[Pg 214]
[Pg 215] I.
THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE. The incidents in this, and the other ballad of St. George and the Dragon, are chiefly taken from the old story-book of the Seven Champions of Christendome; which, tho' now the play-thing of children, was once in high repute. Bp. Hall in his Satires, published in 1597, ranks "St. George's sorell, and his cross of blood," among the most popular stories of his time: and an ingenious critic thinks that Spencer himself did not disdain to borrow hints from it;[422] tho' I much doubt whether this popular romance were written so early as the Faery Queen. The author of this book of the Seven Champions was one Richard Johnson, who lived in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, as we collect from his other publications: viz.—The nine worthies of London: 1592, 4to.—The pleasant walks of Moor fields: 1607, 4to.—A crown garland of Goulden Roses, gathered, &c. 1612, 8vo.—The life and death of Rob. Cecill, E. of Salisbury: 1612, 4to.—The Hist. of Tom of Lincoln, 4to. is also by R. J. who likewise reprinted Don Flores of Greece, 4to. The Seven Champions, tho' written in a wild inflated style, contains some strong Gothic painting; which seems, for the most part, copied from the metrical romances of former ages. At least the story of St. George and the fair Sabra is taken almost verbatim from the old poetical legend of Syr Bevis of Hampton. This very antique poem was in great fame in Chaucer's time (see above, pag. 107.), and so continued till the introduction of printing, when it ran thro' several editions; two of which are in black letter, 4to. "imprinted by Wyllyam Copland," without date; containing great variations. As a specimen of the poetic powers of this very old rhimist, and as a proof how closely the author of the Seven Champions has followed him, take a description of the dragon slain by sir Bevis. "—Whan the dragon, that foule is,
Had a syght of syr Bevis,
He cast up a loude cry,
As it had thondred in the sky;
He turned his bely towarde the son;
It was greater than any tonne:
His scales was bryghter then the glas,
And harder they were than any bras:
Betwene his shulder and his tayle,
Was forty fote withoute fayle.
He waltred out of his denne,
And Bevis pricked his stede then,
And to hym a spere he thraste
That all to shyvers he it braste:
The dragon then gan Bevis assayle,
And smote syr Bevis with his tayle;
Then downe went horse and man,
And two rybbes of Bevis brused than."
After a long fight, at length, as the dragon was preparing to fly, sir Bevis "Hit him under the wynge,
As he was in his flyenge,
There he was tender without scale,
And Bevis thought to be his bale.
He smote after, as I you saye,
With his good sword Morglaye.
Up to the hiltes Morglay yode
Through harte, lyver, bone, and bloude:
To the ground fell the dragon,
Great joye syr Bevis begon.
Under the scales al on hight
He smote off his head forth right,
And put it on a spere: &c."
Sign. K. iv. Sir Bevis's dragon is evidently the parent of that in the Seven Champions, see chap, iii., viz. "The dragon no sooner had a sight of him (St. George) but he gave such a terrible peal, as though it had thundered in the elements.... Betwixt his shoulders and his tail were fifty feet in distance, his scales glistering as bright as silver, but far more hard than brass; his belly of the colour of gold, but bigger than a tun. Thus weltered he from his den, &c.... The champion ... gave the dragon such a thrust with his spear, that it shivered in a thousand pieces: whereat the furious dragon so fiercely smote him with his venomous tail, that down fell man and horse: in which fall two of St. George's ribs were so bruised, &c.—At length ... St. George smote the dragon under the wing where it was tender without scale, whereby his good sword Ascalon with an easie passage went to the very hilt through both the dragon's heart, liver, bone, and blood.—Then St. George—cut off the dragon's head and pitcht it upon the truncheon of a spear, &c." The History of the Seven Champions, being written just before the decline of books of chivalry, was never, I believe, translated into any foreign language: But Le Roman de Beuves of Hantonne was published at Paris in 1502, 4to. Let. Gothique. The learned Selden tell us, that about the time of the Norman invasion was Bevis famous with the title of Earl of Southampton, whose residence was at Duncton in Wiltshire; but he observes, that the monkish enlargements of his story have made his very existence doubted. See Notes on Poly-Olbion, Song iii. This hath also been the case of St. George himself; whose martial history is allowed to be apocryphal. But, to prove that there really existed an orthodox saint of this name (altho' little or nothing, it seems, is known of his genuine story) is the subject of An Historical and Critical Inquiry into the Existence and Character of St. George, &c. By the Rev. J. Milner, F.S.A. 1792, 8vo. The equestrian figure worn by the Knights of the Garter, has been understood to be an emblem of the Christian warrior, in his spiritual armour, vanquishing the old serpent. But on this subject the inquisitive reader may consult A Dissertation on the Original of the Equestrian Figure of the George and of the Garter, ensigns of the most noble order of that name. Illustrated with copper-plates. By John Petingal, A.M., Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, London, 1753, 4to. This learned and curious work the author of the Historical and Critical Inquiry would have done well to have seen. It cannot be denied, but that the following ballad is for the most part modern: for which reason it would have been thrown to the end of the volume, had not its subject procured it a place here.
[In respect to the last paragraph, Ritson writes, "It may be safely denied, however, that the least part of it is ancient."]
Listen, lords, in bower and hall,
I sing the wonderous birth
Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm
Rid monsters from the earth:
Distressed ladies to relieve 5
He travell'd many a day;
In honour of the christian faith,
Which shall endure for aye.
In Coventry sometime did dwell
A knight of worthy fame, 10
High steward of this noble realme;
Lord Albert was his name.
He had to wife a princely dame,
Whose beauty did excell.
This virtuous lady, being with child, 15
In sudden sadness fell:
For thirty nights no sooner sleep
Had clos'd her wakeful eyes,
But, lo! a foul and fearful dream
Her fancy would surprize: 20
She dreamt a dragon fierce and fell
Conceiv'd within her womb;
Whose mortal fangs her body rent
Ere he to life could come.
All woe-begone, and sad was she; 25
She nourisht constant woe:
Yet strove to hide it from her lord,
Lest he should sorrow know.
In vain she strove, her tender lord,
Who watch'd her slightest look, 30
Discover'd soon her secret pain,
And soon that pain partook.
And when to him the fearful cause
She weeping did impart,
With kindest speech he strove to heal 35
The anguish of her heart.
Be comforted, my lady dear,
Those pearly drops refrain;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll try to ease thy pain. 40
And for this foul and fearful dream,
That causeth all thy woe,
Trust me I'll travel far away
But I'll the meaning knowe.
Then giving many a fond embrace, 45
And shedding many a teare,
To the weÏrd lady of the woods
He purpos'd to repaire.
To the weÏrd lady of the woods,
Full long and many a day, 50
Thro' lonely shades, and thickets rough
He winds his weary way.
At length he reach'd a dreary dell
With dismal yews o'erhung;
Where cypress spred its mournful boughs, 55
And pois'nous nightshade sprung.
No chearful gleams here pierc'd the gloom,
He hears no chearful sound;
But shrill night-ravens' yelling scream,
And serpents hissing round. 60
The shriek of fiends, and damned ghosts
Ran howling thro' his ear:
A chilling horror froze his heart,
Tho' all unus'd to fear.
Three times he strives to win his way,
And pierce those sickly dews:
Three times to bear his trembling corse
His knocking knees refuse.
At length upon his beating breast
He signs the holy crosse; 70
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th' unhallow'd mosse.
Beneath a pendant craggy cliff,
All vaulted like a grave,
And opening in the solid rock, 75
He found the inchanted cave.
An iron gate clos'd up the mouth,
All hideous and forlorne;
And, fasten'd by a silver chain,
Near hung a brazed horne. 80
Then offering up a secret prayer,
Three times he blowes amaine:
Three times a deepe and hollow sound
Did answer him againe.
