This is the same tune as Fortune my foe.—See Popular Music of the Olden Time, p. 162. This word seems to be used here in the sense of the French verb mettre, to put, to place. The stall copies read ‘Gamble bold.’ In the Roxburgh Collection is a copy of this ballad, in which the catastrophe is brought about in a different manner. When the young lady finds that she is to be drowned, she very leisurely makes a particular examination of the place of her intended destruction, and raises an objection to some nettles which are growing on the banks of the stream; these she requires to be removed, in the following poetical stanza:—
‘Go fetch the sickle, to crop the nettle,
That grows so near the brim;
For fear it should tangle my golden locks,
Or freckle my milk-white skin.’
A request so elegantly made is gallantly complied with by the treacherous knight, who, while engaged in ‘cropping’ the nettles, is pushed into the stream. A tinker is still so called in the north of England. This poor minstrel was born at the village of Rylstone, in Craven, the scene of Wordsworth’s White Doe of Rylstone. King was always called ‘the Skipton Minstrel;’ and he merited that name, for he was not a mere player of jigs and country dances, but a singer of heroic ballads, carrying his hearers back to the days of chivalry and royal adventure, when the King of England called up Cheshire and Lancashire to fight the King of France, and monarchs sought the greenwood tree, and hob-a-nobbed with tinkers, knighting these Johns of the Dale as a matter of poetical justice and high sovereign prerogative. Francis King was a character. His physiognomy was striking and peculiar; and, although there was nothing of the rogue in its expression, for an honester fellow never breathed, he might have sat for Wordsworth’s ‘Peter Bell.’ He combined in a rare degree the qualities of the mime and the minstrel, and his old jokes, and older ballads and songs, always ensured him a hearty welcome. He was lame, in consequence of one leg being shorter than the other, and his limping gait used to give occasion to the remark that ‘few Kings had had more ups and downs in the world.’ He met his death by drowning on the night of December 13, 1844. He had been at a ‘merry-making’ at Gargrave, in Craven, and it is supposed that, owing to the darkness of the night, he mistook the road, and walked into the river. As a musician his talents were creditable; and his name will long survive in the village records. The minstrel’s grave is in the quiet churchyard of Gargrave. Further particulars of Francis King may be seen in Dixon’s Stories of the Craven Dales, published by Tasker and Son, of Skipton. This is the ancient way of spelling the name of Reading. In Percy’s version of Barbara Allen, that ballad commences ‘In Scarlet town,’ which, in the common stall copies, is rendered ‘In Redding town.’ The former is apparently a pun upon the old orthography—Redding. The sister of Roger. This gentleman was Mr. Thomas Petty. We here, and in a subsequent verse, find ‘daughter’ made to rhyme with ‘after;’ but we must not therefore conclude that the rhyme is of cockney origin. In many parts of England, the word ‘daughter’ is pronounced ‘dafter’ by the peasantry, who, upon the same principle, pronounce ‘slaughter’ as if it were spelt ‘slafter.’ Added to complete the sense. That is, ‘said he, the wild boar.’ Scott has strangely misunderstood this line, which he interprets—
‘Many people did she kill.’
