  Not the more exalted songs of child life here—not "Willie Winkie," and "Cuddle Doon," and "Castles in the Air," and all that widely esteemed band, which, collectively, would themselves tax the limits of a large volume—but some of the ruder ditties only which the children for many generations have delighted to sing, and been no less charmed by hearing sung, and which of late have not been so frequently seen in print. These rude old favourites, too, with slight comment—little being required. And of such, surely "Cock Robin" may well be awarded the place of honour—a song which, together with the more elaborate tale of "The Babes in the Wood," has done more to make its pert and dapper red-waistcoated subject the general favourite he is with old and young, than any virtue that may be claimed for the little tyrant himself.
|
| Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin. Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, With my little eye, I saw him die. Who caught his blood? I, said the Fish, With my little dish, I caught his blood. Who'll make his shroud? I, said the Beetle, With my thread and needle, I'll make his shroud. Who'll carry him to his grave? I, said the Kite, If it's not in the night, I'll carry him to his grave. Who'll dig his grave? I, said the Owl, With my spade and shovel, I'll dig his grave. Who'll carry the link? I, said the Linnet, I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link. Who'll be chief mourner? I, said the Dove, I'll mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner. Who'll sing the psalm? I, said the Thrush, As he sat on a bush, I'll sing the psalm. Who'll be the parson? I, said the Rook, With my little book, I'll be the parson. Who'll be the clerk? I, said the Lark, If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk. Who'll toll the bell? I, said the Bull, Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell. And all the little birds Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing, When they heard the bell toll For poor Cock Robin. |
And of Cock Robin again, no less captivating has been the ballad celebrating his wedding with little Jenny Wren. Though why with a lady of the Wren family, must always strike naturalists as an absurdity; and, I suppose, we may not ask how it was the banns were not forbidden, since the Messrs. Wren, with the children, and the whole creation of birds—with the single exception of a blackguard cuckoo—have jubilantly acquiesced in the nuptials.
| It was a merry time, When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she dressed, And so sweetly as she sung. Robin Redbreast lost his heart, He was a gallant bird; He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said: "My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie And drink nice currant wine. "I'll dress you like a goldfinch, Or like a peacock gay; So, if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day." Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob— I take your offer kind. "Cherry pie is very good, So is currant wine; But I'll wear my russet gown And never dress too fine." Robin rose up early, At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house To sing a roundelay. He met the Cock and Hen, And bade the Cock declare This was his wedding day With Jenny Wren the fair. The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbours know This was Robin's wedding day, And they might see the show. Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be the clerk At Cock Robin's wedding. He sang of Robin's love For little Jenny Wren; And when he came unto the end, Then he began again. At first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band; And one of Mother Hubbard's books He held within his hand. The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the bride; The Linnet, being bridesmaid, Walked by Jenny's side; And as she was a-walking, Said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock Robin Is a very pretty bird." The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet songs sweetly echo Through every grove and dale; The Sparrow and the Tomtit, And many more were there; All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren the fair. The Bullfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say: "Pray mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch dressed so gay; "That though her gay apparel Becomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and look Must bear away the bell." Then came the bride and bridegroom; Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks were As red as Robin's breast. But Robin cheered her up; "My pretty Jen," says he, "We're going to be married. And happy we shall be." "Oh," then says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay: "Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!" "And you will have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life!" "And you will have him Jenny, Your husband now to be?" "Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily." Then on her finger fair Cock Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says Parson Rook, While the lark aloud did sing: "Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride! And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide!" The birds were asked to dine; Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had Cock Robin known. They had a cherry pie, Besides some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine. Now they all sat or stood, To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think. They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair; Cock Robin the bridegroom, And Jenny the fair. The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place For a mile around to ring. The concert it was fine, And every birdie tried Who best should sing for Robin And Jenny Wren the bride. When in came the Cuckoo, And made a great rout; He caught hold of Jenny, And pulled her about. Cock Robin was angry, And so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry His bow and his arrow. His aim then he took, But he took it not right, His skill was not good, Or he shot in a fright; For the Cuckoo he missed, But Cock Robin he killed! And all the birds mourned That his blood was so spilled. |
Yet another song of the Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a youthful vocalist. I don't know that it ever had a title, but we will call it
| The North wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the Robin do then, poor thing? He will sit in the barn, And keep himself warm, With his little head under his wing, poor thing! |
It is not claimed for these pieces that they belong to any high order of verse—though really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very first. In point of popularity alone, they are not surpassed by "Paradise Lost," nor by the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then, they have so thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the affections of the wee folks, that, with old and young alike—for the young so soon grow into the old, alas!—there are no compositions in
| Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And doesn't know where to find them; Let them alone, and they'll come home, Bringing their tails behind them. Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep. And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For still they all were fleeting. Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed. For they'd left their tails behind them. It happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray Under a meadow hard by, That she espied their tails, side by side, All hung on a tree to dry. She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks went stump-o; And tried as she could, as a shepherdess should, To tack again each to its rump-o. |
The ballad lacks sadly in particulars, to be sure. How the tails of the entire flock disappeared in one fell swoop—whether by malice aforethought, at the instance of a lurking enemy, or in a miraculous accident, whilst the young shepherdess slept at her charge—has never been told, though thousands of wondering pows, multiplied by ten, have wanted to know. Perhaps it is better not explained. Mystery is so often just another word for charm.
