[Pg 106]
[Pg 107] I.
THE LEGEND OF SIR GUY Contains a short summary of the exploits of this famous champion, as recorded in the old story books; and is commonly intitled, "A pleasant song of the valiant deeds of chivalry atchieved by that noble knight sir Guy of Warwick, who, for the love of fair Phelis, became a hermit, and dyed in a cave of craggy rocke, a mile distant from Warwick." The history of Sir Guy, tho' now very properly resigned to children, was once admired by all readers of wit and taste: for taste and wit had once their childhood. Although of English growth, it was early a favourite with other nations: it appeared in French in 1525; and is alluded to in the old Spanish romance Tirante el Blanco, which, it is believed, was written not long after the year 1430. See advertisement to the French translation, 2 vols. 12mo. The original whence all these stories are extracted is a very ancient romance in old English verse, which is quoted by Chaucer as a celebrated piece even in his time (viz.:— "Men speken of romances of price,
Of Horne childe and Ippotis,
Of Bevis, and sir Guy," &c.—R. of Thop.)
and was usually sung to the harp at Christmas dinners and brideales, as we learn from Puttenham's Art of Poetry, 4to. 1589. This ancient romance is not wholly lost. An imperfect copy in black letter, "Imprynted at London——for Wylliam Copland," in 34 sheets 4to. without date, is still preserved among Mr. Garrick's collection of old plays. As a specimen of the poetry of this antique rhymer, take his description of the dragon mentioned in v. 105 of the following ballad:— "——A messenger came to the king.
Syr king, he sayd, lysten me now,
For bad tydinges I bring you,
In Northumberlande there is no man,
But that they be slayne everychone:
For there dare no man route,
By twenty myle rounde aboute,
For doubt of a fowle dragon,
That sleath men and beastes downe.
He is blacke as any cole,
Rugged as a rough fole;
His bodye from the navill upwarde
No man may it pierce it is so harde;
His neck is great as any summere;
He renneth as swifte as any distrere;
Pawes he hath as a lyon:
All that he toucheth he sleath dead downe.
Great winges he hath to flight,
That is no man that bare him might.
There may no man fight him agayne,
But that he sleath him certayne:
For a fowler beast then is he,
Ywis of none never heard ye."
Sir William Dugdale is of opinion that the story of Guy is not wholly apocryphal, tho' he acknowledges the monks have sounded out his praises too hyperbolically. In particular, he gives the duel fought with the Danish champion as a real historical truth, and fixes the date of it in the year 926, Ætat. Guy, 67. See his Warwickshire. The following is written upon the same plan as ballad v. book i., but which is the original and which the copy cannot be decided. This song is ancient, as may be inferred from the idiom preserved in the margin, v. 94, 102: and was once popular, as appears from Fletcher's Knight of the Burning Pestle, act 2, sc. ult. It is here published from an ancient MS. copy in the editor's old folio volume, collated with two printed ones, one of which is in black letter in the Pepys collection.
[Guy was one of the most popular of the heroes of romance, and the Folio MS. contains three pieces upon his history, viz., the two printed here and Guy and Colbrand. The original of the present ballad in the Folio MS., entitled Guy and Phillis (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 201), is a mere fragment beginning with verse 89. Percy tore out certain leaves to send to the printer, and in consequence the whole of King Estmere and the beginning of this ballad are lost. Alterations have been made in nearly every verse by the help of the printed copies. Guy and Phillis was entered on the Stationers' books, 5th January, 1591-2. We are told by Dugdale that an English traveller, about the year 1410, was hospitably received at Jerusalem by the Soldan's lieutenant, who, hearing that Lord Beauchamp "was descended from the famous Guy of Warwick, whose story they had in books of their own language, invited him to his palace; and royally feasting him, presented him with three precious stones of great value, besides divers cloaths of silk and gold given to his servants." Dugdale's authority for this story was John Rous, a priest of the chapel at Guy's Cliff, near Warwick, who compiled a biography of the hero, in which all the incidents of the romance are narrated as sober fact. The constant praises of the hero bored some people, and Corbet, in his Iter Boreale, expressed the hope that he should hear no more of him— "May all the ballads be call'd in and dye
Which sing the warrs of Colebrand and Sir Guy."
Much valuable information on this subject will be found in Mr. Hale's interesting introduction to the Guy poems in the Folio MS.]
Was ever knight for ladyes sake
Soe tost in love, as I sir Guy
For Phelis fayre, that lady bright
As ever man beheld with eye?
She gave me leave myself to try,
The valiant knight with sheeld and speare,
Ere that her love shee wold grant me;
Which made mee venture far and neare.
Then proved I a baron bold,[257]
In deeds of armes the doughtyest knight
That in those dayes in England was,
With sworde and speare in feild to fight.
An English man I was by birthe:
In faith of Christ a christyan true:
The wicked lawes of infidells 15
I sought by prowesse to subdue.
'Nine' hundred twenty yeere and odde[258]
After our Saviour Christ his birth,
When king AthÈlstone wore the crowne,
I lived heere upon the earth. 20
Sometime I was of Warwicke erle,
And, as I sayd, of very truth
A ladyes love did me constraine
To seeke strange ventures in my youth.
To win me fame by feates of armes 25
In strange and sundry heathen lands;
Where I atchieved for her sake
Right dangerous conquests with my hands.
For first I sayled to Normandye,
And there I stoutlye wan in fight 30
The emperours daughter of Almaine,
From manye a vallyant worthye knight.
Then passed I the seas to Greece
To helpe the emperour in his right;
Against the mightye souldans hoaste 35
Of puissant Persians for to fight.
Where I did slay of Sarazens,
And heathen pagans, manye a man;
And slew the souldans cozen deere,
Who had to name doughtye ColdrÀn. 40
Eskeldered a famous knight
To death likewise I did pursue:
And Elmayne king of Tyre alsoe,
Most terrible in fight to viewe.
I went into the souldans hoast, 45
Being thither on embassage sent,
And brought his head awaye with mee;
I having slaine him in his tent.
There was a dragon in that land
Most fiercelye mett me by the waye 50
As hee a lyon did pursue,
Which I myself did alsoe slay.
Then soon I past the seas from Greece,
And came to Pavye land aright:
Where I the duke of Pavye killed, 55
His hainous treason to requite.
To England then I came with speede,
To wedd faire Phelis lady bright:
For love of whome I travelled farr
To try my manhood and my might. 60
But when I had espoused her,
I stayd with her but fortye dayes,
Ere that I left this ladye faire,
And went from her beyond the seas.
All cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort, 65
My voyage from her I did take
Unto the blessed Holy-land,
For Jesus Christ my Saviours sake.
Where I erle Jonas did redeeme,
And all his sonnes which were fifteene, 70
Who with the cruell Sarazens
In prison for long time had beene.
I slew the gyant Amarant
In battel fiercelye hand to hand:
And doughty Barknard killed I, 75
A treacherous knight of Pavye land.
Then I to England came againe,
And here with Colbronde fell I fought:
An ugly gyant, which the Danes
Had for their champion hither brought. 80
I overcame him in the feild,
And slewe him soone right valliantlye;
Wherebye this land I did redeeme
From Danish tribute utterlye.
And afterwards I offered upp 85
The use of weapons solemnlye
At Winchester, whereas I fought,
In sight of manye farr and nye.
'But first,' neare Winsor, I did slaye
A bore of passing might and strength; 90
Whose like in England never was
For hugenesse both in bredth, and length.
Some of his bones in Warwicke yett,
Within the castle there doe lye:[259]
One of his sheeld-bones to this day 95
Hangs in the citye of Coventrye.
On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe
A monstrous wyld and cruell beast,
Calld the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath;
Which manye people had opprest. 100
Some of her bones in Warwicke yett
Still for a monument doe lye;[259]
And there exposed to lookers viewe
As wonderous strange, they may espye.
A dragon in Northumberland, 105
I alsoe did in fight destroye,
Which did bothe man and beast oppresse,
And all the countrye sore annoye.
At length to Warwicke I did come,
Like pilgrim poore and was not knowne; 110
And there I lived a hermitts life
A mile and more out of the towne.
Where with my hands I hewed a house
Out of a craggy rocke of stone;
And lived like a palmer poore 115
Within that cave myself alone:
And daylye came to begg my bread
Of Phelis att my castle gate;
Not knowne unto my loved wiffe
Who dailye mourned for her mate. 120
Till att the last I fell sore sicke,
Yea sicke soe sore that I must dye;
I sent to her a ring of golde,
By which shee knew me presentlye.
Then shee repairing to the cave 125
Before that I gave up the ghost;
Herself closd up my dying eyes:
My Phelis faire, whom I lovd most.
Thus dreadful death did me arrest,
To bring my corpes unto the grave; 130
And like a palmer dyed I,
Wherby I sought my soule to save.
My body that endured this toyle,
Though now it be consumed to mold;
My statue faire engraven in stone, 135
In Warwicke still you may behold.
II.
GUY AND AMARANT. The Editor found this Poem in his ancient folio manuscript among the old ballads; he was desirous therefore that it should still accompany them; and as it is not altogether devoid of merit, its insertion here will be pardoned. Although this piece seems not imperfect, there is reason to believe that it is only part of a much larger poem, which contained the whole history of sir Guy: for upon comparing it with the common story book 12mo. we find the latter to be nothing more than this poem reduced to prose: which is only effected by now and then altering the rhyme, and throwing out some few of the poetical ornaments. The disguise is so slight, that it is an easy matter to pick complete stanzas in any page of that book. The author of this poem has shown some invention. Though he took the subject from the old romance quoted before, he has adorned it afresh, and made the story intirely his own. This poem has been discovered to be a fragment of, "The famous historie of Guy earl of Warwicke, by Samuel Rowlands, London, printed by J. Bell, 1649, 4to." in xii cantos, beginning thus: "When dreadful Mars in armour every day."
Whether the edition in 1649, was the first, is not known, but the author Sam. Rowlands was one of the minor poets who lived in the reigns of Q. Elizabeth and James I. and perhaps later. His other poems are chiefly of the religious kind, which makes it probable that the hist. of Guy was one of his earliest performances.—There are extant of his (1.) "The betraying of Christ, Judas in dispaire, the seven words of our Saviour on the crosse, with other poems on the passion, &c. 1598, 4to. (Ames Typ. p. 428.)—(2.) A Theatre of delightful Recreation. Lond. printed for A. Johnson, 1605," 4to. (Penes editor.) This is a book of poems on subjects chiefly taken from the old Testament. (3.) "Memory of Christ's miracles, in verse. Lond. 1618, 4to." (4.) "Heaven's glory, earth's vanity, and hell's horror. Lond. 1638, 8vo." (These two in Bod. Cat.) In the present edition the following poem has been much improved from the printed copy.
[This poem is a very poor thing and looks very like a joke in some parts. In the Folio MS. Percy has written "By the elegance of language and easy flow of the versification this poem should be more modern than the rest." Mr. Furnivall adds to this expression of opinion the following note, "the first bombastic rhodomontade affair in the book. Certainly modern and certainly bad" (Folio MS. ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 136.) Collations from the MS. are added at the foot of the page.]
Guy journeyes towards that sanctifyed ground,[260]
Whereas the Jewes fayre citye sometime stood,
Wherin our Saviour's sacred head was crowned,
And where for sinfull man he shed his blood:
To see the sepulcher was his intent, 5
The tombe that Joseph unto Jesus lent.
With tedious miles he tyred his wearye feet,
And passed desart places full of danger,
At last with a most woefull wight[261] did meet,
A man that unto sorrow was noe stranger: 10
For he had fifteen sonnes, made captives all
To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall.
A gyant called Amarant detaind them,
Whom noe man durst encounter for his strength:
Who in a castle, which he held, had chaind them: 15
Guy questions, where? and understands at length
The place not farr.—Lend me thy sword, quoth hee,
Ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free.
With that he goes, and lays upon the dore,
Like one that sayes, I must, and will come in:[262] 20
The gyant never was soe rowz'd before;[263]
For noe such knocking at his gate had bin:
Soe takes his keyes, and clubb, and cometh out
Staring with ireful countenance about.
Sirra, quoth hee, what busines hast thou heere?[264] 25
Art come to feast the crowes about my walls?[265]
Didst never heare, noe ransome can him cleere,[266]
That in the compasse of my furye falls:
For making me to take a porters paines,
With this same clubb I will dash out thy braines. 30
Gyant, quoth Guy, y'are quarrelsome I see,[267]
Choller and you seem very neere of kin:[268]
Most dangerous at the clubb belike you bee;[269]
I have bin better armed, though nowe goe thin;
But shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spight, 35
Keene is my weapon, and shall doe me right.[270]
Soe draws his sword, salutes him with the same[271]
About the head, the shoulders, and the side:[272]
Whilst his erected clubb doth death proclaime,
Standinge with huge Colossus' spacious stride, 40
Putting such vigour to his knotty beame,
That like a furnace he did smoke extreame.