‘Fell’ is to knock down, and the meaning is that she could ‘well’ knock down, or ‘fell’ people. Went. The meaning appears to be that no ‘wiseman’ or wizard, no matter from whence his magic, was derived, durst face her. Craven has always been famed for its wizards, or wisemen, and several of such impostors may be found there at the present day. Scott’s MS. reads Ralph, but Raphe is the ancient form. Scott reads ‘brim as beare,’ which he interprets ‘fierce as a bear.’ Whitaker’s rendering is correct. Beare is a small hamlet on the Bay of Morecambe, no great distance, as the crow files, from the locale of the poem. There is also a Bear-park in the county of Durham, of which place Bryan might be an inhabitant. Utrum horum, &c. That is, they were good soldiers when the musters were—when the regiments were called up. Fierce look. Descended from an ancient race famed for fighting. Assaulted. They were, although out of danger, terrified by the attacks of the sow, and their fear was shared by the kiln, which began to smoke! Watling-street, the Roman way from Catterick to Bowes. Lost his colour. Scott, not understanding this expression, has inserted ‘Jesus’ for the initials ‘I. H. S.,’ and so has given a profane interpretation to the passage. By a figure of speech the friar is called an I. H. S., from these letters being conspicuously wrought on his robes, just as we might call a livery-servant by his master’s motto, because it was stamped on his buttons. The meaning here is obscure. The verse is not in Whitaker. Warlock or wizard. It is probable that by guest is meant an allusion to the spectre dog of Yorkshire (the Barguest), to which the sow is compared. Hired. The monastery of Gray Friars at Richmond.—See Leland, Itin., vol. iii, p. 109. This appears to have been a cant saying in the reign of Charles II. It occurs in several novels, jest books and satires of the time, and was probably as unmeaning as such vulgarisms are in general. A cake composed of oatmeal, caraway-seeds, and treacle. ‘Ale and parkin’ is a common morning meal in the north of England. The popularity of this West-country song has extended even to Ireland, as appears from two Irish versions, supplied by the late Mr. T. Crofton Croker. One of them is entitled Last New-Year’s Day, and is printed by Haly, Hanover-street, Cork. It follows the English song almost verbatim, with the exception of the first and second verses, which we subjoin:—
‘Last New-Year’s day, as I heard say,
Dick mounted on his dapple gray;
He mounted high and he mounted low,
Until he came to sweet Raphoe!
Sing fal de dol de ree,
Fol de dol, righ fol dee.
‘My buckskin does I did put on,
My spladdery clogs, to save my brogues!
And in my pocket a lump of bread,
And round my hat a ribbon red.’
The other version is entitled Dicky of Ballyman, and a note informs us that ‘Dicky of Ballyman’s sirname was Byrne!’ As our readers may like to hear how the Somersetshire bumpkin behaved after he had located himself in the town of Ballyman, and taken the sirname of Byrne, we give the whole of his amatory adventures in the sister-island. We discover from them, inter alia, that he had found ‘the best of friends’ in his ‘Uncle,’—that he had made a grand discovery in natural history, viz., that a rabbit is a fowl!—that he had taken the temperance pledge, which, however, his Mistress Ann had certainly not done; and, moreover, that he had become an enthusiast in potatoes!
DICKY OF BALLYMAN.
‘On New-Year’s day, as I heard say,
Dicky he saddled his dapple gray;
He put on his Sunday clothes,
His scarlet vest, and his new made hose.
Diddle dum di, diddle dum do,
Diddle dum di, diddle dum do.
‘He rode till he came to Wilson Hall,
There he rapped, and loud did call;
Mistress Ann came down straightway,
And asked him what he had to say?
‘‘Don’t you know me, Mistress Ann?
I am Dicky of Ballyman;
An honest lad, though I am poor,—
I never was in love before.
‘‘I have an uncle, the best of friends,
Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends;
And many other dainty fowl,
To please my life, my joy, my soul.
‘‘Sometimes I reap, sometimes I mow,
And to the market I do go,
To sell my father’s corn and hay,—
I earn my sixpence every day!’
‘‘Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your mark,—
You only wander in the dark;
Sixpence a day will never do,
I must have silks, and satins, too!
‘‘Besides, Dicky, I must have tea
For my breakfast, every day;
And after dinner a bottle of wine,—
For without it I cannot dine.’
‘‘If on fine clothes our money is spent,
Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent?
He’ll expect it when ’tis due,—
Believe me, what I say is true.
‘‘As for tea, good stirabout
Will do far better, I make no doubt;
And spring water, when you dine,
Is far wholesomer than wine.
‘‘Potatoes, too, are very nice food,—
I don’t know any half so good:
You may have them boiled or roast,
Whichever way you like them most.’
‘This gave the company much delight,
And made them all to laugh outright;
So Dicky had no more to say,
But saddled his dapple and rode away.
