady o' Black Riggs,
And then into Kincraigie;
Now I am the Lady o' Gight,
And my love he's ca'd Geordie.
"I was the mistress o' Pitfan, 5
And madam o' Kincraigie;
But now my name is Lady Anne,
And I am Gight's own lady.
"We courted in the woods o' Gight,
Where birks and flow'rs spring bonny; 10
But pleasures I had never one,
But sorrows thick and mony.
"He never own'd me as his wife,
Nor honour'd me as his lady,
But day by day he saddles the grey, 15
And rides to Bignet's lady."
When Bignet he got word of that,
That Gight lay wi' his lady,
He's casten him in prison strong,
To ly till lords were ready. 20
"Where will I get a little wee boy,
That is baith true and steady,
That will run on to bonny Gight,
And bring to me my lady?"
"O here am I, a little wee boy, 25
That is baith true and steady,
That will run to the yates o' Gight,
And bring to you your lady."
"Ye'll bid her saddle the grey, the grey,
The brown rode ne'er so smartly; 30
Ye'll bid her come to Edinbro' town,
A' for the life of Geordie."
The night was fair, the moon was clear,
And he rode by Bevany,
And stopped at the yates o' Gight, 35
Where leaves were thick and mony.
The lady look'd o'er castle wa',
And dear but she was sorry!
"Here comes a page frae Edinbro' town;
A' is nae well wi' Geordie. 40
"What news, what news, my little boy?
Come tell me soon and shortly;"
"Bad news, bad news, my lady," he said,
"They're going to hang your Geordie."
"Ye'll saddle to me the grey, the grey, 45
The brown rade ne'er so smartly;
And I'll awa' to Edinbro' town,
Borrow the life o' Geordie."
When she came near to Edinbro' town,
I wyte she didna tarry; 50
But she has mounted her grey steed,
And ridden the queen's berry.
When she came to the boat of Leith,
I wat she didna tarry;
She gae the boatman a guinea o' gowd, 55
To boat her ower the ferry.
When she came to the pier o' Leith,
The poor they were sae many;
She dealt the gowd right liberallie,
And bade them pray for Geordie. 60
When she gaed up the tolbooth stair,
The nobles there were many:
And ilka ane stood hat on head,
But hat in hand stood Geordie.
She gae a blink out ower them a', 65
And three blinks to her Geordie;
But when she saw his een fast bound,
A swoon fell in this lady.
"Whom has he robb'd? What has he stole?
Or has he killed ony? 70
Or what's the crime that he has done,
His foes they are sae mony?"
"He hasna brunt, he hasna slain,
He hasna robbed ony;
But he has done another crime, 75
For which he will pay dearly."
Then out it speaks Lord Montague,
(O wae be to his body!)
"The day we hang'd young Charles Hay,
The morn we'll head your Geordie." 80
Then out it speaks the king himsell,
Vow, but he spake bonny!
"Come here, young Gight, confess your sins,
Let's hear if they be mony.
"Come here, young Gight, confess your sins, 85
See ye be true and steady;
And if your sins they be but sma',
Then ye'se win wi' your lady."
"Nane have I robb'd, nought have I stown,
Nor have I killed ony; 90
But ane o' the king's best brave steeds,
I sold him in Bevany."
Then out it speaks the king again,
Dear, but he spake bonny!
"That crime's nae great; for your lady's sake, 95
Put on your hat now, Geordie."
Then out it speaks Lord Montague,
O wae be to his body!
"There's guilt appears in Gight's ain face,
Ye'll cross examine Geordie." 100
"Now since it all I must confess,
My crime's baith great and mony:
A woman abused, five orphan babes,
I kill'd them for their money."
Out it speaks the king again, 105
And dear but he was sorry!
"Your confession brings confusion,
Take aff your hat now, Geordie."
Then out it speaks the lady hersell,
Vow, but she was sorry! 110
"Now all my life I'll wear the black,
Mourn for the death o' Geordie."
Lord Huntly then he did speak out,
O fair mot fa' his body!
"I there will fight doublet alane, 115
Or ony thing ails Geordie."
Then out it speaks the king again,
Vow, but he spake bonny!
"If ye'll tell down ten thousand crowns,
Ye'll buy the life o' Geordie." 120
She spread her mantle on the ground,
Dear, but she spread it bonny!
Some gae her crowns, some ducadoons,
And some gae dollars mony.
Then she tauld down ten thousand crowns,— 125
"Put on your hat, my Geordie."
Then out it speaks Lord Montague,
Wae be to his body!
"I wisht that Gight wanted the head;
I might enjoy'd his lady." 130
Out it speaks the lady hersell,
"Ye need ne'er wish my body;
O ill befa' your wizzen'd snout!
Wou'd ye compare wi' Geordie?"
When she was in her saddle set, 135
Riding the leys sae bonny,
The fiddle and fleet play'd ne'er sae sweet,
As she behind her Geordie.
"O Geordie, Geordie, I love you well,
Nae jealousie cou'd move me; 140
The birds in air, that fly in pairs,
Can witness how I love you.
"Ye'll call for one, the best o' clerks,
Ye'll call him soon and shortly;
As he may write what I indite, 145
A' this I've done for Geordie."
He turn'd him right and round about,
And high, high looked Geordie;
"A finger o' Bignet's lady's hand
Is worth a' your fair body." 150
"My lands may a' be masterless,
My babes may want their mother;
But I've made a vow, will keep it true,
I'll be bound to no other."
These words they caus'd a great dispute, 155
And proud and fierce grew Geordie;
A sharp dagger he pulled out,
And pierc'd the heart o's lady.
The lady's dead, and Gight he's fled,
And left his lands behind him; 160
Altho' they searched south and north,
There were nane there cou'd find him.
Now a' that liv'd into Black Riggs,
And likewise in Kincraigie,
For seven years were clad in black, 165
To mourn for Gight's own lady.
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