But on the ground he spent his strokes in vaine,
For Guy was nimble to avoyde them still,
And ever ere he heav'd his clubb againe,[273] 45
Did brush his plated coat against his will:[274]
Att such advantage Guy wold never fayle,
To bang him soundlye in his coate of mayle.[275]
Att last through thirst the gyant feeble grewe,[276]
And sayd to Guy, As thou'rt of humane race, 50
Shew itt in this, give natures wants their dewe,[277]
Let me but goe, and drinke in yonder place:
Thou canst not yeeld to "me" a smaller thing,
Than to graunt life, thats given by the spring.[278]
I graunt thee leave, quoth Guye, goe drink thy last,[279] 55
Go pledge the dragon, and the salvage bore[280]:[281]
Succeed the tragedyes that they have past,
But never thinke to taste cold water more:[282]
Drinke deepe to Death and unto him carouse:[283]
Bid him receive thee in his earthen house. 60
Soe to the spring he goes, and slakes his thirst;
Takeing the water in extremely like
Some wracked shipp that on a rocke is burst,[284]
Whose forced hulke against the stones does stryke;[285]
Scooping it in soe fast with both his hands, 65
That Guy admiring to behold it stands.[286]
Come on, quoth Guy, let us to worke againe,[287]
Thou stayest about thy liquor overlong;
The fish, which in the river doe remaine,
Will want thereby; thy drinking doth them wrong:
But I will see their satisfaction made, 71
With gyants blood they must, and shall be payd.
Villaine, quoth Amarant, Ile crush thee streight;
Thy life shall pay thy daring toungs offence:
This clubb, which is about some hundred weight, 75
Is deathes commission to dispatch thee hence:[288]
Dresse thee for ravens dyett I must needes;
And breake thy bones, as they were made of reedes.
Incensed much by these bold pagan bostes,[289]
Which worthye Guy cold ill endure to heare, 80
He hewes upon those bigg supporting postes,
Which like two pillars did his body beare:
Amarant for those wounds in choller growes
And desperatelye att Guy his clubb he throwes:
Which did directly on his body light, 85
Soe violent, and weighty there-withall,[290]
That downe to ground on sudden came the knight;
And, ere he cold recover from the fall,[291]
The gyant gott his clubb againe in fist,[292]
And aimd a stroke that wonderfullye mist.[293] 90
Traytor, quoth Guy, thy falshood Ile repay,
This coward act to intercept my bloode.
Sayes Amarant, Ile murther any way,
With enemyes all vantages are good:
O could I poyson in thy nostrills blowe, 95
Besure of it I wold dispatch thee soe.[294]
Its well, said Guy, thy honest thoughts appeare,
Within that beastlye bulke where devills dwell;
Which are thy tenants while thou livest heare,
But will be landlords when thou comest in hell: 100
Vile miscreant, prepare thee for their den,
Inhumane monster, hatefull unto men.[295]
But breathe thy selfe a time, while I goe drinke,
For flameing Phoebus with his fyerye eye
Torments me soe with burning heat, I thinke 105
My thirst wold serve to drinke an ocean drye:
Forbear a litle, as I delt with thee.
Quoth Amarant, 'Thou hast noe foole of mee.
Noe, sillye wretch, my father taught more witt,
How I shold use such enemyes as thou; 110
By all my gods I doe rejoice at itt,
To understand that thirst constraines thee now;
For all the treasure, that the world containes,
One drop of water shall not coole thy vaines.
Releeve my foe! why, 'twere a madmans part: 115
Refresh an adversarye to my wrong!
If thou imagine this, a child thou art:
Noe, fellow, I have known the world too long
To be soe simple: now I know thy want,
A minutes space of breathing I'll not grant.[296] 120
And with these words heaving aloft his clubb
Into the ayre, he swings the same about:
Then shakes his lockes, and doth his temples rubb,
And, like the Cyclops, in his pride doth strout:[297]
Sirra, sayes hee, I have you at a lift, 125
Now you are come unto your latest shift.
Perish forever: with this stroke I send thee
A medicine, that will doe thy thirst much good;[298]
Take noe more care for drinke before I end thee,
And then wee'll have carouses of thy blood: 130
Here's at thee with a butchers downright blow,
To please my furye with thine overthrow.
Infernall, false, obdurate feend, said Guy,[299]
That seemst a lumpe of crueltye from hell;[300]
Ungratefull monster, since thou dost deny[301] 135
The thing to mee wherin I used thee well:
With more revenge, than ere my sword did make,
On thy accursed head revenge Ile take.
Thy gyants longitude shall shorter shrinke,
Except thy sun-scorcht skin be weapon proof:[302] 140
Farewell my thirst; I doe disdaine to drinke,
Streames keepe your waters to your owne behoof;[303]
Or let wild beasts be welcome thereunto;
With those pearle drops I will not have to do.
Here, tyrant, take a taste of my good-will,[304] 145
For thus I doe begin my bloodye bout:
You cannot chuse but like the greeting ill;
It is not that same clubb will beare you out;
And take this payment on thy shaggye crowne.—
A blowe that brought him with a vengeance downe. 150
Then Guy sett foot upon the monsters brest,
And from his shoulders did his head divide;
Which with a yawninge mouth did gape, unblest;
Noe dragons jawes were ever scene soe wide
To open and to shut, till life was spent. 155
Then Guy tooke keyes and to the castle went.
Where manye woefull captives he did find,
Which had beene tyred with extremityes;
Whom he in freindly manner did unbind,
And reasoned with them of their miseryes:[305] 160
Eche told a tale with teares, and sighes, and cryes,
All weeping to him with complaining eyes.
There tender ladyes in darke dungeons lay,[306]
That were surprised in the desart wood,
And had noe other dyett everye day, 165
But flesh of humane creatures for their food:[307]
Some with their lovers bodyes had beene fed,
And in their wombes their husbands buryed.
Now he bethinkes him of his being there, 169
To enlarge the wronged brethren from their woes;
And, as he searcheth, doth great clamours heare,
By which sad sound's direction on he goes,
Untill he findes a darksome obscure gate,
Arm'd strongly ouer all with iron plate.
That he unlockes, and enters, where appeares, 175
The strangest object that he ever saw;
Men that with famishment of many yeares,
Were like deathes picture, which the painters draw;[308]
Divers of them were hanged by eche thombe;
Others head-downward: by the middle some. 180
With diligence he takes them from the walle,[309]
With lybertye their thraldome to acquaint:
Then the perplexed knight their father calls,[310]
And sayes, Receive thy sonnes though poore and faint:
I promisd you their lives, accept of that; 185
But did not warrant you they shold be fat.[311]
The castle I doe give thee, heere's the keyes,
Where tyranye for many yeeres did dwell:
Procure the gentle tender ladyes ease,
For pittyes sake, use wronged women well:[312] 190
Men easilye revenge the wrongs men do:[313]
But poore weake women have not strength thereto.[314]
The good old man, even overjoyed with this,
Fell on the ground, and wold have kist Guys feete:
Father, quoth he, refraine soe base a kiss, 195
For age to honor youth I hold unmeete:
Ambitious pryde hath hurt mee all it can,
I goe to mortifie a sinfull man.
[260] [Ver. 1. journeyed ore the.]
III.
THE AULD GOOD-MAN. A Scottish Song. I have not been able to meet with a more ancient copy of this humourous old song, than that printed in the Tea-Table miscellany, &c. which seems to have admitted some corruptions.
[This song is printed in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany as old, and it is also given in the Orpheus Caledonius, 1725. "Auld goodman" means a first husband.]
Late in an evening forth I went
A little before the sun gade down,
And there I chanc't, by accident,
To light on a battle new begun:
A man and his wife wer fawn[315] in a strife, 5
I canna weel tell ye how it began;
But aye she wail'd her wretched life,
Cryeng, Evir alake, mine auld goodman!
He. Thy auld goodman, that thou tells of,
The country kens where he was born, 10
Was but a silly poor vagabond,
And ilka ane leugh him to scorn:
For he did spend and make an end
Of gear 'his fathers nevir' wan;
He gart the poor stand frae the door; 15
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.
She. My heart, alake! is liken to break,
Whan I think on my winsome John,
His blinkan ee, and gait sae free,
Was naithing like thee, thou dosend[316] drone; 20
Wi' his rosie face, and flaxen hair,
And skin as white as ony swan,
He was large and tall, and comely withall;
Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.
He. Why dost thou plein?[317] I thee maintein; 25
For meal and mawt thou disna want:
But thy wild bees I canna please,
Now whan our gear gins to grow scant:
Of houshold stuff thou hast enough;
Thou wants for neither pot nor pan; 30
Of sicklike ware he left thee bare;
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.
She. Yes I may tell, and fret my sell,
To think on those blyth days I had,
Whan I and he, together ley 35
In armes into a well-made bed:
But now I sigh and may be sad,
Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan,
Thou falds thy feet and fa's asleep;
Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman. 40
Then coming was the night sae dark,
And gane was a' the light of day?
The carle was fear'd to miss his mark,
And therefore wad nae longer stay:
Then up he gat, and ran his way, 45
I trowe, the wife the day she wan;
And aye the owreword[318] of the fray
Was, Evir alake! mine auld goodman.
IV.
FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM. This seems to be the old song quoted in Fletcher's Knight of the burning pestle, acts 2d and 3d; altho' the six lines there preserved are somewhat different from those in the ballad, as it stands at present. The reader will not wonder at this, when he is informed that this is only given from a modern printed copy picked up on a stall. It's full title is Fair Margaret's Misfortunes; or Sweet William's frightful dreams on his wedding night, with the sudden death and burial of those noble lovers.— The lines preserved in the play are this distich, "You are no love for me, Margaret,
I am no love for you."
And the following stanza, "When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,
In came Margarets grimly ghost
And stood at Williams feet."
These lines have acquired an importance by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any language. See the song intitled Margaret's Ghost, at the end of this volume. Since the first edition some improvements have been inserted, which were communicated by a lady of the first distinction, as she had heard this song repeated in her infancy.
[The ballads on the two lovers Margaret and William are numerous, culminating as they do in Mallet's William and Margaret. See Sweet William's Ghost (No. 6 in this book) and Mallet's ballad (No. 16 of book iii). The present ballad is also in the Douce Collection and in that of the late Mr. George Daniel. Jamieson prints (Popular Ballads and Songs, 1806, vol. i. p. 22) a ballad entitled Sweet Willie and Fair Annie, which may be divided into two parts, the first resembling Lord Thomas and Fair Elinor, and the second, Fair Annie's Ghost, is still more like the following ballad. Mr. Chappell remarks, "Another point deserving notice in the old ballad is that one part of it has furnished the principal subject of the modern burlesque ballad Lord Lovel, and another that of T. Hood's song, Mary's Ghost."]
As it fell out on a long summer's day
Two lovers they sat on a hill;
They sat together that long summer's day,
And could not talk their fill.
I see no harm by you, MargarÈt, 5
And you see none by mee;
Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock
A rich wedding you shall see.
Fair Margaret sat in her bower-windÒw,
Combing her yellow hair; 10
There she spyed sweet William and his bride,
As they were a riding near.
Then down she layd her ivory combe,
And braided her hair in twain:
She went alive out of her bower, 15
But ne'er came alive in't again.
When day was gone, and night was come,
And all men fast asleep,
Then came the spirit of fair Marg'ret,
And stood at Williams feet. 20
Are you awake, sweet William? shee said;
Or, sweet William, are you asleep?
God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,
And me of my winding-sheet.
When day was come, and night was gone, 25
And all men wak'd from sleep,
Sweet William to his lady sayd,
My dear, I have cause to weep.
I dreamt a dream, my dear ladyÈ,
Such dreames are never good: 30
I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,'[319]
And my bride-bed full of blood.
Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured Sir,
They never do prove good;
To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,'[319] 35
And thy bride-bed full of blood.
He called up his merry men all,
By one, by two, and by three;
Saying, I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower,
By the leave of my ladiÈ. 40
And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower,
He knocked at the ring;
And who so ready as her seven brethrÈn
To let sweet William in.
Then he turned up the covering-sheet, 45
Pray let me see the dead;
Methinks she looks all pale and wan,
She hath lost her cherry red.
I'll do more for thee, MargarÈt,
Than any of thy kin; 50
For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
Though a smile I cannot win.
With that bespake the seven brethrÈn,
Making most piteous mone:
You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, 55
And let our sister alone.
If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
I do but what is right;
I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse
By day, nor yet by night. 60
Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,
Deal on your cake and your wine[320]:
For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.
Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, 65
Sweet William dyed the morrow:
Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love,
Sweet William dyed for sorrow.
Margaret was buryed in the lower chancÈl,
And William in the higher: 70
Out of her brest there sprang a rose,
And out of his a briar.
They grew till they grew unto the church-top,
And then they could grow no higher;
And there they tyed in a true lovers knot, 75
Which made all the people admire.