Diddle dum di, &c.’ We have heard a Yorkshire yeoman sing a version, which commenced with this line:—
‘It was at the time of a high holiday.’ Bell-ringing was formerly a great amusement of the English, and the allusions to it are of frequent occurrence. Numerous payments to bell-ringers are generally to be found in Churchwarden’s accounts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.—Chappell. The subject and burthen of this song are identical with those of the song which immediately follows, called in some copies The Clown’s Courtship, sung to the King at Windsor, and in others, I cannot come everyday to woo. The Kentish ditty cannot be traced to so remote a date as the Clown’s Courtship; but it probably belongs to the same period. The common modern copies read ‘St. Leger’s Round.’ The common stall copies read ‘Pan,’ which not only furnishes a more accurate rhyme to ‘Nan,’ but is, probably, the true reading. About the time when this song was written, there appears to have been some country minstrel or fiddler, who was well known by the sobriquet of ‘Pan.’ Frequent allusions to such a personage may be found in popular ditties of the period, and it is evidently that individual, and not the heathen deity, who is referred to in the song of Arthur O’Bradley:—
‘Not Pan, the god of the swains,
Could e’er produce such strains.’—See ante, p. 142. A correspondent of Notes and Queries says that, although there is some resemblance between Flora and Furry, the latter word is derived from an old Cornish term, and signifies jubilee or fair. There is another version of these concluding lines:—
‘Down the red lane there lives an old fox,
There does he sit a-mumping his chops;
Catch him, boys, catch him, catch if you can;
’Tis twenty to one if you catch him or Nan.’ A cant term for a fiddle. In its literal sense, it means trunk, or box-belly. ‘Helicon,’ as observed by Sir C. Sharp, is, of course, the true reading. In the introduction of the ‘prodigal son,’ we have a relic derived from the old mysteries and moralities. Of late years, the ‘prodigal son’ has been left out, and his place supplied by a ‘sailor.’ Probably the disease here pointed at is the sweating sickness of old times. Robert Kearton, a working miner, and librarian and lecturer at the Grassington Mechanics’ institution, informs us that at Coniston, in Lancashire, and the neighbourhood, the maskers go about at the proper season, viz., Easter. Their introductory song is different to the one given above. He has favoured us with two verses of the delectable composition; he says, ‘I dare say they’ll be quite sufficient!’
‘The next that comes on
Is a gentleman’s son;—
A gentleman’s son he was born;
For mutton and beef,
You may look at his teeth,
He’s a laddie for picking a bone!
‘The next that comes on
Is a tailor so bold—
He can stitch up a hole in the dark!
There’s never a ‘prentice
In famed London city
Can find any fault with his wark!’ For the history of the paschal egg, see a paper by Mr. J. H. Dixon, in the Local Historian’s Table Book (Traditional Division). Newcastle. 1843. We suspect that Lord Nelson’s name was introduced out of respect to the late Jack Rider, of Linton (who is himself introduced into the following verse), an old tar who, for many years, was one of the ‘maskers’ in the district from whence our version was obtained. Jack was ‘loblolly boy’ on board the ‘Victory,’ and one of the group that surrounded the dying Hero of Trafalgar. Amongst his many miscellaneous duties, Jack had to help the doctor; and while so employed, he once set fire to the ship as he was engaged investigating, by candlelight, the contents of a bottle of ether. The fire was soon extinguished, but not without considerable noise and confusion. Lord Nelson, when the accident happened, was busy writing his despatches. ‘What’s all that noise about?’ he demanded. The answer was, ‘Loblolly boy’s set fire to an empty bottle, and it has set fire to the doctor’s shop!’ ‘Oh, that’s all, is it?’ said Nelson, ‘then I wish you and loblolly would put the fire out without making such a confusion’—and he went on writing with the greatest coolness, although the accident might have been attended by the most disastrous consequences, as an immense quantity of powder was on board, and some of it close to the scene of the disaster. The third day after the above incident Nelson was no more, and the poor ‘loblolly boy’ left the service minus two fingers. ‘Old Jack’ used often to relate his ‘accident;’ and Captain Carslake, now of Sidmouth, who, at the time was one of the officers, permits us to add his corroboration of its truth. In this place, and in the first line of the following verse, the name of the horse is generally inserted by the singer; and ‘Filpail’ is often substituted for ‘the cow’ in a subsequent verse. The ‘swearing-in’ is gone through by females as well as the male sex. See Hone’s Year-Book. A fig newly gathered from the tree; so called to distinguish it from a grocer’s, or preserved fig. This line is sometimes sung—
O! I went into the stable, to see what I could see. Three cabbage-nets, according to some versions. This is a common phrase in old English songs and ballads. See The Summer’s Morning, post, p. 229. See ante, p. 82. Near. The high-road through a town or village. That is Tommy’s opinion. In the Yorkshire dialect, when the possessive case is followed by the relative substantive, it is customary to omit the s; but if the relative be understood, and not expressed, the possessive case is formed in the usual manner, as in a subsequent line of this song:—
‘Hee’d a horse, too, ‘twor war than ond Tommy’s, ye see.’ Alive, quick. Only. Famished. The line in which this word occurs exhibits one of the most striking peculiarities of the Lancashire dialect, which is, that in words ending in ing, the termination is changed into ink. Ex. gr., for starving, starvink, farthing, fardink. In one version this line has been altered, probably by some printer who had a wholesome fear of the ‘Bench of Justices,’ into—
‘Success to every gentleman
That lives in Lincolnsheer.’ Dr. Whitaker gives a traditional version of part of this song as follows:—
‘The gardener standing by proferred to chuse for me,
The pink, the primrose, and the rose, but I refused the three;
The primrose I forsook because it came too soon,
The violet I o’erlooked, and vowed to wait till June.