We will now have the curious tale of "The House that Jack Built." In no sense a curious house, perhaps, but famous because of the fortuitous events which issued in regular sequence from the simple fact of the builder having stored a quantity of malt within its walls. It is told best with the accompaniment of pictorial illustrations, but here these are not available.
| This is the house that Jack built. This is the malt That lay in the house That Jack built. This is the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built. This is the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built. This is the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built. This is the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built. This is the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built This is the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog This is the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built. This is the cock that crowed in the morn And waked the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built. |
It has been a satisfaction to many a little boy, I am sure, to feel that he was not, by many miles, so simple as that most abject of all simpletons, familiar to him as—
Simple Simon met a pie-man, Going to the fair; Said Simple Simon to the pie-man, "Let me taste your ware."
Says the pie-man, "Simple Simon, Show me first your penny;" Said Simple Simon to the pie-man, "Indeed, I have not any."
Simple Simon went a-fishing, For to catch a whale; All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail!
Some may follow without comment.
| Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard, To get her poor doggie a bone; When she got there, the cupboard was bare, And so the poor doggie had none. She went to the baker's to buy him some bread, But when she came back the poor doggie was dead. She went to the undertaker's to buy him a coffin, And when she came back the doggie was laughing. She went to the butcher's to get him some tripe, And when she came back he was smoking a pipe. She went to the fish-shop to buy him some fish, And when she came back he was washing the dish. She went to the tavern for white wine and red, And when she came back doggie stood on his head. She went to the hatter's to buy him a hat, And when she came back he was feeding the cat. She went to the tailor's to buy him a coat, And when she came back he was riding the goat. She went to the barber's to buy him a wig, And when she came back he was dancing a jig. She went to the draper's to buy him some linen, And when she came back the good dog was spinning. She went to the hosier's to buy him some hose, And when she came back he was dressed in his clothes. The dame made a curtsey, the dog made a bow, The dame said, "Your servant," the dog said, "Bow-wow." |
| Old Mother Goose, when She wanted to wander, Would ride through the air On a very fine gander. Mother Goose had a house, 'Twas built in a wood, Where an owl at the door For a sentinel stood. She had a son Jack, A plain-looking lad, Not very good, Nor yet very bad. She sent him to market, A live goose he bought, "Here, mother," says he, "It won't go for nought." Jack's goose and the gander Grew very fond, They'd both eat together, Or swim in one pond. Jack found, one fine morning, As I have been told, His goose had laid him An egg of pure gold. Jack rode to his mother The news for to tell; She called him a good boy, And said it was well. Jack sold his gold egg To a rascally Jew, Who cheated him out of The half of his due. Then Jack went a-courting A lady so gay, As fair as the lily, And sweet as the May. The Jew and the Squire Came behind his back And began to belabour The sides of poor Jack. And then the gold egg Was thrown in the sea, When Jack he jumped in And got it presently. The Jew got the goose, Which he vowed he would kill, Resolving at once His pockets to fill. Jack's mother came in And caught the goose soon, And mounting its back, Flew up to the moon. |
An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence. "What," she said, "shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go to market and buy a little pig." As she was coming home she came to a stile. The piggy would not go over the stile. She went a little farther, and she met a dog, so she said to the dog:—
| "Dog, dog, bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the dog would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a stick. So she said:—
| "Stick, stick, beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the stick would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a fire. So she said:—
| "Fire, fire, burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the fire would not.