Then came the clerk of the parÌsh,
As you the truth shall hear,
And by misfortune cut them down,
Or they had now been there. 80
V.
BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY. Given, with some corrections, from an old black letter copy, intitled, Barbara Allen's cruelty, or the young man's tragedy.
[It is not clear why Percy separated this English version of Barbara Allen from the Scottish version entitled Sir John Grehme and Barbara Allan (No. 7). Goldsmith in his third Essay says, "the music of the finest singer is dissonance to what I felt when our dairy maid sung me into tears with Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen." It has been suggested that for "Scarlet towne" in the first verse should be read Carlisle town, but as some printed copies have Reading town we may suppose that a pun is intended.]
In Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merrye month of may, 5
When greene buds they were swellin,
Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
To the town, where shee was dwellin; 10
You must come to my master deare,
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him, 15
O lovelye Barbara Allen.
Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,
Yet little better shall he bee,
For bonny Barbara Allen. 20
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Young man, I think y'are dying.
He turnd his face unto her strait, 25
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my deth-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin: 30
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turnd his face unto the wall,
As deadlye pangs he fell in:
Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, 35
Adieu to Barbara Allen.
As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen. 40
She turnd her bodye round about,
And spied the corps a coming:
Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd
That I may look upon him.
With scornful eye she looked downe, 45
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe, 50
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to-morrowe.
Hard harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:
O that I had beene more kind to him, 55
When he was alive and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him. 60
Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.
VI.
SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST. A SCOTTISH BALLAD. From Allan Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany. The concluding stanza of this piece seems modern.
[In the previous ballad (No. 4) and in Mallet's William and Margaret it is Margaret who appears to William, but in the present one and in some other versions William is made to die first. In Clerk Saunders (Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border) Scott has joined two distinct stories, and the second part, in which the spirit of Clerk Saunders appears to May Margaret, closely resembles the present ballad. Besides these there are two other versions. Kinloch's, entitled Sweet William and May Margaret, and Motherwell's William and Marjorie. Dr. Rimbault points out that the chief incidents in BÜrger's Leonora resemble those in this ballad. The last two stanzas are probably Ramsay's own.]
There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous grone,
And ay he tirled at the pin;[321]
But answer made she none.
Is this my father Philip? 5
Or is't my brother John?
Or is't my true love Willie,
From Scotland new come home?
'Tis not thy father Philip;
Nor yet thy brother John: 10
But tis thy true love Willie
From Scotland new come home,
O sweet Margret! O dear Margret!
I pray thee speak to mee:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret, 15
As I gave it to thee.
Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,
'Of me shalt nevir win,'
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin. 20
If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy lipp,
Thy days will not be lang.
O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, 25
I pray thee speak to mee:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.
Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,
'Of me shalt nevir win,' 30
Till thou take me to yon kirk yard,
And wed me with a ring.
My bones are buried in a kirk yard
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my sprite, Margret, 35
That's speaking now to thee.
She stretched out her lilly-white hand,
As for to do her best:
Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,
God send your soul good rest. 40
Now she has kilted her robes of green,
A piece below her knee:
And a' the live-lang winter night
The dead corps followed shee.
Is there any room at your head, Willie? 45
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willie,
Wherein that I may creep?
There's nae room at my head, Margret,
There's nae room at my feet, 50
There's no room at my side, Margret,
My coffin is made so meet.
Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret, 55
That 'I' were gane away.
[No more the ghost to Margret said,
But, with a grievous grone,
Evanish'd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone. 60
O stay, my only true love, stay,
The constant Margret cried:
Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een,
Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.]
VII.
SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN. A SCOTTISH BALLAD. Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.
[Pepys, in Jan. 1665-1666, heard Mrs. Knipp, the actress, sing "her little Scotch song of Barbery Allen" at Lord Brouncker's, and he was "in perfect pleasure to hear her sing" it. It was first printed in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany (ii. 171). "I remember," says Mr. C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, "that the peasantry of Annandale sang many more verses of this ballad than have appeared in print, but they were of no merit, containing numerous magnificent offers from the lover to his mistress, and amongst others some ships in sight, which may strengthen the belief that this song was composed near the shores of the Solway."—Addit. Illustrations to Stenhouse.]
It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the greene leaves wer a fallan;
That Sir John Grehme o' the west countrye,
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.
He sent his man down throw the towne, 5
To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
O haste and cum to my maister deare,
Gin ye bin Barbara Allan.
O hooly, hooly raise she up,
To the plaice wher he was lyan; 10
And whan she drew the curtain by,
Young man, I think ye're dyan.[322]
O its I'm sick, and very very sick,
And its a' for Barbara Allan.
O the better for me ye'se never be, 15
Though your harts blude wer spillan.
Remember ye nat in the tavern, sir,
Whan ye the cups wer fillan;
How ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan? 20
He turn'd his face unto the wa'
And death was with him dealan;
Adiew! adiew! my dear friends a',
Be kind to Barbara Allan.
Then hooly, hooly raise she up, 25
And hooly, hooly left him;
And sighan said, she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gane a mile but twa,
Whan she heard the deid-bell knellan; 30
And everye jow the deid-bell geid,
Cried, Wae to Barbara Allan!
O mither, mither, mak my bed,
O make it saft and narrow:
Since my love died for me to-day, 35
Ise die for him to morrowe.
?
VIII.
THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON. From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. The full title is, True love requited: Or, the Bailiff's daughter of Islington. Islington in Norfolk is probably the place here meant.
[Copies of this charming old ballad are found in all the large collections, and two tunes are associated with it. Percy's suggestion that Islington in Norfolk is referred to is not a probable one, and there seems to be no reason for depriving the better known Islington of the south of the honour of having given birth to the bailiff's daughter. Islington at the time when this ballad was written was a country village quite unconnected with London, and a person who represented "a squier minstrel of Middlesex" made a speech before Queen Elizabeth at Kenilworth in 1575, in which he declared "how the worshipful village of Islington [was] well knooen too bee one of the most auncient and best tounz in England, next to London."]
A Pastoral Dialogue. From the small black-letter collection, intitled, The Golden Garland of princely delights; collated with two other copies, and corrected by conjecture.
[Dr. Rimbault gives the melody of this pretty little pastoral on the favourite subject of wearing the willow from a MS. dated 1639 in the Advocate's Library, Edinburgh. It is also to be found in the celebrated Skene MS. in the same library, and again in all the editions of Forbes's Cantus.]
Willy. How now, shepherde, what meanes that?
Why that willowe in thy hat?
Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe
Turn'd to branches of greene willowe?
Cuddy. They are chang'd, and so am I; 5
Sorrowes live, but pleasures die:
Phillis hath forsaken mee,
Which makes me weare the willowe-tree.
Willy. Phillis! shee that lov'd thee long?
Is shee the lass hath done thee wrong? 10
Shee that lov'd thee long and best,
Is her love turn'd to a jest?
Cuddy. Shee that long true love profest,
She hath robb'd my heart of rest:
For she a new love loves, not mee; 15
Which makes me wear the willowe-tree.
Willy. Come then, shepherde, let us joine,
Since thy happ is like to mine:
For the maid I thought most true,
Mee hath also bid adieu. 20
Cuddy. Thy hard happ doth mine appease,
Companye doth sorrowe ease:
Yet, Phillis, still I pine for thee,
And still must weare the willowe-tree.
Willy. Shepherde, be advis'd by mee, 25
Cast off grief and willowe-tree:
For thy grief brings her content,
She is pleas'd if thou lament.
Cuddy. Herdsman, I'll be rul'd by thee,
There lyes grief and willowe-tree: 30
Henceforth I will do as they,
And love a new love every day.
X.
THE LADY'S FALL Is given (with corrections) from the Editor's ancient folio MS.[323] collated with two printed copies in black-letter; one in the British Museum, the other in the Pepys Collection. Its old title is, A lamentable ballad of the Lady's fall. To the tune of, In Pescod time, &c.—The ballad here referred to is preserved in the Muses Library, 8vo. p. 281. It is an allegory or vision, intitled, The Shepherd's Slumber, and opens with some pretty rural images, viz. "In pescod time when hound to horn
Gives eare till buck be kil'd,
And little lads with pipes of corne
Sate keeping beasts a-field."
"I went to gather strawberries
By woods and groves full fair, &c."
[Mr. Hales thinks it possible that this ballad was written by the same author as The Children in the Wood—"the same facility of language and of rhyme, the same power of pathos, the same extreme simplicity characterise both ballads." Mr. Chappell says that Chevy Chace was sometimes sung to the tune of In Pescod time, as were the Bride's burial (No. 12), and Lady Isabella's Tragedy (No. 14). The various readings from the original MS. are noted at the foot of the page.]
Marke well my heavy dolefull tale,
You loyall lovers all,
And heedfully beare in your brest,
A gallant ladyes fall.
Long was she wooed, ere shee was wonne, 5
To lead a wedded life,
But folly wrought her overthrowe
Before she was a wife.
Too soone, alas! shee gave consent
And yeelded to his will, 10
Though he protested to be true,
And faithfull to her still.
Shee felt her body altered quite,
Her bright hue waxed pale,
Her lovelye cheeks chang'd color white,[324] 15
Her strength began to fayle.
Soe that with many a sorrowful sigh,[325]
This beauteous ladye milde,
With greeved hart, perceived herselfe
To have conceived with childe.[326] 20
Shee kept it from her parents sight
As close as close might bee,
And soe put on her silken gowne
None might her swelling see.[327]
Unto her lover secretly 25
Her greefe shee did bewray,
And walking with him hand in hand,
These words to him did say;
Behold, quoth shee, a maids distresse[328]
By love brought to thy bowe;[329] 30
Behold I goe with childe by thee,[330]
Tho none thereof doth knowe.
The litle babe springs in my wombe[331]
To heare its fathers voyce,
Lett it not be a bastard called,[332] 35
Sith I made thee my choyce:
[Come, come, my love, perform thy vowe[333]
And wed me out of hand;[333]
O leave me not in this extreme[333]
Of griefe, alas! to stand.][333] 40
Think on thy former promises,
Thy oathes and vowes eche one;[334]
Remember with what bitter teares
To mee thou madest thy moane.
Convay me to some secrett place, 45
And marry me with speede;
Or with thy rapyer end my life,
Ere further shame proceede.[335]
Alacke! my beauteous love, quoth hee,[336]
My joye, and only dear;[337] 50
Which way can I convay thee hence,[338]
When dangers are so near?[339]
Thy friends are all of hye degree,[340]
And I of meane estate;
Full hard it is to gett thee forthe[341] 55
Out of thy fathers gate.[342]
Dread not thy life to save my fame,[343]
For if thou taken bee,[344]
My selfe will step betweene the swords,[345]
And take the harme on mee:[346] 60
Soe shall I scape dishonor quite;[347]
And if I should be slaine[348]
What could they say, but that true love
Had wrought a ladyes bane.[349]
But feare not any further harme; 65
My selfe will soe devise,
That I will ryde away with thee[350]
Unknowen of mortall eyes:
Disguised like some pretty page
Ile meete thee in the darke, 70
And all alone Ile come to thee
Hard by my fathers parke.
And there, quoth hee, Ile meete my deare
If God soe lend me life,
On this day month without all fayle 75
I will make thee my wife.[351]
Then with a sweet and loving kisse,[352]
They parted presentlye,
And att their partinge brinish teares
Stoode in eche others eye, 80
Att length the wished day was come,[353]
On which this beauteous mayd,
With longing eyes, and strange attire,
For her true lover stayd.
When any person shee espyed[354] 85
Come ryding ore the plaine,[355]
She hop'd it was her owne true love:[356]
But all her hopes were vaine.
Then did shee weepe and sore bewayle
Her most unhappy fate; 90
Then did shee speake these woefull words,
As succourless she sate;[357]
O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,[358]
Disloyall in thy love,
Hast thou forgott thy promise past, 95
And wilt thou perjured prove?
And hast thou now forsaken mee
In this my great distresse,
To end my dayes in open shame,[359]
Which thou mightst well redresse?[360] 100
Woe worth the time I eer believ'd[361]
That flattering tongue of thine:
Wold God that I had never seene
The teares of thy false eyne.
And thus with many a sorrowful sigh,[362] 105
Homewards shee went againe;[363]
Noe rest came in her waterye eyes,
Shee felt such privye paine.[364]
In travail strong shee fell that night,
With many a bitter throwe;[365] 110
What woefull paines shee then did feel,[366]
Doth eche good woman knowe.
Shee called up her waiting mayd,[367]
That lay at her bedds feete,[368]
Who musing at her mistress woe,[369] 115
Began full fast to weepe.
Weepe not, said shee, but shutt the dores,[370]
And windowes round about,[371]
Let none bewray my wretched state,
But keepe all persons out. 120
O mistress, call your mother deare;
Of women you have neede,
And of some skilfull midwifes helpe,[372]
That better may you speed.[373]
Call not my mother for thy life, 125
Nor fetch no woman here;
The midwives helpe comes all too late,
My death I doe not feare.