In June, the red rose sprung, bat was no flower for me,
I plucked it up, lo! by the stalk, and planted the willow-tree.
The willow I must wear with sorrow twined among,
That all the world may know I falshood loved too long.’ The following account of Billy Bolton may, with propriety, be inserted here:—It was a lovely September day, and the scene was Arncliffe, a retired village in Littondale, one of the most secluded of the Yorkshire dales. While sitting at the open window of the humble hostelrie, we heard what we, at first, thought was a ranter parson, but, on inquiry, were told it was old Billy Bolton reading to a crowd of villagers. Curious to ascertain what the minstrel was reading, we joined the crowd, and found the text-book was a volume of Hume’s England, which contained the reign of Elizabeth. Billy read in a clear voice, with proper emphasis, and correct pronunciation, interlarding his reading with numerous comments, the nature of some of which may be readily inferred from the fact that the minstrel belonged to what he called ‘the ancient church.’ It was a scene for a painter; the village situate in one of the deepest parts of the dale, the twilight hour, the attentive listeners, and the old man, leaning on his knife-grinding machine, and conveying popular information to a simple peasantry. Bolton is in the constant habit of so doing, and is really an extraordinary man, uniting, as he does, the opposite occupations of minstrel, conjuror, knife-grinder, and schoolmaster. Such a labourer (though an humble one) in the great cause of human improvement is well deserving of this brief notice, which it would be unjust to conclude without stating that whenever the itinerant teacher takes occasion to speak of his own creed, and contrast it with others, he does so in a spirit of charity; and he never performs any of his sleight-of-hand tricks without a few introductory remarks on the evil of superstition, and the folly of supposing that in the present age any mortal is endowed with supernatural attainments. This elastic opening might be adapted to existing circumstances by a slight alteration:—
The praise of a dairy to tell you I mean,
But all things in order, first God save the Queen.
The common copies print ‘God save the Queen,’ which of course destroys the rhyme. This is the reading of a common stall copy. Chappell reads—
‘For at Tottenham-court,’
which is no doubt correct, though inapplicable to a rural assembly in our days. Brew, or broo, or broth. Chappell’s version reads, ‘No state you can think,’ which is apparently a mistake. The reading of the common copies is to be preferred. No doubt the original word in these places was sack, as in Chappell’s copy—but what would a peasant understand by sack? Dryden’s receipt for a sack posset is as follows:—
‘From fair Barbadoes, on the western main,
Fetch sugar half-a-pound: fetch sack, from Spain,
A pint: then fetch, from India’s fertile coast,
Nutmeg, the glory of the British toast.’
Miscellany Poems, v. 138. Corrupted in modern copies into ‘we’ll range and we’ll rove.’ The reading in the text is the old reading. The phrase occurs in several old songs. We should, probably, read ‘he.’ Peer—equal. The road or street. This is the only instance of this peculiar form in the present version. The miners in the Marienberg invariably said ‘for to’ wherever the preposition ‘to’ occurred before a verb. Three is a favourite number in the nursery rhymes. The following is one of numerous examples:—
There was an old woman had three sons,
Jerry and James and John:
Jerry was hung, James was drowned,
John was lost and never was found;
And there was an end of her three sons,
Jerry, and James, and John!