"Sir knight, thy lady beares a son, 85
Who, like a dragon bright,
Shall prove most dreadful to his foes,
And terrible in fight.
"His name advanc'd in future times
On banners shall be worn: 90
But lo! thy lady's life must passe
Before he can be born."
All sore opprest with fear and doubt
Long time lord Albert stood;
At length he winds his doubtful way 95
Back thro' the dreary wood.
Eager to clasp his lovely dame
Then fast he travels back:
But when he reach'd his castle gate,
His gate was hung with black. 100
In every court and hall he found
A sullen silence reigne;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maidens 'plaine;
And bitterly lament and weep, 105
With many a grievous grone:
Then sore his bleeding heart misgave,
His lady's life was gone.
With faultering step he enters in,
Yet half affraid to goe; 110
With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.
"Three times the sun hath rose and set;"
They said, then stopt to weep:
"Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare 115
In death's eternal sleep.
"For, ah! in travel sore she fell,
So sore that she must dye;
Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
Could ease her presentlye. 120
"But when a cunning leech was fet,
Too soon declared he,
She, or her babe must lose its life;
Both saved could not be.
"Now take my life, thy lady said, 125
My little infant save:
And O commend me to my lord,
When I am laid in grave.
"O tell him how that precious babe
Cost him a tender wife: 130
And teach my son to lisp her name,
Who died to save his life.
"Then calling still upon thy name,
And praying still for thee;
Without repining or complaint, 135
Her gentle soul did flee."
What tongue can paint lord Albret's woe,
The bitter tears he shed,
The bitter pangs that wrung his heart,
To find his lady dead? 140
He beat his breast: he tore his hair;
And shedding many a tear,
At length he askt to see his son;
The son that cost so dear.
New sorrowe seiz'd the damsells all: 145
At length they faultering say;
"Alas! my lord, how shall we tell?
Thy son is stoln away.
"Fair as the sweetest flower of spring,
Such was his infant mien: 150
And on his little body stampt
Three wonderous marks were seen:
"A blood-red cross was on his arm;
A dragon on his breast:
A little garter all of gold 155
Was round his leg exprest.
"Three carefull nurses we provide
Our little lord to keep:
One gave him sucke, one gave him food,
And one did lull to sleep. 160
"But lo! all in the dead of night,
We heard a fearful sound:
Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook;
And lightning flasht around.
"Dead with affright at first we lay; 165
But rousing up anon,
We ran to see our little lord:
Our little lord was gone!
"But how or where we could not tell;
For lying on the ground, 170
In deep and magic slumbers laid,
The nurses there we found."
O grief on grief! lord Albret said:
No more his tongue cou'd say,
When falling in a deadly swoone, 175
Long time he lifeless lay.
At length restor'd to life and sense
He nourisht endless woe,
No future joy his heart could taste,
No future comfort know. 180
So withers on the mountain top
A fair and stately oake,
Whose vigorous arms are torne away,
By some rude thunder-stroke.
At length his castle irksome grew, 185
He loathes his wonted home;
His native country he forsakes
In foreign lands to roame.
There up and downe he wandered far,
Clad in a palmer's gown; 190
Till his brown locks grew white as wool,
His beard as thistle down.
At length, all wearied, down in death
He laid his reverend head.
Meantime amid the lonely wilds 195
His little son was bred.
There the weÏrd lady of the woods
Had borne him far away,
And train'd him up in feates of armes,
And every martial play. 200
?
II.
ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. The following ballad is given (with some corrections) from two ancient black-letter copies in the Pepys Collection: one of which is in 12mo., the other in folio.
[The story of St. George and the Dragon is found in many forms in the northern languages.]
Of Hector's deeds did Homer sing;
And of the sack of stately Troy,
What griefs fair Helena did bring,
Which was sir Paris' only joy:
And by my pen I will recite 5
St. George's deeds, and English knight.
Against the Sarazens so rude
Fought he full long and many a day,
Where many gyants he subdu'd,
In honour of the christian way: 10
And after many adventures past
To Egypt land he came at last.
Now, as the story plain doth tell,
Within that countrey there did rest
A dreadful dragon fierce and fell, 15
Whereby they were full sore opprest;
Who by his poisonous breath each day,
Did many of the city slay.
The grief whereof did grow so great
Throughout the limits of the land, 20
That they their wise-men did intreat
To shew their cunning out of hand;
What way they might this fiend destroy,
That did the countrey thus annoy.
The wise-men all before the king 25
This answer fram'd incontinent;
The dragon none to death might bring
By any means they could invent:
His skin more hard than brass was found,
That sword nor spear could pierce nor wound. 30
When this the people understood,
They cryed out most piteouslye,
The dragon's breath infects their blood,
That every day in heaps they dye:
Among them such a plague it bred, 35
The living scarce could bury the dead.
No means there were, as they could hear,
For to appease the dragon's rage,
But to present some virgin clear,
Whose blood his fury might asswage; 40
Each day he would a maiden eat,
For to allay his hunger great.
This thing by art the wise-men found,
Which truly must observed be;
Wherefore throughout the city round 45
A virgin pure of good degree
Was by the king's commission still
Taken up to serve the dragon's will.
Thus did the dragon every day
Untimely crop some virgin flowr, 50
Till all the maids were worn away,
And none were left him to devour:
Saving the king's fair daughter bright,
Her father's only heart's delight.
Then came the officers to the king 55
That heavy message to declare,
Which did his heart with sorrow sting;
She is, quoth he, my kingdom's heir:
O let us all be poisoned here,
Ere she should die, that is my dear. 60
Then rose the people presently,
And to the king in rage they went;
They said his daughter dear should dye,
The dragon's fury to prevent:
Our daughters all are dead, quoth they, 65
And have been made the dragon's prey:
And by their blood we rescued were,
And thou hast sav'd thy life thereby;
And now in sooth it is but faire,
For us thy daughter so should die. 70
O save my daughter, said the king;
And let ME feel the dragon's sting.
Then fell fair Sabra on her knee,
And to her father dear did say,
O father, strive not thus for me, 75
But let me be the dragon's prey;
It may be, for my sake alone
This plague upon the land was thrown.
Tis better I should dye, she said,
Than all your subjects perish quite; 80
Perhaps the dragon here was laid,
For my offence to work his spite:
And after he hath suckt my gore,
Your land shall feel the grief no more.
What hast thou done, my daughter dear, 85
For to deserve this heavy scourge?
It is my fault, as may appear,
Which makes the gods our state to purge;
Then ought I die, to stint the strife,
And to preserve thy happy life. 90
Like mad-men, all the people cried,
Thy death to us can do no good;
Our safety only doth abide
In making her the dragon's food.
Lo! here I am, I come, quoth she, 95
Therefore do what you will with me.
Nay stay, dear daughter, quoth the queen,
And as thou art a virgin bright,
That hast for vertue famous been,
So let me cloath thee all in white; 100
And crown thy head with flowers sweet,
An ornament for virgins meet.
And when she was attired so,
According to her mother's mind,
Unto the stake then did she go; 105
To which her tender limbs they bind:
And being bound to stake a thrall
She bade farewell unto them all.
Farewell, my father dear, quoth she,
And my sweet mother meek and mild; 110
Take you no thought nor weep for me,
For you may have another child:
Since for my country's good I dye,
Death I receive most willinglye.
The king and queen and all their train 115
With weeping eyes went then their way,
And let their daughter there remain,
To be the hungry dragon's prey:
But as she did there weeping lye,
Behold St. George came riding by. 120
And seeing there a lady bright
So rudely tyed unto a stake,
As well became a valiant knight,
He straight to her his way did take:
Tell me, sweet maiden, then quoth he, 125
What caitif thus abuseth thee?
And, lo! by Christ his cross I vow,
Which here is figured on my breast,
I will revenge it on his brow,
And break my lance upon his chest: 130
And speaking thus whereas he stood,
The dragon issued from the wood.