She went a little farther, and she met some water. So she said:—
| "Water, water, quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the water would not.
She went a little farther, and she met an ox. So she said:—
| "Ox, ox, drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the ox would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a butcher. So she said:—
| "Butcher, butcher, kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the butcher would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a rope. So she said:—
| "Rope, rope, hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; |
But the rope would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a rat. So she said:—
| "Rat, rat, gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the rat would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a cat. So she said:—
| "Cat, cat, kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the cat said to her, "If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat." So away went the old woman to the cow, and said:—
| "Cow, cow, give me a saucer of milk; Cat won't kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the cow said to her, "If you will go to yonder haymakers, and fetch me a wisp of hay, I'll give you the milk." So away went the old woman to the haymakers, and said:—
| "Haymakers, give me a wisp of hay; Cow won't give milk; Cat won't kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!" |
But the haymakers said to her, "If you will go to yonder stream, and fetch us a bucket of water, we'll give you the hay." So away the old woman went. But when she got to the stream, she found the bucket was full of holes. So she covered the bottom with pebbles, and then filled the bucket with water, and she went back with it to the haymakers, and they gave her a wisp of hay.
As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat. As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk—
| The cat began to kill the rat; The rat began to gnaw the rope; The rope began to hang the butcher; The butcher began to kill the ox; The ox began to drink the water; The water began to quench the fire; The fire began to burn the stick; The stick began to beat the dog; The dog began to bite the pig; The little pig in a fright jumped over the stile; So the old woman got home that night! |
| A Frog he would a-wooing go, Heigho, says Roly! Whether his mother would let him or no, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! So off he set in his coat and hat, Heigho, says Roly! And on the way he met a Rat, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! "Please, Mr. Rat, will you go with me?" Heigho, says Roly! "Good Mrs. Mousie for to see?" With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! When they came to the door of Mousie's hole, Heigho, says Roly! They gave a loud knock, and they gave a loud call, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! "Please, Mrs. Mouse, are you within?" Heigho, says Roly! "Oh yes, dear sirs, I am sitting to spin," With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! "Please, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us some beer?" Heigho, says Roly! "For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer," With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! "Please, Mr. Frog, will you give us a song?" Heigho, says Roly! "But let it be something that's not very long," With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! But while they were making a terrible din, Heigho, says Roly! The cat and her kittens came tumbling in, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! The cat she seized Mr. Rat by the crown, Heigho, says Roly! The kittens they pulled Mrs. Mousie down, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright, Heigho, says Roly! He took up his hat and he wished them good-night, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! But as Froggy was crossing over a brook, Heigho, says Roly! A lily-white duck came and swallowed him up, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly! |
There are various versions of the above narrative of a sadly disastrous expedition, in English and in Scotch alike. The Ballad Book, a curious collection, of which thirty copies only were printed, in 1824, embraces one beginning:—
| There lived a Puddy in a well, Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone; There lived a Puddy in a well, Cuddy alone and I. Puddy he'd a-wooin' ride, Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone; Sword and pistol by his side, Cuddy alone and I. Puddy came to the Mousie's home; "Mistress Mouse, are you within?" Kickmaleerie, cowden down, Cuddy alone and I. |
And which goes forward narrating the almost identically same story: which story, homely and simple as it appears, is of surprising antiquity. In 1580, the Stationers' Company licensed "a ballad of a most strange wedding of the frogge and the mouse;" and that same ballad Dr. Robert Chambers printed from a small quarto manuscript of poems formerly in the possession of Sir Walter Scott, dated 1630. This very old version begins:—
| Itt was ye frog in ye wall, Humble doune, humble doune; And ye mirrie mouse in ye mill, Tweidle, tweidle, twino. |
And the closing lines tell that
| Quhen ye supper they war at, The frog, mouse, and evin ye ratt. There com in Gib our cat, And chaught ye mouse evin by ye back. Then did they all seperat, And ye frog lap on ye floor so flat. Then in com Dick our drack, And drew ye frog evin to ye lack. Ye rat ran up ye wall, A goodlie companie, ye devall goe with all. |
Of meaner antiquity, perhaps, but no less a favourite with the young, is the amusing ditty of
| A Carrion Crow sat on an oak, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, Watching a tailor shape his coat; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do! Wife, bring me my old bent bow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, That I may shoot yon carrion crow; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do! The tailor shot, and missed his mark, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, But shot the pig right through the heart; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do. |
The next, though it has engaged the attention of the adult population, is a prime old-time favourite with the children as well.