With that the babe sprang from her wombe
No creature being nye,[374] 130
And with one sighe, which brake her hart,
This gentle dame did dye.[375]
The lovely litle infant younge,[376]
[The mother being dead,][377]
Resigned its new received breath, 135
To him that had it made.
Next morning came her own true love,
Affrighted at the newes,[378]
And he for sorrow slew himselfe,
Whom eche one did accuse. 140
The mother with her new borne babe,
Were laide both in one grave:
Their parents overworne with woe,
No joy thenceforth cold have.[379]
Take heed, you dayntye damsells all, 145
Of flattering words beware,
And to the honour of your name
Have an especial care.[380]
[Too true, alas! this story is,[381]
As many one can tell:[381] 150
By others harmes learne to be wise,[381]
And you shall do full well.][381]
XI.
WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY. A Scottish Song. This is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from a modern copy. Some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed: "Whan cockle shells turn siller bells,
And muscles grow on every tree,
When frost and snaw sall warm us aw',
Than sall my love prove true to me."
See the Orpheus Caledonius, &c. Arthur's-seat mentioned in ver. 17, is a hill near Edinborough; near the bottom of which is St. Anthony's well.
[There has been considerable difference of opinion among ballad collectors relative to this beautiful song. Some suppose it to be a portion of the ballad entitled Lord Jamie Douglas, which relates to James Douglas, second Marquis of Douglas, who married Lady Barbara Erskine, eldest daughter of John, ninth Earl of Mar, on the seventh of September, 1670, and afterwards repudiated her on account of a false accusation of adultery made against her by Lowrie, laird of Blackwood. Prof. Aytoun, however, believes that certain verses of Waly Waly have wrongly been mixed up with Lord Jamie Douglas. There is very little doubt that the song was in existence long before 1670, and it also appears to be the lamentation of a forsaken girl rather than of a wife. Mr. Stenhouse and others considered it to belong to the age of Queen Mary and to refer to some affair at Court. Aytoun writes, "there is also evidence that it was composed before 1566, for there is extant a MS. of that year in which some of the lines are transcribed," but Mr. Maidment gives the following opinion—"that the ballad is of ancient date is undoubted, but we are not quite prepared to admit that it goes back as far as 1566, the date of the manuscript transcribed by Thomas Wode from an ancient church music book compiled by Dean John Angus, Andrew Blackhall, and others, in which it said the first [second] stanza is thus parodied:— Hey trollie lollie, love is jollie,
A quhile, quhil itt is new
Quhen it is old, it grows full cold,
Wae worth the love untrue.
Never having had access to the MS., we may be permitted to remark that the phraseology of the burlesque is not exactly that of the reign of Queen Mary" (Scottish Ballads and Songs, 1868, vol. ii. p. 49.) Allan Ramsay was the first to publish the song, and he marked it as ancient. "When cockle shells turn silver bells,
When wine drieps red frae ilka tree,
When frost and snaw will warm us a'
Then I'll cum down and dine wi' thee,"
is the fourth stanza of Jamie Douglas, printed by John Finlay, in his Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads (vol. ii.)]
O waly[382] waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love wer wont to gae.
I leant my back unto an aik, 5
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lichtly me.
O waly, waly, gin love be bonny,
A little time while it is new; 10
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherfore shuld I busk my head?
Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook, 15
And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed,
The sheets shall neir be fyl'd[383] by me:
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me. 20
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum?
For of my life I am wearÌe.
Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, 25
Nor blawing snaws inclemencÌe;
'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,
But my loves heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgowe town,
We were a comely sight to see, 30
My love was cled in black velvet,
And I my-sell in cramasie.[384]
But had I wist, before I kisst,
That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 35
And pinnd it with a siller pin.
And, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurses knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane!
For a maid again Ise never be. 40
[382] [interjection of lamentation.]
XII.
THE BRIDE'S BURIAL. From two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the Pepys Collection; the other in the British Museum. To the tune of The Lady's Fall.
Come mourne, come mourne with mee,
You loyall lovers all;
Lament my loss in weeds of woe,
Whom griping grief doth thrall.
Like to the drooping vine, 5
Cut by the gardener's knife,
Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine,
Doth bleed for my sweet wife.
By death, that grislye ghost,
My turtle dove is slaine, 10
And I am left, unhappy man,
To spend my dayes in paine.
Her beauty late so bright,
Like roses in their prime,
Is wasted like the mountain snowe, 15
Before warme Phebus' shine.
Her faire red colour'd cheeks
Now pale and wan; her eyes,
That late did shine like crystal stars;
Alas, their light it dies: 20
Her prettye lilly hands,
With fingers long and small,
In colour like the earthly claye,
Yea, cold and stiff withall.
When as the morning star 25
Her golden gates had spred,
And that the glittering sun arose
Forth from fair Thetis' bed;
Then did my love awake,
Most like a lilly-flower, 30
And as the lovely queene of heaven,
So shone shee in her bower.
Attired was shee then,
Like Flora in her pride,
Like one of bright Diana's nymphs, 35
So look'd my loving bride.
And as fair Helen's face,
Did Grecian dames besmirche,
So did my dear exceed in sight,
All virgins in the church. 40
When we had knitt the knott
Of holy wedlock-band,
Like alabaster joyn'd to jett,
So stood we hand in hand;
Then lo! a chilling cold 45
Strucke every vital part,
And griping grief, like pangs of death,
Seiz'd on my true love's heart.
Down in a swoon she fell,
As cold as any stone; 50
Like Venus picture lacking life,
So was my love brought home.
At length her rosye red,
Throughout her comely face,
As Phoebus beames with watry cloudes 55
Was cover'd for a space.
When with a grievous groane,
And voice both hoarse and drye,
Farewell, quoth she, my loving friend,
For I this daye must dye; 60
The messenger of God,
With golden trumpe I see,
With manye other angels more,
Which sound and call for mee.
Instead of musicke sweet, 65
Go toll my passing-bell;
And with sweet flowers strow my grave,
That in my chamber smell.
Strip off my bride's arraye,
My cork shoes from my feet; 70
And, gentle mother, be not coye
To bring my winding-sheet.
My wedding dinner drest,
Bestowe upon the poor,
And on the hungry, needy, maimde, 75
Now craving at the door.
Instead of virgins yong,
My bride-bed for to see,
Go cause some cunning carpenter,
To make a chest for mee. 80
My bride laces of silk
Bestowd, for maidens meet,
May fitly serve, when I am dead,
To tye my hands and feet.
And thou, my lover true, 85
My husband and my friend,
Let me intreat thee here to staye,
Until my life doth end.
Now leave to talk of love,
And humblye on your knee, 90
Direct your prayers unto God:
But mourn no more for mee.
In love as we have livde,
In love let us depart;
And I, in token of my love, 95
Do kiss thee with my heart.
O staunch those bootless teares,
Thy weeping tis in vaine;
I am not lost, for wee in heaven
Shall one daye meet againe. 100
With that shee turn'd aside,
As one dispos'd to sleep,
And like a lamb departed life;
Whose friends did sorely weep.
Her true love seeing this, 105
Did fetch a grievous groane,
As tho' his heart would burst in twaine,
And thus he made his moane.
O darke and dismal daye,
A daye of grief and care, 110
That hath bereft the sun so bright,
Whose beams refresht the air.
Now woe unto the world,
And all that therein dwell,
O that I were with thee in heaven, 115
For here I live in hell.
And now this lover lives
A discontented life,
Whose bride was brought unto the grave
A maiden and a wife. 120
A garland fresh and faire
Of lillies there was made,
In sign of her virginitye,
And on her coffin laid.[385]
Six maidens, all in white, 125
Did beare her to the ground:
The bells did ring in solemn sort,
And made a dolefull sound.
In earth they laid her then,
For hungry wormes a preye; 130
So shall the fairest face alive
At length be brought to claye.
XIII.
DULCINA. Given from two ancient copies, one in black-print, in the Pepys Collection: the other in the Editor's folio MS. Each of these contained a stanza not found in the other. What seemed the best readings were selected from both. This song is quoted as very popular in Walton's Compleat Angler, chap. ii. It is more ancient than the ballad of Robin Good-Fellow printed below, which yet is supposed to have been written by Ben. Jonson.
[The Milk-woman in Walton's Angler says, "What song was it, I pray you? Was it Come shepherds deck your heads, or As at noon Dulcina rested?" In the Registers of the Stationers' Company, under date of May 22, 1615, there is an entry transferring the right of publication from one printer to another of A Ballett of Dulcina to the tune of Forgoe me nowe, come to me sone. Mr. Chappell also tells us that Dulcina was one of the tunes to the "Psalms and Songs of Sion, turned into the language and set to the tunes of a strange land," 1642. The editors of the Folio MS., more scrupulous than the bishop, have not printed this song in its proper place, but have turned it into the Supplement of Loose and Humourous Songs (p. 32). The third stanza of the MS. beginning "Words whose hopes might have enjoyned"
is not printed in the present copy. The third stanza here is the fourth of the MS., and the fourth stanza is not in the MS. at all. Cayley and Ellis attribute this song to Raleigh, but without sufficient authority.]
As at noone Dulcina rested
In her sweete and shady bower;
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lapp to sleepe an hour.
But from her looke 5
A wounde he tooke
Soe deepe, that for a further boone
The nymph he prayes.
Wherto shee sayes,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 10
But in vayne shee did conjure him
To depart her presence soe;
Having a thousand tongues to allure him,
And but one to bid him goe:
Where lipps invite, 15
And eyes delight,
And cheekes, as fresh as rose in june,
Persuade delay;
What boots, she say,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone? 20
He demands what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now:
She sayes, night gives love that leysure,
Which the day can not allow.
He sayes, the sight 25
'Improves delight.
'Which she denies: Nights mirkie noone
In Venus' playes
Makes bold, shee sayes;
Forgoe me now, come to mee soone. 30
But what promise or profession
From his hands could purchase scope?
Who would sell the sweet possession
Of suche beautye for a hope?
Or for the sight 35
Of lingering night
Foregoe the present joyes of noone?
Though ne'er soe faire
Her speeches were,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 40
How, at last, agreed these lovers?
Shee was fayre, and he was young:
The tongue may tell what th'eye discovers;
Joyes unseene are never sung.
Did shee consent, 45
Or he relent;
Accepts he night, or grants shee noone;
Left he her a mayd,
Or not; she sayd
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 50
XIV.
THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY. This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263, folio. It is there intitled, "The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty: being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble duke, &c. To the tune of, The Lady's Fall." To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation.
There was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.
And while he did in chase remaine, 5
To see both sport and playe;
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.
This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright, 10
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.
Fair Isabella was she call'd,
A creature faire was shee;
She was her father's only joye; 15
As you shall after see.
Therefore her cruel step-mothÈr
Did envye her so much;
That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such. 20
She bargain'd with the master-cook,
To take her life awaye:
And taking of her daughters book,
She thus to her did saye.
Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25
Go hasten presentlie;
And tell unto the master-cook
These wordes that I tell thee.
And bid him dresse to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe, 30
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe.
This ladye fearing of no harme,
Obey'd her mothers will;
And presentlye she hasted home, 35
Her pleasure to fulfill.
She streight into the kitchen went,
Her message for to tell;
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell. 40
Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,
Do that which I thee tell:
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you do knowe full well.
Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45
He on the ladye layd;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:
Thou art the doe, that I must dresse;
See here, behold my knife; 50
For it is pointed presently
To rid thee of thy life.
O then, cried out the scullion-boye,
As loud as loud might bee;
O save her life, good master-cook, 55
And make your pyes of mee!
For pityes sake do not destroye
My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye,
For Christes sake save her life. 60
I will not save her life, he sayd,
Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.
Now when this lord he did come home 65
For to sit downe and eat;
He called for his daughter deare,
To come and carve his meat.
Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd,
O sit you downe to meat: 70
Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget.
Then solemnlye he made a vowe,
Before the companÌe:
That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75
Until he did her see.
O then bespake the scullion-boye,
With a loud voice so hye:
If now you will your daughter see,
My lord, cut up that pye: 80
Wherein her fleshe is minced small,
And parched with the fire:
All caused by her step-mothÈr,
Who did her death desire.
And cursed bee the master-cook, 85
O cursed may he bee!
I proffered him my own hearts blood,
From death to set her free.
Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;
And for his daughters sake, 90
He judged her cruell step-mothÈr
To be burnt at a stake.
Likewise he judg'd the master-cook
In boiling lead to stand;
And made the simple scullion-boye 95
The heire of all his land.
XV.
A HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. This song is a kind of translation of a pretty poem of Tasso's, called Amore fuggitivo, generally printed with his Aminta, and originally imitated from the first Idyllium of Moschus. It is extracted from Ben Jonson's Masque at the marriage of lord viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday, 1608. One stanza full of dry mythology is here omitted, as it had been dropped in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called Le Prince d'Amour. Lond. 1660, 8vo.