The lady that did first espy
The dreadful dragon coming so,
Unto St. George aloud did cry, 135
And willed him away to go;
Here comes that cursed fiend, quoth she;
That soon will make an end of me.
St. George then looking round about,
The fiery dragon soon espy'd, 140
And like a knight of courage stout,
Against him did most fiercely ride;
And with such blows he did him greet,
He fell beneath his horse's feet.
For with his launce that was so strong, 145
As he came gaping in his face,
In at his mouth he thrust along;
For he could pierce no other place:
And thus within the lady's view
This mighty dragon straight he slew. 150
The savour of his poisoned breath
Could do this holy knight no harm.
Thus he the lady sav'd from death,
And home he led her by the arm;
Which when king Ptolemy did see, 155
There was great mirth and melody.
When as that valiant champion there
Had slain the dragon in the field,
To court he brought the lady fair,
Which to their hearts much joy did yield. 160
He in the court of Egypt staid
Till he most falsely was betray'd.
That lady dearly lov'd the knight,
He counted her his only joy; 165
But when their love was brought to light
It turn'd unto their great annoy:
Th' Morocco king was in the court,
Who to the orchard did resort,
Dayly to take the pleasant air, 170
For pleasure sake he us'd to walk,
Under a wall he oft did hear
St. George with lady Sabra talk:
Their love he shew'd unto the king,
Which to St. George great woe did bring. 175
Those kings together did devise
To make the christian knight away,
With letters him in curteous wise
They straightway sent to Persia:
But wrote to the sophy him to kill, 180
And treacherously his blood to spill.
Thus they for good did him reward
With evil, and most subtilly
By much vile meanes they had regard
To work his death most cruelly; 185
Who, as through Persia land he rode,
With zeal destroy'd each idol god.
For which offence he straight was thrown
Into a dungeon dark and deep;
Where, when he thought his wrongs upon, 190
He bitterly did wail and weep:
Yet like a knight of courage stout,
At length his way he digged out.
Three grooms of the king of Persia
By night this valiant champion slew, 195
Though he had fasted many a day;
And then away from thence he flew
On the best steed the sophy had;
Which when he knew he was full mad.
Towards Christendom he made his flight, 200
But met a gyant by the way,
With whom in combat he did fight
Most valiantly a summer's day:
Who yet, for all his bats of steel,
Was forc'd the sting of death to feel. 205
Back o'er the seas with many bands
Of warlike souldiers soon he past,
Vowing upon those heathen lands
To work revenge; which at the last,
Ere thrice three years were gone and spent, 210
He wrought unto his heart's content.
Save onely Egypt land he spar'd
For Sabra bright her only sake,
And, ere for her he had regard,
He meant a tryal kind to make: 215
Mean while the king o'ercome in field
Unto saint George did quickly yield.
Then straight Morocco's king he slew,
And took fair Sabra to his wife,
But meant to try if she were true 220
Ere with her he would lead his life:
And, tho' he had her in his train,
She did a virgin pure remain.
Toward England then that lovely dame
The brave St. George conducted strait, 225
An eunuch also with them came,
Who did upon the lady wait;
These three from Egypt went alone.
Now mark St. George's valour shown.
When as they in a forest were, 230
The lady did desire to rest;
Mean while St. George to kill a deer,
For their repast did think it best:
Leaving her with the eunuch there,
Whilst he did go to kill the deer. 235
But lo! all in his absence came
Two hungry lyons fierce and fell,
And tore the eunuch on the same
In pieces small, the truth to tell;
Down by the lady then they laid, 240
Whereby they shew'd, she was a maid.
But when he came from hunting back,
And did behold this heavy chance,
Then for his lovely virgin's sake
His courage strait he did advance, 245
And came into the lions sight,
Who ran at him with all their might.
Their rage did him no whit dismay,
Who, like a stout and valiant knight,
Did both the hungry lyons slay 250
Within the lady Sabra's sight:
Who all this while sad and demure,
There stood most like a virgin pure.
Now when St. George did surely know
This lady was a virgin true, 255
His heart was glad, that erst was woe,
And all his love did soon renew:
He set her on a palfrey steed,
And towards England came with speed.
Where being in short space arriv'd 260
Unto his native dwelling-place;
Therein with his dear love he liv'd,
And fortune did his nuptials grace:
They many years of joy did see,
And led their lives at Coventry. 265
III.
LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. This excellent song is ancient: but we could only give it from a modern copy.
[Earlier editions of this spirited song are printed in Evans's Old Ballads, iii. 282 (1810), and Rimbault's Little Book of Songs and Ballads, p. 137. It is quoted in Brome's Sparagus Garden, acted in 1635, and Shirley's Constant Maid was republished in 1661, under the title of Love will find out the Way, by T. B. Dr. Rimbault has the following note in his Musical Illustrations, "The old black-letter copy of this ballad is called 'Truth's Integrity: or, a curious Northerne Ditty, called Love will finde out the Way. To a pleasant new Tune Printed at London for F. Coules, dwelling in the Old Bailey.' There is a second part consisting of six stanzas, which Percy has not reprinted. The tune is here given (translated from the Tablature) from Musicks Recreation on the Lyra Viol, published by Playford in 1652. It is also preserved in Forbes's Cantus, 1662; in Musick's Delight on the Cithren, 1666; and in D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, 1719. The Pepysian Collection contains several ballads to this tune." Mr. Chappell writes, "The air is still current, for in the summer of 1855, Mr. Jennings, Organist of All Saints' Church, Maidstone, noted it down from the wandering hop-pickers singing a song to it on their entrance into that town." Popular Music, vol. i. p. 304.]
Over the mountains,
And over the waves;
Under the fountains,
And under the graves;
Under the floods that are deepest, 5
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lye; 10
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If love come, he will enter, 15
And soon find out his way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight; 20
But if she, whom love doth honour,
Be conceal'd from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him, 25
By having him confin'd;
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may, 30
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.
You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle 35
The phenix of the east;
The lioness, ye may move her
To give o'er her prey;
But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
He will find out his way.
?
IV.
LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET, A Scottish Ballad, Seems to be composed (not without improvements) out of two ancient English ones, printed in the former part of this volume. See book i. ballad xv. and book ii. ballad iv.—If this had been the original, the authors of those two ballads would hardly have adopted two such different stories: besides, this contains enlargements not to be found in either of the others. It is given with some corrections, from a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland.
[Jamieson prints a version of this ballad which was taken down from the recitation of Mrs. W. Arrot of Aberbrothick, and is entitled Sweet Willie and Fair Annie. He contends that it is "pure and entire," and expresses his opinion that the text of Percy's copy had been "adjusted" previous to its leaving Scotland.]
Lord Thomas and fair Annet
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.
Lord Thomas said a word in jest, 5
Fair Annet took it ill:
A'! I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friends will.
Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee. 10
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee:
O rede, O rede, mither, he says,
A gude rede gie to mee:
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride, 15
And let faire Annet bee?
The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty fair Annet has,
O it wull soon be gane! 20
And he has till his brother gane:
Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A' sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let fair Annet bee?
The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast fair Annet bye.
Her oxen may dye i' the house, BillÌe,
And her kye into the byre; 30
And I sall hae nothing to my sell,
Bot a fat fadge[423] by the fyre.
And he has till his sister gane:
Now, sister, rede ye mee;
O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, 35
And set fair Annet free?
Ise rede ye tak fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh and say, Alace!
What is this we brought hame? 40
No, I will tak my mithers counsel,
And marrie me owt o' hand;
And I will tak the nut-browne bride;
Fair Annet may leive the land.
Up then rose fair Annets father 45
Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane into the bower,
Wherein fair Annet lay.