| "Where are you going to, my pretty maid?" "I am going a-milking, sir," she said. "May I go with you, my pretty maid?" "You're kindly welcome, sir," she said. "What is your father, my pretty maid?" "My father's a farmer, sir," she said. "What is your fortune, my pretty maid?" "My face is my fortune, sir," she said. "Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid." "Nobody asked you, sir," she said. |
The original of the following, which has delighted particularly the children of Scotland for many generations, appears with its pleasing air in Johnson's Musical Museum:—
| O can ye sew cushions? Or can ye sew sheets? An' can ye sing ba-la-loo When the bairnie greets? An' hee an' ba, birdie, An' hee an' ba, lamb, Ah' hee an' ba, birdie, My bonnie wee man. Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye? Black is the life that I lead wi' ye; Owre mony o' ye, little to gie ye, Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye? Now hush-a-ba, lammie, An' hush-a-ba, dear; Now hush-a-ba, lammie, Thy minnie is here, The wild wind is ravin', Thy minnie's heart's sair; The wild wind is ravin', An' ye dinna care. Hee O, wee O, etc. Sing ba-la-loo, lammie, Sing bo-la-loo, dear; Does wee lammie ken That his daddie's no here? Ye're rockin' fu' sweetly On mammie's warm knee, But daddie's a-rockin' Upon the saut sea. Hee O, wee O, etc. O I hung thy cradle On yon holly top, An' aye as the wind blew Thy cradle did rock. An' hush-a-ba, baby, O ba-lilly-loo; An' hee an' ba, birdie, My bonnie wee doo! Hee O, wee O, etc. |
We see continually how dear to the songs of childlife are the mention of birds and all things sweet in the round of everyday life. Here now—
| Hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon, Hush-a-ba birdie, croon; The sheep are gane to the silver wood, And the coos are gane to the broom, broom, And the coos are gane to the broom. And it's braw milking the kye, kye, It's braw milking the kye; The birds are singing, the bells are ringing, The wild deer come galloping by, by, The wild deer come galloping by. And hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon, Hush-a-ba birdie, croon; The gaits are gane to the mountain hie, And they'll no be hame till noon, And they'll no be hame till noon. |
A prime favourite—none excelling it—has been
| Dance to your daddie, My bonnie laddie, Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb; And ye'll get a fishie, In a little dishie, Ye'll get a fishie when the boat comes hame! Dance to your daddie, My bonnie laddie, Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb! |
By the bye, as touching the lullaby order of these songs, it is interesting to note that, no matter of what age or nation they may be, they are all but regularly made up on precisely the same plan. There is first the appeal to the child to slumber, or to rest and be happy; then comes the statement that the father is away following some toilsome occupation; and the promise succeeds that he will soon return laden with the fruits of his labour, and all will be well. We have been seeing, and will see again, how the Scottish go. The Norwegian mother sings:—
| Row, row to Baltnarock, How many fish caught in the net? One for father and one for mother. One for sister and one for brother. |
Even the Hottentot mother promises her child that its "dusky sire" shall bring it "shells from yonder shore," where he has probably been occupied in turning turtles over on their broad backs. The Breton song goes:—
| Fais dado, pauvre, p'tit Pierrot. Papa est sur l'eau Qui fait des bateaux Pour le p'tit Pierrot. |
The Swedish cradle song follows the almost universal custom. It runs (in English):—
| Hush, hush; baby mine! Pussy climbs the big green pine, Ma turns the mill stone, Pa to kill the pig has gone. |
The Danish does not prove an exception:—
| Lullaby, sweet baby mine! Mother spins the thread so fine; Father o'er the bridge has gone, Shoes he'll buy for little John. |
The North German cradle song is:—
| Schlaf Kindchen, schlaf! Dein Vater hut't die schaf; Dein Mutter schuttelts Baumelien, Da fallt herab ein Tramelein, Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf! |