[The stanza of the first Grace which Percy left out is as follows:— "At his sight the sun hath turn'd,
Neptune in the waters burn'd;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies reared high."]
[1 Grace.] Beauties have yee seen a toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blinde;
Cruel now; and then as kinde?
If he be amongst yee, say; 5
He is Venus' run away.
[2 Grace.] Shee, that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kisse,
How and where herselfe would wish: 10
But who brings him to his mother
Shall have that kisse, and another.
[3 Grace.] Markes he hath about him plentie;
You may know him among twentie:
All his body is a fire, 15
And his breath a flame entire:
Which, being shot, like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
* * * * *
[2 Grace.] Wings he hath, which though yee clip,
He will leape from lip to lip, 20
Over liver, lights, and heart;
Yet not stay in any part.
And, if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himselfe in kisses.
[3 Grace.] He doth beare a golden bow, 25
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrowes, which outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharpe than other,
With that first he strikes his mother. 30
[1 Grace.] Still the fairest are his fuell,
When his daies are to be cruell;
Lovers hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest bloud:
Nought but wounds his hand doth season, 35
And he hates none like to Reason.
[2 Grace.] Trust him not: his words, though sweet,
Seldome with his heart doe meet:
All his practice is deceit;
Everie gift is but a bait; 40
Not a kisse but poyson beares;
And most treason's in his teares.
[3 Grace.] Idle minutes are his raigne;
Then the straggler makes his gaine,
By presenting maids with toyes 45
And would have yee thinke hem joyes;
'Tis the ambition of the elfe
To have all childish as himselfe.
[1 Grace.] If by these yee please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 50
[2 Grace.] Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him.
[3 Grace.] Since yee heare this falser's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.
XVI.
THE KING OF FRANCE'S DAUGHTER. The story of this ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of Charles the Bald, king of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph king of England: but before the marriage was consummated, Ethelwulph died, and she returned to France: whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forester of Flanders; who, after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king's consent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A.D. 863.—See Rapin, Henault, and the French historians. The following copy is given from the Editor's ancient folio MS. collated with another in black-letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled, An excellent Ballad of a prince of England's courtship to the king of France's daughter, &c. To the tune of Crimson Velvet. Many breaches having been made in this old song by the hand of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhime; an attempt is here made to repair them.
[This ballad was written by Thomas Deloney, who included it in his Garland of Goodwill (Percy Society, vol. xxx. p. 52). It is, as Percy points out, founded on history, but Deloney paid little attention to facts. All the first part of the poem, which tells of the miserable end of the English prince of suitable age to the young French princess, is fiction. Judith was Ethelwulf's wife for about two years, and on the death of her husband she married his son Ethelbert. The only historical fact that is followed in the ballad is the marriage of Judith with Baldwin, Great Forester of France, from which union descended Matilda, the wife of William the Conqueror. The copy in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii. p. 441) is entitled "In the Dayes of Olde." Percy altered it considerably, sometimes following the printed copy and sometimes the MS. Mr. Hales suggests that the name of the tune is derived from the dress of the princess, described in vv. 185-6,— "Their mothers riche array
Was of crimson velvet,"
and Mr. Chappell agrees with him.]
In the dayes of old,
When faire France did flourish,
Storyes plaine have told,
Lovers felt annoye.
The queene a daughter bare, 5
Whom beautye's queene did nourish:
She was lovelye faire
She was her father's joye.
A prince of England came,
Whose deeds did merit fame, 10
But he was exil'd, and outcast:
Love his soul did fire,
Shee granted his desire,
Their hearts in one were linked fast.
Which when her father proved, 15
Sorelye he was moved,
And tormented in his minde.
He sought for to prevent them;
And, to discontent them,
Fortune cross'd these lovers kinde. 20
When these princes twaine
Were thus barr'd of pleasure,
Through the kinges disdaine,
Which their joyes withstoode:
The lady soone prepar'd 25
Her jewells and her treasure;
Having no regard
For state and royall bloode;
In homelye poore array
She went from court away, 30
To meet her joye and hearts delight;
Who in a forest great
Had taken up his seat,
To wayt her coming in the night.
But, lo! what sudden danger 35
To this princely stranger
Chanced, as he sate alone!
By outlawes he was robbed,
And with ponyards stabbed,
Uttering many a dying grone. 40
The princesse, arm'd by love,
And by chaste desire,
All the night did rove
Without dread at all:
Still unknowne she past 45
In her strange attire;
Coming at the last
Within echoes call,—
You faire woods, quoth shee,
Honoured may you bee, 50
Harbouring my heart's delight;
Which encompass here
My joye and only deare,
My trustye friend, and comelye knight.
Sweete, I come unto thee, 55
Sweete, I come to woo thee;
That thou mayst not angry bee
For my long delaying;
For thy curteous staying
Soone amendes Ile make to thee. 60
Passing thus alone
Through the silent forest,
Many a grievous grone
Sounded in her eares:
She heard one complayne 65
And lament the sorest,
Seeming all in payne,
Shedding deadly teares.
Farewell, my deare, quoth hee,
Whom I must never see; 70
For why my life is att an end,
Through villaines crueltye:
For thy sweet sake I dye,
To show I am a faithfull friend.
Here I lye a bleeding, 75
While my thoughts are feeding
On the rarest beautye found.
O hard happ, that may be!
Little knows my ladye
My heartes blood lyes on the ground. 80
With that a grone he sends
Which did burst in sunder
All the tender bands
Of his gentle heart.
She, who knewe his voice, 85
At his wordes did wonder;
All her former joyes
Did to griefe convert.
Strait she ran to see,
Who this man shold bee, 90
That soe like her love did seeme:
Her lovely lord she found
Lye slaine upon the ground,
Smear'd with gore a ghastlye streame.
Which his lady spying, 95
Shrieking, fainting, crying,
Her sorrows could not uttered bee:
Fate, she cryed, too cruell:
For thee—my dearest jewell,
Would God! that I had dyed for thee. 100
His pale lippes, alas!
Twentye times she kissed,
And his face did wash
With her trickling teares:
Every gaping wound 105
Tenderlye she pressed,
And did wipe it round
With her golden haires.
Speake, faire love, quoth shee,
Speake, fair prince, to mee, 110
One sweete word of comfort give:
Lift up thy deare eyes,
Listen to my cryes,
Thinke in what sad griefe I live.
All in vain she sued, 115
All in vain she wooed,
The prince's life was fled and gone.
There stood she still mourning,
Till the suns retourning,
And bright day was coming on. 120
In this great distresse
Weeping, wayling ever,
Oft shee cryed, alas!
What will become of mee?
To my fathers court 125
I returne will never:
But in lowlye sort
I will a servant bee.
While thus she made her mone,
Weeping all alone, 130
In this deepe and deadlye feare:
A for'ster all in greene,
Most comelye to be seene,
Ranging the woods did find her there.
Moved with her sorrowe, 135
Maid, quoth hee, good morrowe,
What hard happ has brought thee here?
Harder happ did never
Two kinde hearts dissever:
Here lyes slaine my brother deare. 140
Where may I remaine,
Gentle for'ster, shew me,
'Till I can obtaine
A service in my neede?
Paines I will not spare: 145
This kinde favour doe me,
It will ease my care;
Heaven shall be thy meede.
The for'ster all amazed,
On her beautye gazed, 150
Till his heart was set on fire.
If, faire maid, quoth hee,
You will goe with mee,
You shall have your hearts desire.
He brought her to his mother, 155
And above all other
He sett forth this maidens praise.
Long was his heart inflamed,
At length her love he gained,
And fortune crown'd his future dayes. 160
Thus unknowne he wedde
With a kings faire daughter;
Children seven they had,
'Ere she told her birth.
Which when once he knew, 165
Humblye he besought her,
He to the world might shew
Her rank and princelye worth.
He cloath'd his children then,
(Not like other men) 170
In partye-colours strange to see;
The right side cloth of gold,
The left side to behold,
Of woollen cloth still framed hee[386].
Men thereat did wonder; 175
Golden fame did thunder
This strange deede in every place:
The king of France came thither,
It being pleasant weather,
In those woods the hart to chase. 180
The children then they bring,
So their mother will'd it,
Where the royall king
Must of force come bye:
Their mothers riche array, 185
Was of crimson velvet:
Their fathers all of gray,
Seemelye to the eye.
Then this famous king,
Noting every thing, 190
Askt how he durst be so bold
To let his wife soe weare,
And decke his children there
In costly robes of pearl and gold.
The forrester replying, 195
And the cause descrying[387],
To the king these words did say,
Well may they, by their mother,
Weare rich clothes with other,
Being by birth a princesse gay. 200
The king aroused thus,
More heedfullye beheld them,
Till a crimson blush
His remembrance crost.
The more I fix my mind 205
On thy wife and children,
The more methinks I find
The daughter which I lost.
Falling on her knee,
I am that child, quoth shee; 210
Pardon mee, my soveraine liege.
The king perceiving this,
His daughter deare did kiss,
While joyfull teares did stopp his speeche.
With his traine he tourned, 215
And with them sojourned.
Strait he dubb'd her husband knight;
Then made him erle of Flanders,
And chiefe of his commanders:
Thus were their sorrowes put to flight. 220
? [386] This will remind the reader of the livery and device of Charles Brandon, a private gentleman, who married the Queen Dowager of France, sister of Henry VIII. At a tournament which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half Cloth of gold, and half Frieze, with the following Motto:— "Cloth of Gold, do not despise,
Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Frize,
Cloth of Frize, be not too bold,
Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Gold."
See Sir W. Temple's Misc. vol. iii. p. 356.
XVII.
THE SWEET NEGLECT. This little madrigal (extracted from Ben. Jonson's Silent Woman, act i. sc. 1, first acted in 1609) is in imitation of a Latin Poem printed at the end of the Variorum Edit. of Petronius, beginning, Semper munditias, semper Basilissa, decoras, &c. See Whalley's Ben Jonson, vol. ii. p. 420.
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast:
Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found, 5
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 10
Than all th' adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
XVIII.
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. The subject of this very popular ballad (which has been set in so favourable a light by the Spectator, No. 85.) seems to be taken from an old play, intitled, Two lamentable Tragedies; The one of the murder of Maister Beech, a chandler in Thames streete, &c. The other of a young child murthered in a wood by two ruffins, with the consent of his unkle. By Rob. Yarrington, 1601, 4to. Our ballad-maker has strictly followed the play in the description of the father and mother's dying charge: in the uncle's promise to take care of their issue: his hiring two ruffians to destroy his ward, under pretence of sending him to school: their chusing a wood to perpetrate the murder in: one of the ruffians relenting, and a battle ensuing, &c. In other respects he has departed from the play. In the latter the scene is laid in Padua: there is but one child: which is murdered by a sudden stab of the unrelenting ruffian: he is slain himself by his less bloody companion; but ere he dies gives the other a mortal wound: the latter living just long enough to impeach the uncle; who, in consequence of this impeachment, is arraigned and executed by the hand of justice, &c. Whoever compares the play with the ballad, will have no doubt but the former is the original: the language is far more obsolete, and such a vein of simplicity runs through the whole performance, that, had the ballad been written first, there is no doubt but every circumstance of it would have been received into the drama: whereas this was probably built on some Italian novel. Printed from two ancient copies, one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection. Its title at large is, The Children in the Wood; or, The Norfolk Gentleman's Last Will and Testament: To the tune of Rogero, &c.
[Ritson thought he had refuted Percy's statement that the play was older than the ballad by pointing out that the latter was entered in the Stationers' books in 1595, but I find in Baker's Biographia Dramatica an assertion that Yarrington's play was not printed "till many years after it was written." The following is the form of the entry at Stationers' Hall, "15 Oct. 1595. Thomas Millington entred for his copie under th[e h]andes of bothe the Wardens a ballad intituled The Norfolk Gent, his Will and Testament and howe he commytted the keepinge of his children to his owne brother whoe delte most wickedly with them and howe God plagued him for it." Sharon Turner and Miss Halsted favoured the rather untenable opinion that the wicked uncle was intended to represent Richard III., and therefore that the date of the ballad was much earlier than that usually claimed for it. Turner writes in his History of England, "I have sometimes fancied that the popular ballad may have been written at this time on Richard and his nephews before it was quite safe to stigmatize him more openly." Wailing, or Wayland Wood, a large cover near Walton in Norfolk is the place which tradition assigns to the tragedy, but the people of Wood Dalling also claim the honour for their village. Addison speaks of the ballad as "one of the darling songs of the common people, [which] has been the delight of most Englishmen in some part of their age," and points out that the circumstance ... robin-red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves,
has a parallel in Horace, who tells us that when he was a child, fallen asleep in a desert wood, the turtle doves took pity on him and covered him with leaves. The popular belief that the robin covers dead bodies with leaves (probably founded on the habits of the bird) is of considerable antiquity. The passage in Cymbeline (act iv. sc. 2) naturally occurs as the chief illustration:— ... "the ruddock would,
With charitable bill....