Rise up, rise up, fair Annet, he says,
Put on your silken sheene; 50
Let us gae to St. Maries kirke,
And see that rich weddeen.
My maides, gae to my dressing roome,
And dress to me my hair;
Whair-eir yee laid a plait before,
See yee lay ten times mair.
My maids, gae to my dressing room,
And dress to me my smock;
The one half is o' the holland fine,
The other o' needle-work. 60
The horse fair Annet rade upon,
He amblit like the wind,
Wi' siller he was shod before,
Wi' burning gowd behind.
Four and twanty siller bells 65
Wer a' tyed till his mane,
And yae tift[424] o' the norland wind,
They tinkled ane by ane.
Four and twanty gay gude knichts
Rade by the fair Annets side, 70
And four and twanty fair ladies,
As gin she had bin a bride.
And whan she cam to Maries kirk,
She sat on Maries stean:
The cleading that fair Annet had on 75
It skinkled in their een.
And whan she cam into the kirk,
She shimmer'd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist,
Was a' wi' pearles bedone. 80
She sat her by the nut-browne bride,
And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
Whan fair Annet she drew near.
He had a rose into his hand, 95
And he gave it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
Laid it on fair Annets knee
Up than spak the nut-browne bride,
She spak wi' meikle spite; 90
And whair gat ye that rose-water,
That does mak yee sae white?
O I did get the rose-water,
Whair ye wull neir get nane,
For I did get that very rose-water 95
Into my mithers wame.
The bride she drew a long bodkin,
Frae out her gay head-gear,
And strake fair Annet unto the heart,
That word she nevir spak mair. 100
Lord Thomas he saw fair Annet wex pale,
And marvelit what mote bee:
But whan he saw her dear hearts blude,
A' wood-wroth[425] wexed hee.
He drew his dagger, that was sae sharp, 105
That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave into the nut-browne bride,
That fell deid at his feit.
Now stay for me, dear Annet, he sed,
Now stay, my dear, he cry'd; 110
Then strake the dagger untill his heart,
And fell deid by her side.
Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa',
Fair Annet within the quiere;
And o' the tane thair grew a birk, 115
The other a bonny briere.
And ay they grew, and ay they threw,
As they wad faine be neare;
And by this ye may ken right weil,
They ware twa luvers deare. 120
V.
UNFADING BEAUTY. This little beautiful sonnet is reprinted from a small volume of "Poems by Thomas Carew, Esq. one of the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty (Charles I.) Lond. 1640." This elegant, and almost-forgotten writer, whose poems have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of his age, in 1639. In the original follows a third stanza; which, not being of general application, nor of equal merit, I have ventured to omit.
[Dr. Rimbault informs us that the original music was composed by Henry Lawes, and is included in his Ayres and Dialogues for one, two and three Voyces, 1653.]
Hee, that loves a rosie cheeke,
Or a corall lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seeke
Fuell to maintaine his fires,
As old time makes these decay, 5
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and stedfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calme desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd
Kindle never-dying fires: 10
Where these are not I despise
Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes.
* * * * *
VI.
GEORGE BARNWELL. The subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. This was written by George Lillo, a jeweller of London, and first acted about 1730.—As for the ballad it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century. It is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of Roman and black letter. It is also collated with another copy in the Ashmole Collection at Oxford, which is thus intitled, "An excellent ballad of George Barnwell, an apprentice of London, who ... thrice robbed his master and murdered his uncle in Ludlow." The tune is The Merchant. This tragical narrative seems to relate a real fact; but when it happened I have not been able to discover.
[Ritson writes as follows concerning certain improvements made by Percy in the following ballad (Ancient Songs, 1829, vol. ii. p. 165, note):—"Throughout this 'second part' (except in a single instance) the metre of the first line of each stanza is in the old editions lengthened by a couple of syllables, which are, occasionally at least, a manifest interpolation. The person also is for the most part changed from the first to the third, with evident impropriety. Dr. Percy has very ingeniously restored the measure by ejecting the superfluous syllables, and given consistency to the whole by the restoration of the proper person; and as it is now highly improbable that any further ancient copy will be found, and those which exist are manifestly corrupt, it seemed justifiable to adopt the judicious emendations of this ingenious editor." Dr. Rimbault observes, "This curious tune (The Merchant) which has been quite overlooked by antiquaries, is found, together with the original ballad, The Merchant and the Fiddler's Wife, in D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, vol. v. p. 77, edit. 1719." The former great popularity of the story of the wicked young prentice is shown by James Smith's parody in the Rejected Addresses and Thackeray's caricature romance—George de Barnwell.]
The First Part. All youths of fair EnglÀnd
That dwell both far and near,
Regard my story that I tell,
And to my song give ear.
A London lad I was, 5
A merchant's prentice bound;
My name George Barnwell; that did spend
My master many a pound.
Take heed of harlots then,
And their enticing trains; 10
For by that means I have been brought
To hang alive in chains.
As I, upon a day,
Was walking through the street
About my master's business, 15
A wanton I did meet.
A gallant dainty dame,
And sumptuous in attire;
With smiling look she greeted me,
And did my name require. 20
Which when I had declar'd,
She gave me then a kiss,
And said, if I would come to her,
I should have more than this.
Fair mistress, then quoth I, 25
If I the place may know,
This evening I will be with you,
For I abroad must go
To gather monies in,
That are my master's due: 30
And ere that I do home return,
I'll come and visit you.
Good Barnwell, then quoth she,
Do thou to Shoreditch come,
And ask for Mrs. Millwood's house, 35
Next door unto the Gun.
And trust me on my truth,
If thou keep touch with me,
My dearest friend, as my own heart
Thou shall right welcome be. 40
Thus parted we in peace,
And home I passed right;
Then went abroad, and gathered in,
By six o'clock at night,
An hundred pound and one: 45
With bag under my arm
I went to Mrs. Millwood's house,
And thought on little harm;
And knocking at the door,
Straightway herself came down; 50
Rustling in most brave attire,
With hood and silken gown.
Who, through her beauty bright,
So gloriously did shine,
That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, 55
She seemed so divine.
She took me by the hand,
And with a modest grace,
Welcome, sweet Barnwell, then quoth she,
Unto this homely place. 60
And since I have thee found
As good as thy word to be:
A homely supper, ere we part,
Thou shalt take here with me.
O pardon me, quoth I, 65
Fair mistress, I you pray;
For why, out of my master's house,
So long I dare not stay.
Alas, good Sir, she said,
Are you so strictly ty'd, 70
You may not with your dearest friend
One hour or two abide?
Faith, then the case is hard:
If it be so, quoth she,
I would I were a prentice bound, 75
To live along with thee:
Therefore, my dearest George,
List well what I shall say,
And do not blame a woman much,
Her fancy to bewray. 80
Let not affection's force
Be counted lewd desire;
Nor think it not immodesty,
I should thy love require.
With that she turn'd aside, 85
And with a blushing red,
A mournful motion she bewray'd
By hanging down her head.
A handkerchief she had,
All wrought with silk and gold: 90
Which she to stay her trickling tears
Before her eyes did hold.
This thing unto my sight
Was wondrous rare and strange;
And in my soul and inward thought 95
It wrought a sudden change:
That I so hardy grew,
To take her by the hand:
Saying, Sweet mistress, why do you
So dull and pensive stand? 100
Call me no mistress now,
But Sarah, thy true friend,
Thy servant, Millwood, honouring thee,
Until her life hath end.
If thou wouldst here alledge, 105
Thou art in years a boy;
So was Adonis, yet was he
Fair Venus' only joy.
Thus I, who ne'er before
Of woman found such grace, 110
But seeing now so fair a dame
Give me a kind embrace,
I supt with her that night,
With joys that did abound;
And for the same paid presently, 115
In money twice three pound.