Which, being done into English, runs:—
| Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father guards the sheep; The mother shakes the dreamland tree, And from it falls sweet dreams for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep. |
The simplest and crudest of these, we may be sure, has lulled millions to sleep, and by virtue of that association is worth more than many quartos of recent verse deliberately composed with the view of engaging the attention of the nursery circle. How many volumes of the newer wares, for instance, might be accepted in exchange for
| Katie Beardie had a coo, Black and white about the mou'; Wasna that a dentie coo? Dance, Katie Beardie! Katie Beardie had a hen, Cackled but an' cackled ben; Wasna that a dentie hen? Dance, Katie Beardie! Katie Beardie had a cock That could spin a gude tow rock; Wasna that a dentie cock? Dance, Katie Beardie! Katie Beardie had a grice, It could skate upon the ice; Wasna that a dentie grice? Dance, Katie Beardie! Katie Beardie had a wean, That was a' her lovin' ain; Wasna that a dentie wean? Dance, Katie Beardie! |
Yet, there is tolerable proof extant that the above dates from at least the beginning of the seventeenth century. "Katherine Beardie," anyway, is the name affixed to an air in a manuscript musical collection which belonged to the Scottish poet, Sir William Mure, of Rowallan, written, presumably, between the years 1612 and 1628. The same tune, under the name of
| There was a miller's dochter, She wadna want a baby, O; She took her father's grey hound An' row'd it in a plaidie, O. Singing, Hush-a-ba! hush-a-ba! Hush-a-ba, my baby, O! An 'twere na for you lang beard, I wad kiss your gabbie, O! |
While bedding operations have been in progress no song, surely, has been more welcome and effective than
| Hap and row, hap and row, Hap and row the feetie o't; I never kent I had a bairn Until I heard the greetie o't. The wife put on the wee pan To boil the bairn's meatie, O, When down fell a cinder And burn't a' its feetie, O. Hap and row, hap and row, Hap and row the feetie o't; I never kent I had a bairn Until I heard the greetie o't. Sandy's mither she came in As sune's she heard the greetie o't, She took the mutch frae aff her head And rowed it round the feetie o't. Hap and row, hap and row, etc. |
In about equal favour stands
| How dan, dilly dow, Hey dow, dan, Weel were ye're minnie. An' ye were a man. Ye wad hunt an' hawk, An' hand her o' game, An' water your daddie's horse When he cam' hame. How dan, dilly dow, Hey dan, floors, Ye'se lie i' your bed Till eleven hours. If at eleven hours You list to rise, Ye'se hae your dinner dight In a new guise. Laverocks' legs, And titlins' taes, And a' sic dainties My mannie shall hae. |
A cheery and comforting lilt, indeed, with its promise of plenty. Much superior to the next, which bears in its bosom the hollow and unwelcome ring of a "toom girnal"—a sound no child should ever know. It is yet a lilt familiar to the nursery:—
| Oh, that I had ne'er been married, I wad never had nae care; Now I've gotten wife and bairns, They cry Crowdie! ever mair. Crowdie ance, crowdie twice, Three times crowdie in a day; Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. |
Quoting the stanzas as an old ballad in a letter to his friend, Mrs. Dunlop, in December, 1795, the poet Burns wrote:—"There had much need to be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless
| "Whistle, whistle, auld wife. An' ye'se get a hen." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye wad gi'e me ten." "Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a cock." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye'd gi'e me a flock." "Whistle, whistle, auld wife, And ye'se get a goun." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "For the best ane i' the toun." "Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a coo." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye wad gi'e me two." "Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a man." "Wheeple-whauple" quo' the wife, "I'll whistle as I can." |
Sung with vocal mimicry, the above makes a strikingly effective entertainment.