... bring thee all this,
Yea and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse."
In Webster's White Devil, act v., we read:— "Call for the robin red breast and the wren
Since o'er shady groves they hover
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men."
The critics suppose Webster to have imitated Shakespere here, but there is no ground for any such supposition. The industry of Reed, Steevens, and Douce has supplied us with several passages from old literature in which this characteristic of the robin is referred to. In "CornucopiÆ, or, divers Secrets; wherein is contained the rare secrets of man, beasts, fowles, fishes, trees, plants, stones, and such like, most pleasant and profitable, and not before committed to bee printed in English. Newlie drawen out of divers Latine Authors into English by Thomas Johnson," 4to. London, 1596, occurs the following passage:—"The robin red-breast if he find a man or woman dead will cover all his face with mosse, and some thinke that if the body should remaine unburied that hee woulde cover the whole body also." This little secret of Johnson is copied by Thomas Lupton into his A Thousand Notable Things of sundrie sorts newly corrected, 1601, where it appears as No. 37 of book i. Michael Drayton has the following lines in his poem, The Owl: "Cov'ring with moss the dead's unclosed eye
The little red-breast teacheth charitie."
In Dekker's Villanies discovered by lanthorn and candlelight, 1616, we read, "They that cheere up a prisoner but with their sight are Robin red-breasts, that bring strawes in their bils to cover a dead man in extremitÌe." This is sufficient evidence that the belief was wide-spread.]
Now ponder well, you parents deare,
These wordes, which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall heare,
In time brought forth to light.
A gentleman of good account 5
In Norfolke dwelt of late,
Who did in honour far surmount
Most men of his estate.
Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
No helpe his life could save; 10
His wife by him as sicke did lye,
And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kinde,
In love they liv'd, in love they dyed, 15
And left two babes behinde:
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares olde;
The other a girl more young than he,
And fram'd in beautyes molde. 20
The father left his little son,
As plainlye doth appeare,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred poundes a yeare.
And to his little daughter Jane 25
Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid down on marriage-day,
Which might not be controll'd:
But if the children chance to dye,
Ere they to age should come, 30
Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
For so the wille did run.
Now, brother, said the dying man,
Look to my children deare;
Be good unto my boy and girl, 35
No friendes else have they here:
To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye;
But little while be sure we have
Within this world to staye. 40
You must be father and mother both,
And uncle all in one;
God knowes what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone.
With that bespake their mother deare, 45
O brother kinde, quoth shee,
You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or miserie:
And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward; 50
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deedes regard.
With lippes as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
God bless you both, my children deare; 55
With that the teares did fall.
These speeches then their brother spake
To this sicke couple there,
The keeping of your little ones
Sweet sister, do not feare; 60
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children deare,
When you are layd in grave.
The parents being dead and gone, 65
The children home he takes,
And bringes them straite unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a daye, 70
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both awaye.
He bargain'd with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take these children young, 75
And slaye them in a wood.
He told his wife an artful tale,
He would the children send
To be brought up in faire LondÒn,
With one that was his friend. 80
Away then went those pretty babes,
Rejoycing at that tide,
Rejoycing with a merry minde,
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly, 85
As they rode on the waye,
To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives decaye:
So that the pretty speeche they had,
Made Murder's heart relent; 90
And they that undertooke the deed,
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart,
Did vowe to do his charge,
Because the wretch, that hired him, 95
Had paid him very large.
The other won't agree thereto,
So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the childrens life: 100
And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slaye the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;
The babes did quake for feare!
He took the children by the hand, 105
Teares standing in their eye,
And bad them straitwaye follow him,
And look they did not crye:
And two long miles he ledd them on,
While they for food complaine: 110
Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread,
When I come back againe.
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and downe;
But never more could see the man 115
Approaching from the town:
Their prettye lippes with black-berries,
Were all besmear'd and dyed,
And when they sawe the darksome night,
They sat them downe and cryed. 120
Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till deathe did end their grief,
In one anothers armes they dyed,
As wanting due relief:
No burial 'this' pretty 'pair'[388] 125
Of any man receives,
Till Robin-red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrathe of God
Upon their uncle fell; 130
Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell:
His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd,
His landes were barren made,
His cattle dyed within the field, 135
And nothing with him stayd.
And in a voyage to Portugal[389]
Two of his sonnes did dye;
And to conclude, himselfe was brought
To want and miserye: 140
He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven yeares came about.
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this meanes come out:
The fellowe, that did take in hand 145
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judg'd to dye,
Such was God's blessed will:
Who did confess the very truth,
As here hath been display'd: 150
Their uncle having dyed in gaol,
Where he for debt was layd.
You that executors be made,
And overseers eke
Of children that be fatherless, 155
And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such like miserye
Your wicked minds requite. 160
XIX.
A LOVER OF LATE. Printed, with a few slight corrections, from the Editor's folio MS.
[This song is printed, Hales and Furnivall's edition of the MS. vol. iii. p. 389.]
A lover of late was I,
For Cupid would have it soe,
The boy that hath never an eye,
As every man doth know:
I sighed and sobbed, and cryed, alas! 5
For her that laught, and called me ass.
Then knew not I what to doe,
When I saw itt was in vaine[390]
A lady soe coy to wooe,
Who gave me the asse soe plaine:[391] 10
Yet would I her asse freelye bee,
Soe shee would helpe, and beare with mee.
An' I were as faire as shee,[392]
Or shee were as kind as I,[393]
What payre cold have made, as wee, 15
Soe prettye a sympathye:
I was as kind as she was faire,
But for all this wee cold not paire.
Paire with her that will for mee,
With her I will never paire; 20
That cunningly can be coy,
For being a little faire.
The asse Ile leave to her disdaine;
And now I am myselfe againe.
XX.
THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD. It has been a favourite subject with our English ballad-makers to represent our kings conversing, either by accident or design, with the meanest of their subjects. Of the former kind, besides this song of the King and the Miller; we have K. Henry and the Soldier; K. James I. and the Tinker; K. William III. and the Forrester &c. Of the latter sort, are K. Alfred and the Shepherd; K. Edward IV. and the Tanner;[394] K. Henry VIII. and the Cobler, &c.—A few of the best of these are admitted into this collection. Both the author of the following ballad, and others who have written on the same plan, seem to have copied a very ancient poem, intitled John the Reeve, which is built on an adventure of the same kind, that happened between K. Edward Longshanks, and one of his Reeves or Bailiffs. This is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of Edward IV. and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners, is infinitely superior to all that have been since written in imitation of it. The Editor has a copy in his ancient folio MS. but its length rendered it improper for this volume, it consisting of more than 900 lines. It contains also some corruptions, and the Editor chuses to defer its publication in hopes that some time or other he shall be able to remove them. The following is printed, with corrections, from the editor's folio MS. collated with an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, intitled A pleasant ballad of K. Henry II. and the Miller of Mansfield, &c.
[This ballad of Henry II. and the Miller of Mansfield cannot be traced farther back than the end of Elizabeth's reign or the beginning of James's. One of the three copies in the Roxburghe Collection is dated by Mr. Chappell between 1621 and 1655, and the copy in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 147) was written about the same period. (See Roxburghe Ballads, ed. Chappell, vol. i. p. 538.) As there are earlier copies than the one in the Folio MS. it has not been thought necessary to add Collations. John the Reeve, referred to above, is one of the earliest and most interesting of this large class of tales. It was printed for the first time in Hales and Furnivall's edition of the MS. (vol. ii. p. 550) with a valuable introduction. This spirited poem was probably written originally in the middle of the fifteenth century. "It professes to describe an incident that took place in the days of King Edward. It adds: Of that name were Kings three
But Edward with the long shanks was he,
A lord of great renown.
The poem then was written after the death of Edward III.; that is, after 1377, and before the accession of Edward IV., that is before 1461."]
Part the First. Henry, our royall king, would ride a hunting
To the greene forest so pleasant and faire;
To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping:
Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire:
Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd 5
For the game, in the same, with good regard.
All a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye,
With all his princes and nobles eche one;
Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye,
Till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home. 10
Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite
All his lords in the wood, late in the night.
Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe,
With a rude miller he mett at the last:
Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham; 15
Sir, quoth the miller, I meane not to jest,
Yet I thinke, what I thinke, sooth for to say,
You doe not lightlye ride out of your way.
Why, what dost thou think of me, quoth our king merrily,
Passing thy judgment upon me so briefe? 20
Good faith, sayd the miller, I meane not to flatter thee;
I guess thee to be but some gentleman thiefe;
Stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne,
Lest that I presentlye cracke thy knaves crowne.
Thou dost abuse me much, quoth the king, saying thus; 25
I am a gentleman; lodging I lacke.
Thou hast not, quoth th' miller, one groat in thy purse;
All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.[395]
I have gold to discharge all that I call;
If it be forty pence, I will pay all. 30
If thou beest a true man, then quoth the miller,
I sweare by my toll-dish, I'll lodge thee all night.
Here's my hand, quoth the king, that was I ever.
Nay, soft, quoth the miller, thou may'st be a sprite.
Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; 35
With none but honest men hands will I take.
Thus they went all along unto the miller's house;
Where they were seething of puddings and souse:[396]
The miller first enter'd in, after him went the king;
Never came hee in soe smoakye a house. 40
Now, quoth hee, let me see here what you are.
Quoth our king, looke your fill, and doe not spare.
I like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face
With my son Richard this night thou shalt lye.
Quoth his wife, by my troth, it is a handsome youth, 45
Yet it's best, husband, to deal warilye.
Art thou no run away, prythee, youth, tell?
Shew me thy passport, and all shal be well.
Then our king presentlye, making lowe courtesye,
With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say; 50
I have no passport, nor never was servitor,
But a poor courtyer, rode out of my way:
And for your kindness here offered to mee,
I will requite you in everye degree.
Then to the miller his wife whisper'd secretlye, 55
Saying, It seemeth, this youth's of good kin,
Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners;
To turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin.
Yea, quoth hee, you may see, he hath some grace
When he doth speake to his betters in place. 60
Well, quo' the millers wife, young man, ye're welcome here;
And, though I say it, well lodged shall be:
Fresh straw will I have, laid on thy bed so brave,
And good brown hempen sheets likewise, quoth shee.
Aye, quoth the good man; and when that is done, 65
Thou shalt lye with no worse, than our own sonne.
Nay, first, quoth Richard, good-fellowe, tell me true,
Host thou noe creepers within thy gay hose?
Or art thou not troubled with the scabbado?
I pray, quoth the king, what creatures are those? 70
Art thou not lowsy, nor scabby? quoth he:
If thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee.
This caus'd the king, suddenlye, to laugh most heartilye,
Till the teares trickled fast downe from his eyes.
Then to their supper were they set orderlye, 75
With hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes;
Nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle,
Which did about the board merrilye trowle.
Here, quoth the miller, good fellowe, I drinke to thee,
And to all 'cuckholds, wherever they bee.'[397] 80
I pledge thee, quotth our king, and thanke thee heartilye
For my good welcome in everye degree:
And here, in like manner, I drinke to thy sonne.
Do then, quoth Richard, and quicke let it come.
Wife, quoth the miller, fetch me forth lightfoote, 85
And of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste.
A fair ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye.
Eate, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no waste.
Here's dainty lightfoote! In faith, sayd the king,
I never before eat so daintye a thing. 90
I wis, quoth Richard, no daintye at all it is,
For we doe eate of it everye day.
In what place, sayd our king, may be bought like to this?
We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay;
From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here; 95
Now and then we make bold with our kings deer.
Then I thinke, sayd our king, that it is venison.
Eche foole, quoth Richard, full well may know that:
Never are wee without two or three in the roof,
Very well fleshed, and excellent fat: 100
But, prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe;
We would not, for two pence, the king should it knowe.
Doubt not, then sayd the king, my promist secresye;
The king shall never know more on't for mee.
A cupp of lambs-wool[398] they dranke unto him then, 105
And to their bedds they past presentlie.
The nobles, next morning, went all up and down,
For to seeke out the king in everye towne.
At last, at the miller's 'cott,' soone they espy'd him out,
As he was mounting upon his faire steede; 110
To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee;
Which made the millers heart wofully bleede;
Shaking and quaking, before him he stood,
Thinking he should have been hang'd, by the rood.
The king perceiving him fearfully trembling, 115
Drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed:
The miller downe did fall, crying before them all,
Doubting the king would have cut off his head.
But he his kind courtesye for to requite,
Gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight. 120
Part the Seconde. When as our royall king came home from Nottingham,
And with his nobles at Westminster lay;
Recounting the sports and pastimes they had taken,
In this late progress along on the way;
Of them all, great and small, he did protest, 5
The miller of Mansfield's sport liked him best.