An hundred kisses then,
For my farewel she gave;
Crying, Sweet Barnwell, when shall I
Again thy company have? 120
O stay not hence too long,
Sweet George, have me in mind.
Her words bewicht my childishness,
She uttered them so kind:
So that I made a vow, 125
Next Sunday without fail,
With my sweet Sarah once again
To tell some pleasant tale.
When she heard me say so,
The tears fell from her eye; 130
O George, quoth she, if thou dost fail,
Thy Sarah sure will dye.
Though long, yet loe! at last,
The appointed day was come,
That I must with my Sarah meet; 135
Having a mighty sum
Of money in my hand,[426]
Unto her house went I,
Whereas my love upon her bed
In saddest sort did lye. 140
What ails my heart's delight,
My Sarah dear? quoth I;
Let not my love lament and grieve,
Nor sighing pine, and die.
But tell me, dearest friend, 145
What may thy woes amend,
And thou shalt lack no means of help,
Though forty pound I spend.
With that she turn'd her head,
And sickly thus did say, 150
Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great,
Ten pound I have to pay
Unto a cruel wretch;
And God he knows, quoth she,
I have it not. Tush, rise, I said, 155
And take it here of me.
Ten pounds, nor ten times ten,
Shall make my love decay.
Then from my bag into her lap,
I cast ten pound straightway. 160
All blithe and pleasant then,
To banqueting we go;
She proffered me to lye with her,
And said it should be so.
And after that same time, 165
I gave her store of coyn,
Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once;
All which I did purloyn.
And thus I did pass on;
Until my master then 170
Did call to have his reckoning in
Cast up among his men.
The which when as I heard,
I knew not what to say:
For well I knew that I was out 175
Two hundred pound that day.
Then from my master straight
I ran in secret sort;
And unto Sarah Millwood there
My case I did report. 180
"But how she us'd this youth,
In this his care and woe,
And all a strumpet's wiley ways,
The SECOND PART may showe."
The Second Part. Young Barnwell comes to thee,
Sweet Sarah, my delight;
I am undone unless thou stand
My faithful friend this night.
Our master to accompts, 5
Hath just occasion found;
And I am caught behind the hand,
Above two hundred pound:
And now his wrath to 'scape,
My love, I fly to thee, 10
Hoping some time I may remaine
In safety here with thee.
With that she knit her brows,
And looking all aquoy,[427]
Quoth she, What should I have to do 15
With any prentice boy?
And seeing you have purloyn'd
Your master's goods away,
The case is bad, and therefore here
You shall no longer stay. 20
Why, dear, thou knowst, I said,
How all which I could get,
I gave it, and did spend it all
Upon thee every whit.
Quoth she, Thou art a knave, 25
To charge me in this sort,
Being a woman of credit fair,
And known of good report:
Therefore I tell thee flat,
Be packing with good speed; 30
I do defie thee from my heart,
And scorn thy filthy deed.
Is this the friendship, that
You did to me protest?
Is this the great affection, which 35
You so to me exprest?
Now fie on subtle shrews!
The best is, I may speed
To get a lodging any where,
For money in my need. 40
False woman, now farewell,
Whilst twenty pound doth last,
My anchor in some other haven
With freedom I will cast.
When she perceiv'd by this, 45
I had store of money there:
Stay, George, quoth she, thou art too quick:
Why, man, I did but jeer:
Dost think for all my speech,
That I would let thee go? 50
Faith no, said she, my love to thee
I wiss is more than so.
You scorne a prentice boy,
I heard you just now swear,
Wherefore I will not trouble you.—— 55
——Nay, George, hark in thine ear;
Thou shalt not go to-night,
What chance so e're befall:
But man we'll have a bed for thee,
O else the devil take all. 60
So I by wiles bewitcht,
And snar'd with fancy still,
Had then no power to 'get' away,
Or to withstand her will.
For wine on wine I call'd, 65
And cheer upon good cheer;
And nothing in the world I thought
For Sarah's love too dear.
Whilst in her company,
I had such merriment; 70
All, all too little I did think,
That I upon her spent.
A fig for care and thought!
When all my gold is gone,
In faith, my girl, we will have more, 75
Whoever I light upon.
My father's rich, why then
Should I want store of gold?
Nay with a father sure, quoth she,
A son may well make bold. 80
I've a sister richly wed,
I'll rob her ere I'll want.
Nay, then quoth Sarah, they may well
Consider of your scant.
Nay, I an uncle have; 85
At Ludlow he doth dwell:
He is a grazier, which in wealth
Doth all the rest excell.
Ere I will live in lack,
And have no coyn for thee: 90
I'll rob his house, and murder him,
Why should you not? quoth she:
Was I a man, ere I
Would live in poor estate;
On father, friends, and all my kin, 95
I would my talons grate.
For without money, George,
A man is but a beast:
But bringing money, thou shalt be
Always my welcome guest. 100
For shouldst thou be pursued
With twenty hues and cryes,
And with a warrant searched for
With Argus' hundred eyes,
Yet here thou shalt be safe; 105
Such privy ways there be,
That if they sought an hundred years,
They could not find out thee.
And so carousing both
Their pleasures to content: 110
George Barnwell had in little space
His money wholly spent.
Which done, to Ludlow straight
He did provide to go,
To rob his wealthy uncle there; 115
His minion would it so.
And once he thought to take
His father by the way,
But that he fear'd his master had
Took order for his stay[428]. 120
Unto his uncle then
He rode with might and main,
Who with a welcome and good cheer,
Did Barnwell entertain.
One fortnight's space he stayed, 125
Until it chanced so,
His uncle with his cattle did
Unto a market go.
His kinsman rode with him,
Where he did see right plain, 130
Great store of money he had took:
When coming home again,
Sudden within a wood,
He struck his uncle down,
And beat his brains out of his head; 135
So sore he crackt his crown.
Then seizing fourscore pound,
To London straight he hyed,
And unto Sarah Millwood all
The cruell fact descryed. 140
Tush,'tis no matter, George,
So we the money have
To have good cheer in jolly sort,
And deck us fine and brave.
Thus lived in filthy sort, 145
Until their store was gone:
When means to get them any more,
I wis, poor George, had none.
Therefore in railing sort,
She thrust him out of door: 150
Which is the just reward of those,
Who spend upon a whore.
O! do me not disgrace
In this my need, quoth he
She call'd him thief and murderer, 155
With all the spight might be:
To the constable she sent,
To have him apprehended;
And shewed how far, in each degree,
He had the laws offended. 160
When Barnwell saw her drift,
To sea he got straightway;
Where fear and sting of conscience
Continually on him lay.
Unto the lord mayor then, 165
He did a letter write;
In which his own and Sarah's fault
He did at large recite.
Whereby she seized was,
And then to Ludlow sent: 170
Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd,
For murder incontinent.
There dyed this gallant quean,
Such was her greatest gains:
For murder in Polonia, 175
Was Barnwell hang'd in chains.
Lo! here's the end of youth,
That after harlots haunt;
Who in the spoil of other men,
About the streets do flaunt. 180
VII.
THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD. These beautiful stanzas were written by George Wither, of whom some account was given in the former part of this volume; see the song intitled, The Shepherd's Resolution, book ii. song xxi. In the first edition of this work only a small fragment of this sonnet was inserted. It was afterwards rendered more compleat and intire by the addition of five stanzas more, extracted from Wither's pastoral poem, intitled, The Mistress of Philarete, of which this song makes a part. It is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of The Shepherd's Hunting, 1620, 8vo.
[The Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii. p. 360) contains only the fifth and sixth stanzas slightly varied, which were printed in the first edition of the Reliques, with the title of The Aspiring Shepherd.]
Hence away, thou Syren, leave me,
Pish! unclaspe these wanton armes;
Sugred words can ne'er deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand charmes).