The song of "The Three Little Pigs" embraces a palpable moral, which not children alone would be the better for taking to heart. I wish I could sing it for you, my reader, as I have heard Mr. Tom Hunt, the well-known animal painter, sing it in social circles in Glasgow:—
| A jolly old sow once lived in a sty, And three little piggies had she; And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!" While the little ones said "wee! wee!" And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!" While the little ones said "wee! wee!" "My dear little piggies," said one of the brats, "My dear little brothers," said he, "Let us all for the future say, 'grumph! grumph! grumph!' 'Tis so childish to say, 'wee! wee!'" Let us all, etc. These three little piggies grew skinny and lean, And lean they might very well be, For somehow they couldn't say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" And they wouldn't say "wee! wee!" For somehow, etc. So after a time these little pigs died, They all died of fe-lo-de-see, From trying too hard to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When they only could say "wee! wee!" From trying, etc. A moral there is to this little song, A moral that's easy to see: Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When you only can say "wee! wee!" Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When you only can say "wee! wee!" |
Another delectable song for children—also of a subtly didactic character—is
| Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle: Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle early. Cowe it laich, cowe it sune, Cowe it in the month o' June; Stoo it ere it's in the bloom, Cowe the nettle early. Cowe it by the old wa's, Cowe it where the sun ne'er fa's, Stoo it when the day daws, Cowe the nettle early. Auld heuk wi' no ae tooth, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle; Auld gluive wi' leather loof, Cowe the nettle early. |
The following curious song, which Mrs. Burns, the wife of the poet, was fond of crooning to her children, is not yet without some vogue outwith the printed page—though mainly in this verse, the place of which, by the bye, would be difficult to fix in the song as printed by Herd:—
| The robin cam' to the wren's door, And keekit in, and keekit in: O, blessings on your bonnie pow, Wad ye be in, wad ye be in? I wadna let you lie thereout, And I within, and I within, As lang's I hae a warm clout, To row ye in, to row ye in. |
To students of Burns it will ever be of prime interest from the fact that its air, as played by Miss Jessie Lewars to the poet only a few days before his death, supplied the hint for his most tender and touching
| The wren scho lyes in care's bed, In care's bed, in care's bed; The wren scho lyes in care's bed, Wi' meikle dule and pyne, O. When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Redbreist, Redbreist; When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Wi' succar-saps and wine, O. Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, Taste o' this, taste o' this; Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, It's succar saps and wine, O? Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Robin, Robin: Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Though it were ne'er sae fine, O. And where's the ring that I gied ye, That I gied ye, that I gied ye: And where's the ring that I gied ye, Ye little cutty-quean, O? I gied it till an ox-ee, An ox-ee, an ox-ee; I gied it till an ox-ee, A true sweetheart o' mine, O. |
We began with the robin in this, I hope, not wearisome but entertaining Melange of child-songs. We have never, indeed, got at any time far away from the lively and interesting little fellow; and, that being so, perhaps no item could more fittingly close the series than the very old song of
| Gude-day now, bonnie Robin, How long have you been here? I've been bird about this bush This mair than twenty year! But now I am the sickest bird That ever sat on brier; And I wad mak' my testament, Gudeman, if ye wad hear. Gae tak' this bonnie neb o' mine, That picks upon the corn; And gie't to the Duke o' Hamilton To be a hunting-horn. Gae tak' these bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my neb; And gi'e to the Lady o' Hamilton To fill a feather-bed. Gae tak' this gude richt leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Tay; It will be a post and pillar gude— Will neither bow nor gae. And tak' this other leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Weir; It will be a post and pillar gude— Will neither bow nor steer. Gae tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my tail: And gie to the lads o' Hamilton To be a barn-flail. And tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my breast: And gie to ony bonnie lad Will bring to me a priest. Now in there came my Lady Wren Wi' mony a sigh and groan: O what care I for a' the lads If my ain lad be gone! Then Robin turned him roundabout, E'en like a little king; Go; pack ye out o' my chamber-door, Ye little cutty quean! Robin made his testament Upon a coll of hay; And by cam' a greedy gled And snapt him a' away. |