And now, my lords, quoth the king, I am determined
Against St. Georges next sumptuous feast,
That this old miller, our new confirm'd knight,
With his son Richard, shall here be my guest: 10
For, in this merryment, 'tis my desire
To talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire.
When as the noble lords saw the kinges pleasantness,
They were right joyfull and glad in their hearts:
A pursuivant there was sent straighte on the business, 15
The which had often-times been in those parts.
When he came to the place, where they did dwell,
His message orderlye then 'gan he tell.
God save your worshippe, then said the messenger,
And grant your ladye her own hearts desire; 20
And to your sonne Richard good fortune and happiness;
That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire.
Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say,
You must come to the court on St. George's day;
Therfore, in any case, faile not to be in place. 25
I wis, quoth the miller, this is an odd jest:
What should we doe there? faith, I am halfe afraid.
I doubt, quoth Richard, to be hang'd at the least.
Nay, quoth the messenger, you doe mistake;
Our king he provides a great feast for your sake. 30
Then sayd the miller, By my troth, messenger,
Thou hast contented my worshippe full well.
Hold here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness,
For these happy tydings, which thou dost tell.
Let me see, hear thou mee; tell to our king, 35
We'll wayt on his mastershipp in everye thing.
The pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye,
And, making many leggs, tooke their reward;
And his leave taking with great humilitye
To the kings court againe he repair'd; 40
Shewing unto his grace, merry and free,
The knightes most liberall gift and bountie.
When he was gone away, thus gan the miller say,
Here come expences and charges indeed;
Now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend all we have; 45
For of new garments we have great need:
Of horses and serving-men we must have store,
With bridles and saddles, and twentye things more.
Tushe, sir John, quoth his wife, why should you frett, or frowne?
You shall ne'er be att no charges for mee; 50
For I will turne and trim up my old russet gowne,
With everye thing else as fine as may bee;
And on our mill-horses swift we will ride,
With pillowes and pannells, as we shall provide.
In this most statelye sort, rode they unto the court, 55
Their jolly sonne Richard rode foremost of all;
Who set up, for good hap, a cocks feather in his cap,[399]
And so they jetted[400] downe to the kings hall;
The merry old miller with hands on his side;
His wife, like maid Marian, did mince at that tide.[401] 60
The king and his nobles that heard of their coming,
Meeting this gallant knight with his brave traine;
Welcome, sir knight, quoth he, with your gay lady:
Good sir John Cockle, once welcome againe:
And soe is the squire of courage soe free. 65
Quoth Dicke, A bots on you! do you know mee?
Quoth our king gentlye, how should I forget thee?
That wast my owne bed-fellowe, well it I wot.
Yea, sir, quoth Richard, and by the same token,
Thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot. 70
Thou whore-son unhappy knave, then quoth the knight,
Speake cleanly to our king, or else go sh***.
The king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily,
While the king taketh them both by the hand;
With the court-dames, and maids, like to the queen of spades 75
The millers wife did soe orderlye stand.
A milk-maids courtesye at every word;
And downe all the folkes were set to the board.
There the king royally, in princelye majestye,
Sate at his dinner with joy and delight; 80
When they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell,
And in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight:
Here's to you both, in wine, ale and beer;
Thanking you heartilye for my good cheer.
Quoth sir John Cockle, I'll pledge you a pottle, 85
Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire:
But then said our king, now I think of a thing;
Some of your lightfoote I would we had here.
Ho! ho! quoth Richard, full well I may say it,
'Tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it. 90
Why art thou angry? quoth our king merrilye;
In faith, I take it now very unkind:
I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily.
Quoth Dicke, You are like to stay till I have din'd:
You feed us with twatling dishes soe small; 95
Zounds, a blacke-pudding is better than all.
Aye, marry, quoth our king, that were a daintye thing,
Could a man get but one here for to eate.
With that Dicke straite arose, and pluckt one from his hose,
Which with heat of his breech gan to sweate. 100
The king made a proffer to snatch it away:—
'Tis meat for your master: good sir, you must stay.
Thus in great merriment was the time wholly spent;
And then the ladyes prepared to dance.
Old Sir John Cockle, and Richard, incontinent[402] 105
Unto their places the king did advance.
Here with the ladyes such sport they did make,
The nobles with laughing did make their sides ake.
Many thankes for their paines did the king give them,
Asking young Richard then, if he would wed; 110
Among these ladyes free, tell me which liketh thee?
Quoth he, Jugg Grumball, Sir, with the red head:
She's my love, she's my life, her will I wed;
She hath sworn I shall have her maidenhead.
Then sir John Cockle the king called unto him, 115
And of merry Sherwood made him o'er seer;
And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye:
Take heed now you steale no more of my deer:
And once a quarter let's here have your view;
And now, sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu. 120
[394] [See vol. ii. book i. No. 15.]
XXI.
THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. This beautiful old song was written by a poet, whose name would have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved by Swift, as a term of contempt. Dryden and Wither are coupled by him like the Bavius and MÆvius of Virgil. Dryden, however, has had justice done him by posterity: and as for Wither, though of subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius, will be judged from the following stanzas. The truth is, Wither was a very voluminous party-writer: and as his political and satyrical strokes rendered him extremely popular in his life-time; so afterwards, when these were no longer relished, they totally consigned his writings to oblivion. George Wither was born June 11, 1588, and in his younger years distinguished himself by some pastoral pieces, that were not inelegant; but growing afterwards involved in the political and religious disputes in the times of James I. and Charles I. he employed his poetical vein in severe pasquils on the court and clergy, and was occasionally a sufferer for the freedom of his pen. In the civil war that ensued, he exerted himself in the service of the Parliament, and became a considerable sharer in the spoils. He was even one of those provincial tyrants, whom Oliver distributed over the kingdom, under the name of Major Generals; and had the fleecing of the county of Surrey: but surviving the Restoration, he outlived both his power and his affluence; and giving vent to his chagrin in libels on the court, was long a prisoner in Newgate and the Tower. He died at length on the 2d of May, 1667. During the whole course of his life, Wither was a continual publisher; having generally for opponent, Taylor the Water-poet. The long list of his productions may be seen in Wood's AthenÆ. Oxon. vol. ii. His most popular satire is intitled, Abuses whipt and stript, 1613. His most poetical pieces were eclogues, intitled, The Shepherd's Hunting, 1615, 8vo. and others printed at the end of Browne's Shepherd's Pipe, 1614, 8vo. The following sonnet is extracted from a long pastoral piece of his, intitled, The Mistresse of Philarete, 1622, 8vo. which is said in the preface to be one of the Author's first poems; and may therefore be dated as early as any of the foregoing.
[This favourite song appeared in 1619, appended to Wither's Fidelia, and again in his Juvenilia in 1633 in Fair Virtue the mistress of Philarete. It was reprinted again and again, and occurs in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 50). Mr. Chappell refers to a copy in the Pepys Collection entitled, A New Song of a young man's opinion of the difference between good and bad women, the first line of which is, "Shall I wrestling in despaire?" This reading seems to have been pretty popular, as Mr. Chappell gives two instances of the tune being called "Shall I wrastle in despair?" Mr. Chappell prints a song in the same metre and with a similar burden, which has been attributed on insufficient evidence to Sir Walter Raleigh. The first stanza is as follows:— "Shall I like a hermit dwell
On a rock or in a cell?
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalues me
What care I how fair she be."
Popular Music of the Olden Time, vol. i. p. 315.]
Shall I, wasting in dispaire,
Dye because a woman's faire?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosie are?
Be shee fairer then the day, 5
Or the flowery meads in may;
If she be not so to me,[403]
What care I how faire shee be?
Shall my foolish heart be pin'd,
'Cause I see a woman kind? 10
Or a well-disposed nature
Joyned with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican:
If shee be not so to me, 15
What care I how kind shee be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings knowne,
Make me quite forget mine owne? 20
Be shee with that goodnesse blest,
Which may merit name of Best;
If she be not such to me,[404]
What care I how good she be?
Cause her fortune seems too high,[405] 25
Shall I play the foole and dye?[405]
Those that beare a noble minde,[405]
Where they want of riches find,[405]
Think what with them they would doe,[405]
That without them dare to woe;[405] 30
And, unlesse that minde I see,[405]
What care I how great she be?[405]
Great or good, or kind or faire,
I will ne'er the more dispaire:
If she love me, this beleeve; 35
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I wooe,
I can scorn and let her goe:
If shee be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be? 40
XXII.
QUEEN DIDO. Such is the title given in the editor's folio MS.[406] 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. The reader will smile to observe with what natural and affecting simplicity, our ancient ballad-maker has engrafted a Gothic conclusion on the classic story of Virgil, from whom, however, it is probable he had it not. Nor can it be denied, but he has dealt out his poetical justice with a more impartial hand, than that celebrated poet.
[This once popular ballad was entered on the Registers of the Stationers Company in 1564-5 as "a ballett intituled The Wanderynge Prince." Its great popularity is evidenced by the frequent references in literature and the large number of ballads sung to the tune of Queen Dido or Troy towne. In The Penniless Parliament of Threadbare Poets, 1608, ale-knights are said to "sing Queen Dido over a cup and tell strange news over an ale-pot," and the same song is referred to in Fletcher's Captain (act iii. sc. 3) and his Bonduca, act i. sc. 2. The only tune that Mr. Chappell could find for the ballad was one by Dr. John Wilson (the Jack Wilson of Shakspere's stage according to Dr. Rimbault), which is printed in his Cheerful Ayres or Ballads, Oxford, 1660.]
When Troy towne had, for ten yeeres "past,"[407]
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 words soe sweete, and sighes so deepe,
That oft he made them all to weepe.
And then a thousand sighes he fet,[408] 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 Phoebus, 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 sobbs, 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[409]; 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
Wheras 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
Heavens 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 "all my soule with horror shooke."[410] 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 deerest 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.
XXIII.
THE WITCHES' SONG From Ben Jonson's Masque of Queens presented at Whitehall, Feb. 2, 1609. The editor thought it incumbent on him to insert some old pieces on the popular superstition concerning witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and ghosts. The last of these make their appearance in most of the tragical ballads; and in the following songs will be found some description of the former. It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classical antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, in compliment to K. James I. whose weakness on this head is well known: and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished. By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellow-creatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated.
1 Witch.[411] I have been all day looking after
A raven feeding upon a quarter;
And, soone as she turn'd her beak to the south,
I snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth.
2 Witch. I have beene gathering wolves haires, 5
The madd dogges foames, and adders eares;
The spurging of a deadmans eyes:
And all since the evening starre did rise.
3 Witch. I last night lay all alone
O' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone; 10
And pluckt him up, though he grew full low:
And, as I had done, the cocke did crow.
4 Witch. And I ha' beene chusing out this scull
From charnell houses that were full;
From private grots, and publike pits; 15
And frighted a sexton out of his wits.
5 Witch. Under a cradle I did crepe
By day; and, when the childe was a-sleepe
At night, I suck'd the breath; and rose,
And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose. 20
6 Witch. I had a dagger: what did I with that?
Killed an infant to have his fat.
A piper it got at a church-ale,[412]
I bade him again blow wind i' the taile.
7 Witch. A murderer, yonder, was hung in chaines; 25
The sunne and the wind had shrunke his veines:
I bit off a sinew; I clipp'd his haire;
I brought off his ragges, that danc'd i' the ayre.
8 Witch. The scrich-owles egges and the feathers blacke,
The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his backe 30
I have been getting; and made of his skin
A purset, to keep sir Cranion[413] in.
9 Witch. And I ha' beene plucking (plants among)
Hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue,
Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards-bane[414]; 35
And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.
10 Witch. I from the jawes of a gardiner's bitch
Did snatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch:
Yet went I back to the house againe,
Kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine. 40
11 Witch. I went to the toad, breedes under the wall,
I charmed him out, and he came at my call;
I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before;
I tore the batts wing: what would you have more?
Dame.[415] Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows, 45
Horned poppie, cypresse boughes,
The fig-tree wild, that growes on tombes,
And juice, that from the larch-tree comes,
The basiliskes bloud, and the viper's skin:
And now our orgies let's begin. 50
XXIV.
ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW, Alias Pucke, alias Hobgoblin, in the creed of ancient superstition, was a kind of merry sprite, whose character and atchievements are recorded in this ballad, and in those well-known lines of Milton's L'Allegro, which the antiquarian Peck supposes to be owing to it: "Tells how the drudging Goblin swet
To earn his creame-bowle duly set;
When in one night ere glimpse of morne,
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
And stretch'd out all the chimneys length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matins rings."