Fie, fie, forbeare; 5
No common snare
Can ever my affection chaine:
Thy painted baits,
And poore deceits,
Are all bestowed on me in vaine. 10
I'me no slave to such, as you be;
Neither shall that snowy brest,
Rowling eye, and lip of ruby
Ever robb me of my rest:
Goe, go display 15
Thy beautie's ray
To some more soone-enamour'd swaine;
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vaine. 20
I have elsewhere vowed a dutie;
Turne away thy tempting eye:
Shew not me a painted beautie;
These impostures I defie:
My spirit lothes 25
Where gawdy clothes
And fained othes may love obtaine:
I love her so,
Whose looke sweares No;
That all your labours will be vaine. 30
Can he prize the tainted posies,
Which on every brest are worne;
That may plucke the virgin roses
From their never-touched thorne?
I can goe rest 35
On her sweet brest,
That is the pride of Cynthia's traine:
Then stay thy tongue;
Thy mermaid song
Is all bestowed on me in vaine. 40
Hee's a foole, that basely dallies,
Where each peasant mates with him:
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,
Whilst ther's noble hills to climbe?
No, no, though clownes 45
Are scar'd with frownes,
I know the best can but disdaine;
And those Ile prove:
So will thy love
Be all bestowed on me in vaine. 50
I doe scorne to vow a dutie,
Where each lustfull lad may wooe:
Give me her, whose sun-like beautie
Buzzards dare not soar unto:
Shee, shee it is 55
Affoords that blisse
For which I would refuse no paine:
But such as you,
Fond fooles, adieu;
You seeke to captive me in vaine. 60
Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me;
Seeke no more to worke my harmes:
Craftie wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proofe against your charmes:
You labour may 65
To lead astray
The heart, that constant shall remaine:
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vaine. 70
VIII.
THE SPANISH VIRGIN, OR EFFECTS OF JEALOUSY. The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, intitled, The theatre of God's judgments, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor, 1642. Pt. ii. p. 89.—The text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden: "Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell:
Depart from hence, and therein dwell."
All tender hearts, that ake to hear
Of those that suffer wrong;
All you, that never shed a tear,
Give heed unto my song.
Fair Isabella's tragedy 5
My tale doth far exceed:
Alas! that so much cruelty
In female hearts should breed!
In Spain a lady liv'd of late,
Who was of high degree; 10
Whose wayward temper did create
Much woe and misery.
Strange jealousies so fill'd her head
With many a vain surmize,
She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, 15
And did her love despise.
A gentlewoman passing fair
Did on this lady wait;
With bravest dames she might compare;
Her beauty was compleat. 20
Her lady cast a jealous eye
Upon this gentle maid;
And taxt her with disloyaltye;
And did her oft upbraid.
In silence still this maiden meek 25
Her bitter taunts would bear,
While oft adown her lovely cheek
Would steal the falling tear.
In vain in humble sort she strove
Her fury to disarm; 30
As well the meekness of the dove
The bloody hawke might charm.
Her lord of humour light and gay,
And innocent the while,
As oft as she came in his way, 35
Would on the damsell smile.
And oft before his lady's face,
As thinking her her friend,
He would the maiden's modest grace
And comeliness commend. 40
All which incens'd his lady so
She burnt with wrath extreame;
At length the fire that long did glow,
Burst forth into a flame.
For on a day it so befell, 45
When he was gone from home,
The lady all with rage did swell,
And to the damsell come.
And charging her with great offence,
And many a grievous fault; 50
She bade her servants drag her thence,
Into a dismal vault,
That lay beneath the common-shore:
A dungeon dark and deep:
Where they were wont, in days of yore, 55
Offenders great to keep.
There never light of chearful day
Dispers'd the hideous gloom;
But dank and noisome vapours play
Around the wretched room: 60
And adders, snakes, and toads therein,
As afterwards was known,
Long in this loathsome vault had bin,
And were to monsters grown.
Into this foul and fearful place, 65
The fair one innocent
Was cast, before her lady's face;
Her malice to content.
This maid no sooner enter'd is,
But strait, alas! she hears 70
The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss:
Then grievously she fears.
Soon from their holes the vipers creep,
And fiercely her assail:
Which makes the damsel sorely weep, 75
And her sad fate bewail.
With her fair hands she strives in vain
Her body to defend:
With shrieks and cries she doth complain,
But all is to no end. 80
A servant listning near the door,
Struck with her doleful noise,
Strait ran his lady to implore;
But she'll not hear his voice.
With bleeding heart he goes agen 85
To mark the maiden's groans;
And plainly hears, within the den,
How she herself bemoans.
Again he to his lady hies
With all the haste he may: 90
She into furious passion flies,
And orders him away.
Still back again does he return
To hear her tender cries;
The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn; 95
Which fill'd him with surprize.
In grief, and horror, and affright,
He listens at the walls;
But finding all was silent quite,
He to his lady calls. 100
Too sure, O lady, now quoth he,
Your cruelty hath sped;
Make hast, for shame, and come and see;
I fear the virgin's dead.
She starts to hear her sudden fate, 105
And does with torches run:
But all her haste was now too late,
For death his worst had done.
The door being open'd strait they found
The virgin stretch'd along: 110
Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round,
Which her to death had stung.
One round her legs, her thighs, her waist
Had twin'd his fatal wreath:
The other close her neck embrac'd, 115
And stopt her gentle breath.
The snakes, being from her body thrust,
Their bellies were so fill'd,
That with excess of blood they burst,
Thus with their prey were kill'd. 120
The wicked lady at this sight,
With horror strait ran mad;
So raving dy'd, as was most right,
'Cause she no pity had.
Let me advise you, ladies all, 125
Of jealousy beware:
It causeth many a one to fall,
And is the devil's snare.
?
IX.
JEALOUSY TYRANT OF THE MIND. This Song is by Dryden, being inserted in his Tragi-Comedy of Love Triumphant, &c.—On account of the subject it is inserted here.
What state of life can be so blest,
As love that warms the gentle brest;
Two souls in one; the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require?
If in this heaven a hell we find, 5
Tis all from thee,
O Jealousie!
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
All other ills, though sharp they prove,
Serve to refine and perfect love: 10
In absence, or unkind disdaine,
Sweet hope relieves the lovers paine:
But, oh, no cure but death we find
To sett us free
From jealousie, 15
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
False in thy glass all objects are,
Some sett too near, and some too far:
Thou art the fire of endless night,
The fire that burns, and gives no light. 20
All torments of the damn'd we find
In only thee,
O Jealousie;
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
X.
CONSTANT PENELOPE. The ladies are indebted for the following notable documents to the Pepys collection, where the original is preserved in black-letter, and is intitled, A lookingglass for ladies, or a mirrour for married women. Tune Queen Dido, or Troy town.
When Greeks and Trojans fell at strife,
And lords in armour bright were seen;
When many a gallant lost his life
About fair Hellen, beauty's queen;
Ulysses, general so free, 5
Did leave his dear Penelope.
When she this wofull news did hear,
That he would to the warrs of Troy;
For grief she shed full many a tear,
At parting from her only joy; 10
Her ladies all about her came,
To comfort up this Grecian dame.
Ulysses, with a heavy heart,
Unto her then did mildly say,
The time is come that we must part; 15
My honour calls me hence away;
Yet in my absence, dearest, be
My constant wife, Penelope.
Let me no longer live, she sayd,
Then to my lord I true remain; 20
My honour shall not be betray'd
Until I see my love again;
For I will ever constant prove,
As is the loyal turtle-dove.
Thus did they part with heavy chear, 25
And to the ships his way he took;
Her tender eyes dropt many a tear;
Still casting many a longing look:
She saw him on the surges glide,
And unto Neptune thus she cry'd: 30
Thou god, whose power is in the deep,
And rulest in the ocean main,
My loving lord in safety keep
Till he return to me again:
That I his person may behold, 35
To me more precious far than gold.
Then straight the ships with nimble sails
Were all convey'd out of her sight:
Her cruel fate she then bewails,
Since she had lost her hearts delight. 40
Now shall my practice be, quoth she,
True vertue and humility.
My patience I will put in ure,[429]
My charity I will extend;
Since for my woe there is no cure, 45
The helpless now I will befriend:
The widow and the fatherless
I will relieve, when in distress.
Thus she continued year by year
In doing good to every one; 50
Her fame was noised every where,
To young and old the same was known,
That she no company would mind,
Who were to vanity inclin'd.
Mean while Ulysses fought for fame, 55
'Mongst Trojans hazarding his life:
Young gallants, hearing of her name,
Came flocking for to tempt his wife:
For she was lovely, young, and fair,
No lady might with her compare. 60
With costly gifts and jewels fine,
They did endeavour her to win;
With banquets and the choicest wine,
For to allure her unto sin:
Most persons were of high degree, 65
Who courted fair Penelope.
With modesty and comely grace,
Their wanton suits she did denye;
No tempting charms could e'er deface
Her dearest husband's memorye; 70
But constant she would still remain,
Hopeing to see him once again.
Her book her dayly comfort was,
And that she often did peruse;
She seldom looked in her glass; 75
Powder and paint she ne'er would use.
I wish all ladies were as free
From pride, as was Penelope.
She in her needle took delight,
And likewise in her spinning-wheel; 80
Her maids about her every night
Did use the distaff, and the reel:
The spiders, that on rafters twine,
Scarce spin a thread more soft and fine.
Sometimes she would bewail the loss 85
And absence of her dearest love:
Sometimes she thought the seas to cross,
Her fortune on the waves to prove.
I fear my lord is slain, quoth she,
He stays so from Penelope. 90
At length the ten years siege of Troy
Did end: in flames the city burn'd;
And to the Grecians was great joy,
To see the towers to ashes turn'd:
Then came Ulysses home to see 95
His constant, dear, Penelope.
O blame her not if she was glad,
When she her lord again had seen.
Thrice-welcome home, my dear, she said,
A long time absent thou hast been: 100
The wars shall never more deprive
Me of my lord whilst I'm alive.
Fair ladies all example take;
And hence a worthy lesson learn,
All youthful follies to forsake, 105
And vice from virtue to discern:
And let all women strive to be,
As constant as Penelope.
XI.
TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. By Col. Richard Lovelace: from the volume of his poems, intitled Lucasta, (Lond. 1649. 12mo.). The elegance of this writer's manner would be more admired, if it had somewhat more of simplicity.
[Percy's admirers would be glad to expunge the above unjust judgment. Some of Lovelace's poems may be affected, but that charge cannot be brought against these exquisite verses, the last two of which have become a world-famed quotation.]
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flie.
True, a new mistresse now I chase, 5
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore; 10
I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.
XII.
VALENTINE AND URSINE. The old story-book of Valentine and Orson (which suggested the plan of this tale, but it is not strictly followed in it) was originally a translation from the French, being one of their earliest attempts at romance. See Le BibliothÈque de Romans, &c. The circumstance of the bridge of bells is taken from the old metrical legend of Sir Bevis, and has also been copied in the Seven Champions. The original lines are, "Over the dyke a bridge there lay,
That man and beest might passe away:
Under the brydge were sixty belles;
Right as the Romans telles;
That there might no man passe in,
But all they rang with a gyn."
Sign. E. iv. In the Editor's folio MS. was an old poem on this subject, in a wretched corrupt state, unworthy the press: from which were taken such particulars as could be adopted.
[The poem entitled The Emperour and the Childe in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 390) only suggested the subject of the present ballad. It commences— Within the Grecyan land some time did dwell
an Emperour, whose name did ffar excell;
he tooke to wiffe the lady B[e]llefaunt,
the only sister to the kinge of ffrance,
with whome he liued in pleasure and delight
vntill that ffortune came to worke them spighte.
There are no particular signs of "corruption," and the piece is probably superior to Percy's own effusion. Percy's trumpery commencement is an echo of the beginning of the printed copies of Sir Andrew Barton. The name Ursine, like that of Orson, is derived from Fr. Ourson, the diminutive of Ours, a bear (Latin, ursus.)]
Part the First. Then Flora 'gins to decke the fields
With colours fresh and fine,
Then holy clerkes their mattins sing
To good Saint Valentine!
The king of France that morning fair 5
He would a hunting ride:
To Artois forest prancing forth
In all his princelye pride.
To grace his sports a courtly train
Of gallant peers attend; 10
And with their loud and cheerful cryes
The hills and valleys rend.
Through the deep forest swift they pass,
Through woods and thickets wild;
When down within a lonely dell 15
They found a new-born child;
All in a scarlet kercher lay'd
Of silk so fine and thin:
A golden mantle wrapt him round
Pinn'd with a silver pin. 20
The sudden sight surpriz'd them all;
The courtiers gather'd round;
They look, they call, the mother seek;
No mother could be found.
At length the king himself drew near, 25
And as he gazing stands,
The pretty babe look'd up and smil'd,
And stretch'd his little hands.
Now, by the rood, king Pepin says,
This child is passing fair: 30
I wot he is of gentle blood;
Perhaps some prince's heir.
Goe bear him home unto my court
With all the care ye may:
Let him be christen'd Valentine, 35
In honour of this day:
And look me out some cunning nurse;
Well nurtur'd let him bee;
Nor ought be wanting that becomes
A bairn of high degree. 40
They look'd him out a cunning nurse;
And nurtur'd well was hee;
Nor ought was wanting that became
A bairn of high degree.
Thus grewe the little Valentine 45
Belov'd of king and peers;
And shew'd in all he spake or did
A wit beyond his years.
But chief in gallant feates of arms
He did himself advance, 50
That ere he grewe to man's estate
He had no peere in France.
And now the early downe began
To shade his youthful chin;
When Valentine was dubb'd a knight, 55
That he might glory win.
A boon, a boon, my gracious liege,
I beg a boon of thee!
The first adventure, that befalls,
May be reserv'd for mee. 60
The first adventure shall be thine;
The king did smiling say.
Nor many days, when lo! there came
Three palmers clad in graye.
Help, gracious lord, they weeping say'd; 65
And knelt, as it was meet:
From Artoys forest we be come,
With weak and wearye feet.
Within those deep and drearye woods
There wends a savage boy; 70
Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield
Thy subjects dire annoy.
'Mong ruthless beares he sure was bred;
He lurks within their den:
With beares he lives; with beares he feeds; 75
And drinks the blood of men.
To more than savage strength he joins
A more than human skill:
For arms, ne cunning may suffice
His cruel rage to still:
Up then rose sir Valentine,
And claim'd that arduous deed.
Go forth and conquer, say'd the king,
And great shall be thy meed.
Well mounted on a milk-white steed, 85
His armour white as snow;
As well beseem'd a virgin knight,
Who ne'er had fought a foe;
To Artoys forest he repairs
With all the haste he may; 90
And soon he spies the savage youth
A rending of his prey.
His unkempt hair all matted hung
His shaggy shoulders round:
His eager eye all fiery glow'd: 95
His face with fury frown'd.
Like eagles' talons grew his nails:
His limbs were thick and strong;
And dreadful was the knotted oak
He bare with him along. 100
Soon as sir Valentine approach'd,
He starts with sudden spring;
And yelling forth a hideous howl,
He made the forests ring.
As when a tyger fierce and fell 105
Hath spyed a passing roe,
And leaps at once upon his throat;
So sprung the savage foe;
So lightly leap'd with furious force
The gentle knight to seize: 110
But met his tall uplifted spear,
Which sunk him on his knees.
A second stroke so stiff and stern
Had laid the savage low;
But springing up, he rais'd his club, 115
And aim'd a dreadful blow.