The reader will observe that our simple ancestors had reduced all these whimsies to a kind of system, as regular, and perhaps more consistent, than many parts of classic mythology: a proof of the extensive influence and vast antiquity of these superstitions. Mankind, and especially the common people, could not every where have been so unanimously agreed concerning these arbitrary notions, if they had not prevailed among them for many ages. Indeed, a learned friend in Wales assures the Editor, that the existence of Fairies and Goblins is alluded to by the most ancient British Bards, who mention them under various names, one of the most common of which signifies, The spirits of the mountains. See also Preface to Song XXV. This song, which Peck attributes to Ben Jonson, (tho' it is not found among his works) is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the British Museum. It seems to have been originally intended for some Masque. It is intitled, in the old black-letter copies, The mad merry Prankes of Robin Goodfellow. To the tune of Dulcina, &c. (See No. XIII. above.) To one, if not more of the old copies, are prefixed two wooden cuts, said to be taken from Bulwer's Artificial Changeling, &c., which, as they seem to correspond with the notions then entertained of the whimsical appearances of this fantastic spirit, and perhaps were copied in the dresses in which he was formerly exhibited on the stage, are, to gratify the curious, engraven below.
[The copy in the Roxburghe Collection (ed. Chappell, vol. ii. pl. i. p. 80) is printed by H[enry] G[osson], who was a contemporary of Ben Jonson. Some little books in prose on Robin Goodfellow, written in the seventeenth century, were printed for the Percy Society by Mr. J. P. Collier.]
From Oberon, in fairye land,
The king of ghosts and shadowes there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to viewe the night-sports here.
What revell rout 5
Is kept about,
In every corner where I go,
I will o'ersee,
And merry bee,
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! 10
More swift than lightening can I flye
About this aery welkin soone,
And, in a minutes space, descrye
Each thing that's done belowe the moone,
There's not a hag 15
Or ghost shall wag,
Or cry, ware Goblins! where I go;
But Robin I
Their feates will spy,
And send them home, with ho, ho, ho! 20
Whene'er such wanderers I meete,
As from their night-sports they trudge home;
With counterfeiting voice I greete
And call them on, with me to roame
Thro' woods, thro' lakes, 25
Thro' bogs, thro' brakes;
Or else, unseene, with them I go,
All in the nicke
To play some tricke
And frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho! 30
Sometimes I meete them like a man;
Sometimes, an ox, sometimes, a hound;
And to a horse I turn me can;
To trip and trot about them round.
But if, to ride, 35
My backe they stride,
More swift than wind away I go,
Ore hedge and lands,
Thro' pools and ponds
I whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho! 40
When lads and lasses merry be,
With possets and with juncates fine;
Unseene of all the company,
I eat their cakes and sip their wine;
And, to make sport, 45
I fart and snort;
And out the candles I do blow:
The maids I kiss;
They shrieke—Who's this?
I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho! 50
Yet now and then, the maids to please,
At midnight I card up their wooll;
And while they sleepe, and take their ease,
With wheel to threads their flax I pull.
I grind at mill 55
Their malt up still;
I dress their hemp, I spin their tow.
If any 'wake,
And would me take,
I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! 60
When house or harth doth sluttish lye,[416]
I pinch the maidens blacke and blue;
The bed-clothes from the bedd pull I,
And lay them naked all to view.
'Twixt sleepe and wake, 65
I do them take,
And on the key-cold floor them throw.
If out they cry,
Then forth I fly,
And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho! 70
When any need to borrowe ought,
We lend them what they do require;
And for the use demand we nought;
Our owne is all we do desire.
If to repay, 75
They do delay,
Abroad amongst them then I go,
And night by night,
I them affright
With pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho! 80
When lazie queans have nought to do,
But study how to cog and lye;
To make debate and mischief too,
'Twixt one another secretlye:
I marke their gloze, 85
And it disclose,
To them whom they have wronged so;
When I have done,
I get me gone,
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho! 90
When men do traps and engins set
In loop-holes, where the vermine creepe,
Who from their foldes and houses, get
Their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe:
I spy the gin, 95
And enter in,
And seeme a vermine taken so;
But when they there
Approach me neare,
I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho! 100
By wells and rills,[417] in meadowes greene,
We nightly dance our hey-day guise;[418]
And to our fairye king, and queene,
We chant our moon-light minstrelsies.
When larks 'gin sing, 105
Away we fling;
And babes new borne steal as we go,
And else in bed,
We leave instead,
And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! 110
From hag-bred Merlin's time have I
Thus nightly revell'd to and fro:
And for my pranks men call me by
The name of Robin Good-fellow.
Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, 115
Who haunt the nightes,
The hags and goblins do me know;
And beldames old
My feates have told;
So Vale, Vale; ho, ho, ho! 120
XXV.
THE FAIRY QUEEN. We have here a short display of the popular belief concerning Fairies. It will afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to their origin. Whoever considers, how early, how extensively, and how uniformly, they have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those, who fetch them from the east so late as the time of the Croisades. Whereas it is well known that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed the existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits, whom they called Duergar or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed many wonderful performances, far exceeding human art. Vid. Hervarer Saga Olaj Verelj. 1675. Hickes' Thesaur., &c. This Song is given (with some corrections by another copy) from a book intitled, The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, &c. Lond. 1658, 8vo.
[Dr. Rimbault points out that this song occurs in a rare tract published more than twenty years before the book mentioned above. It is entitled, A description of the King and Queen of the Fayries, their habit, fare, abode, pomp and state, being very delightful to the sense and full of mirth. London, 1635. The song was to be sung to the tune of the Spanish Gypsie, which began— "O follow, follow me
For we be gypsies three."
Martin Parker wrote a sort of parody called The three merry Cobblers, commencing— "Come follow, follow me
To the alehouse we'll march all three;
Leave awl, last, thread and leather,
And let's go all together."
Mr. Chappell prints the first, eighth, fourteenth and last stanzas (Popular Music, vol. i. p. 272.)]
Come, follow, follow me,
You, fairy elves that be:
Which circle on the greene,
Come follow Mab your queene.
Hand in hand let's dance around, 5
For this place is fairye ground.
When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest;
Unheard, and un-espy'd,
Through key-holes we do glide; 10
Over tables, stools, and shelves.
We trip it with our fairy elves.
And, if the house be foul[419]
With platter, dish or bowl,
Up stairs we nimbly creep, 15
And find the sluts asleep:
There we pinch their armes and thighes;
None escapes, nor none espies.
But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept, 20
We praise the household maid,
And duely she is paid:
For we use before we goe
To drop a tester[420] in her shoe.
Upon a mushroomes head 25
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye, or wheat,
Is manchet,[421] which we eat;
Pearly drops of dew we drink
In acorn cups fill'd to the brink. 30
The brains of nightingales,
With unctuous fat of snailes,
Between two cockles stew'd,
Is meat that's easily chew'd;
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice 35
Do make a dish, that's wonderous nice.
The grashopper, gnat, and fly,
Serve for our minstrelsie;
Grace said, we dance a while,
And so the time beguile; 40
And if the moon doth hide her head,
The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.
On tops of dewie grasse
So nimbly do we passe,
The young and tender stalk 45
Ne'er bends when we do walk:
Yet in the morning may be seen
Where we the night before have been.
XXVI.
THE FAIRIES FAREWELL. This humorous old song fell from the hand of the witty Dr. Corbet (afterwards bishop of Norwich, &c.) and is printed from his PoËtica Stromata, 1648, 12mo. (compared with the third edition of his poems, 1672.) It is there called, A proper new Ballad, intitled, The Fairies Farewell, or God-a-mercy Will, to be sung or whistled to the tune of The Meddow brow, by the learned; by the unlearned, to the tune of Fortune. The departure of Fairies is here attributed to the abolition of monkery: Chaucer has, with equal humour, assigned a cause the very reverse, in his Wife of Bath's Tale. "In olde dayes of the king Artour,
Of which that Bretons speken gret honour,
All was this lond fulfilled of faerie;
The elf-quene, with hire joly compagnie
Danced ful oft in many a grene mede.
This was the old opinion as I rede;
I speke of many hundred yeres ago;
But now can no man see non elves mo,
For now the grete charitee and prayeres
Of limitoures and other holy freres,
That serchen every land and every streme,
As thikke as motes in the sonne beme,
Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,
Citees and burghes, castles high and toures,
Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies,
This maketh that ther ben no faeries:
For ther as wont to walken was an elf,
Ther walketh now the limitour himself,
In undermeles and in morweninges,
And sayth his Matines and his holy thinges,
As he goth in his limitatioun.
Women may now go safely up and doun,
In every bush, and under every tree,
Ther is non other incubus but he,
And he ne will don hem no dishonour."
Tyrwhitt's Chaucer, i. p. 255. Dr. Richard Corbet, having been bishop of Oxford about three years, and afterwards as long bishop of Norwich, died in 1635, Ætat. 52.
Farewell rewards and Fairies!
Good housewives now may say;
For now foule sluts in dairies,
Doe fare as well as they:
And though they sweepe their hearths no less 5
Than mayds were wont to doe,
Yet who of late for cleaneliness
Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?
Lament, lament old Abbies,
The fairies lost command; 10
They did but change priests babies,
But some have chang'd your land:
And all your children stoln from thence
Are now growne Puritanes,
Who live as changelings ever since, 15
For love of your demaines.
At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleepe and sloth,
These prettie ladies had. 20
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabour,
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelayes 25
Of theirs, which yet remaine;
Were footed in queene Maries dayes
On many a grassy playne.
But since of late Elizabeth
And later James came in; 30
They never danc'd on any heath,
As when the time hath bin.
By which wee note the fairies 35
Were of the old profession:
Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession.
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease. 40
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure;
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punish'd sure:
It was a just and christian deed 45
To pinch such blacke and blue:
O how the common-welth doth need
Such justices, as you!
Now they have left our quarters;
A Register they have, 50
Who can preserve their charters;
A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks 55
To William for the same.
To William Churne of Staffordshire
Give laud and praises due,
Who every meale can mend your cheare
With tales both old and true: 60
To William all give audience,
And pray yee for his noddle:
For all the fairies evidence
Were lost, if it were addle.
? After these Songs on the Fairies, the reader may be curious to see the manner in which they were formerly invoked and bound to human service. In Ashmole's Collection of MSS. at Oxford (Num. 8259. 1406. 2), are the papers of some alchymist, which contain a variety of Incantations and Forms of Conjuring both Fairies, Witches, and Demons, principally, as it should seem, to assist him in his Great Work of transmuting Metals. Most of them are too impious to be reprinted: but the two following may be very innocently laughed at. Whoever looks into Ben Jonson's Alchymist, will find that these impostors, among their other secrets, affected to have a power over Fairies: and that they were commonly expected to be seen in a christal glass appears from that extraordinary book, The Relation of Dr. John Dee's actions with Spirits, 1659, folio. "An excellent way to gett a Fayrie. (For myself I call Margarett Barrance; but this will obteine any one that is not allready bownd.) "First, gett a broad square christall or Venice glasse, in length and breadth 3 inches. Then lay that glasse or christall in the bloud of a white henne, 3 Wednesdayes, or 3 Fridayes. Then take it out, and wash it with holy aq. and fumigate it. Then take 3 hazle sticks, or wands of an yeare groth: pill them fayre and white; and make 'them' soe longe, as you write the Spiritts name, or Fayries name, which you call, 3 times on every sticke being made flatt on one side. Then bury them under some hill, whereas you suppose Fayries haunt, the Wednesday before you call her: and the Friday followinge take them uppe, and call her at 8 or 3 or 10 of the clocke, which be good planetts and houres for that turne: but when you call, be in cleane life, and turne thy face towards the east. And when you have her, bind her to that stone or glasse." "An Unguent to annoynt under the Eyelids, and upon the Eyelids eveninge and morninge: but especially when you call; or find your sight not perfect. "R. A pint of sallet-oyle, and put it into a viall glasse: but first wash it with rose-water, and marygold-water; the flowers 'to' be gathered towards the east. Wash it till the oyle come white; then put it into the glasse, ut supra: and then put thereto the budds of holyhocke, the flowers of marygold, the flowers or toppes of wild thime, the budds of young hazle: and the thime must be gathered neare the side of a hill where Fayries use to be: and 'take' the grasse of a fayrie throne, there. All these put into the oyle, into the glasse: and set it to dissolve 3 dayes in the sunne, and then keep it for thy use; ut supra." After this receipt for the unguent follows a form of incantation, wherein the alchymist conjures a fairy, named Elaby Gathon, to appear to him in that chrystal glass, meekly and mildly; to resolve him truly in all manner of questions; and to be obedient to all his commands, under pain of damnation, &c. One of the vulgar opinions about fairies is, that they cannot be seen by human eyes, without a particular charm exerted in favour of the person who is to see them: and that they strike with blindness such as having the gift of seeing them, take notice of them mal-À-propos. As to the hazle sticks mentioned above, they were to be probably of that species called the witch hazle; which received its name from this manner of applying it in incantations. THE END OF BOOK THE SECOND. [Pg 212]
[Pg 213] RELIQUES OF ANCIENT POETRY, ETC. SERIES THE THIRD.
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