The watchful warrior bent his head,
And shun'd the coming stroke;
Upon his taper spear it fell,
And all to shivers broke. 120
Then lighting nimbly from his steed,
He drew his burnisht brand:
The savage quick as lightning flew
To wrest it from his hand.
Three times he grasp'd the silver hilt; 125
Three times he felt the blade;
Three times it fell with furious force;
Three ghastly wounds it made.
Now with redoubled rage he roared;
His eye-ball flash'd with fire; 130
Each hairy limb with fury shook;
And all his heart was ire.
Then closing fast with furious gripe
He clasp'd the champion round,
And with a strong and sudden twist 135
He laid him on the ground.
But soon the knight, with active spring,
O'erturn'd his hairy foe:
And now between their sturdy fists
Past many a bruising blow. 140
They roll'd and grappled on the ground,
And there they struggled long:
Skilful and active was the knight;
The savage he was strong.
But brutal force and savage strength 145
To art and skill must yield:
Sir Valentine at length prevail'd,
And won the well-fought field.
Then binding strait his conquer'd foe
Fast with an iron chain, 150
He tyes him to his horse's tail,
And leads him o'er the plain.
To court his hairy captive soon
Sir Valentine doth bring;
And kneeling downe upon his knee, 155
Presents him to the king.
With loss of blood and loss of strength,
The savage tamer grew;
And to sir Valentine became
A servant try'd and true. 160
And 'cause with beares he erst was bred,
Ursine they call his name;
A name which unto future times
The Muses shall proclame.
Part the Second. In high renown with prince and peere
Now liv'd sir Valentine:
His high renown with prince and peere
Made envious hearts repine.
It chanc'd the king upon a day 5
Prepar'd a sumptuous feast:
And there came lords, and dainty dames,
And many a noble guest.
Amid their cups, that freely flow'd,
Their revelry, and mirth; 10
A youthful knight tax'd Valentine
Of base and doubtful birth.
The foul reproach, so grossly urg'd,
His generous heart did wound:
And strait he vow'd he ne'er would rest 15
Till he his parents found.
Then bidding king and peers adieu,
Early one summer's day,
With faithful Ursine by his side,
From court he took his way. 20
O'er hill and valley, moss and moor,
For many a day they pass;
At length upon a moated lake,[430]
They found a bridge of brass.
Beyond it rose a castle fair 25
Y-built of marble stone:
The battlements were gilt with gold,
And glittred in the sun.
Beneath the bridge, with strange device,
A hundred bells were hung; 30
That man, nor beast, might pass thereon,
But strait their larum rung.
This quickly found the youthful pair,
Who boldly crossing o'er,
The jangling sound bedeaft their ears, 35
And rung from shore to shore.
Quick at the sound the castle gates
Unlock'd and opened wide,
And strait a gyant huge and grim
Stalk'd forth with stately pride. 40
Now yield you, caytiffs, to my will;
He cried with hideous roar;
Or else the wolves shall eat your flesh,
And ravens drink your gore.
Vain boaster, said the youthful knight, 45
I scorn thy threats and thee:
I trust to force thy brazen gates,
And set thy captives free.
Then putting spurs unto his steed,
He aim'd a dreadful thrust: 50
The spear against the gyant glanc'd,
And caus'd the blood to burst.
Mad and outrageous with the pain,
He whirl'd his mace of steel:
The very wind of such a blow 55
Had made the champion reel.
It haply mist; and now the knight
His glittering sword display'd,
And riding round with whirlwind speed
Oft made him feel the blade. 60
As when a large and monstrous oak
Unceasing axes hew:
So fast around the gyant's limbs
The blows quick-darting flew.
As when the boughs with hideous fall 65
Some hapless woodman crush:
With such a force the enormous foe
Did on the champion rush.
A fearful blow, alas! there came,
Both horse and knight it took. 70
And laid them senseless in the dust;
So fatal was the stroke.
Then smiling forth a hideous grin,
The gyant strides in haste,
And, stooping, aims a second stroke: 75
"Now caytiff breathe thy last!"
But ere it fell, two thundering blows
Upon his scull descend:
From Ursine's knotty club they came,
Who ran to save his friend. 80
Down sunk the gyant gaping wide,
And rolling his grim eyes:
The hairy youth repeats his blows:
He gasps, he groans, he dies.
Quickly sir Valentine reviv'd 85
With Ursine's timely care:
And now to search the castle walls
The venturous youths repair.
The blood and bones of murder'd knights
They found where'er they came: 90
At length within a lonely cell
They saw a mournful dame.
Her gentle eyes were dim'd with tears;
Her cheeks were pale with woe:
And long sir Valentine besought 95
Her doleful tale to know.
"Alas! young knight," she weeping said,
"Condole my wretched fate:
A childless mother here you see;
A wife without a mate. 100
"These twenty winters here forlorn
I've drawn my hated breath;
Sole witness of a monster's crimes,
And wishing aye for death.
"Know, I am sister of a king; 105
And in my early years
Was married to a mighty prince,
The fairest of his peers.
"With him I sweetly liv'd in love
A twelvemonth and a day: 110
When, lo! a foul and treacherous priest
Y-wrought our loves' decay.
"His seeming goodness wan him pow'r;
He had his master's ear:
And long to me and all the world 115
He did a saint appear.
"One day, when we were all alone,
He proffer'd odious love:
The wretch with horrour I repuls'd,
And from my presence drove. 120
"He feign'd remorse, and piteous beg'd
His crime I'd not reveal:
Which, for his seeming penitence,
I promis'd to conceal.
"With treason, villainy, and wrong 125
My goodness he repay'd:
With jealous doubts he fill'd my lord,
And me to woe betray'd.
"He hid a slave within my bed,
Then rais'd a bitter cry. 130
My lord, possest with rage, condemn'd
Me, all unheard, to dye.
"But 'cause I then was great with child,
At length my life he spar'd;
But bade me instant quit the realme, 135
One trusty knight my guard.
"Forth on my journey I depart,
Opprest with grief and woe;
And tow'rds my brother's distant court,
With breaking heart, I goe. 140
"Long time thro' sundry foreign lands
We slowly pace along:
At length within a forest wild
I fell in labour strong:
"And while the knight for succour sought, 145
And left me there forlorn,
My childbed pains so fast increast
Two lovely boys were born.
"The eldest fair, and smooth, as snow
That tips the mountain hoar: 150
The younger's little body rough
With hairs was cover'd o'er.
"But here afresh begin my woes:
While tender care I took
To shield my eldest from the cold, 155
And wrap him in my cloak;
"A prowling bear burst from the wood,
And seiz'd my younger son:
Affection lent my weakness wings,
And after them I run. 160
"But all forewearied, weak and spent,
I quickly swoon'd away;
And there beneath the greenwood shade
Long time I lifeless lay.
"At length the knight brought me relief, 165
And rais'd me from the ground:
But neither of my pretty babes
Could ever more be found.
"And, while in search we wander'd far,
We met that gyant grim; 170
Who ruthless slew my trusty knight,
And bare me off with him.
"But charm'd by heav'n, or else my griefs,
He offer'd me no wrong;
Save that within these lonely walls 175
I've been immur'd so long."
Now, surely, said the youthful knight,
You are lady Bellisance,
Wife to the Grecian emperor:
Your brother's king of France. 180
For in your royal brother's court
Myself my breeding had;
Where oft the story of your woes
Hath made my bosom sad.
If so, know your accuser's dead, 185
And dying own'd his crime;
And long your lord hath sought you out
Thro' every foreign clime.
And when no tidings he could learn
Of his much-wronged wife, 190
He vow'd thenceforth within his court
To lead a hermit's life.
Now heaven is kind! the lady said;
And dropt a joyful tear:
Shall I once more behold my lord? 195
That lord I love so dear?
But, madam, said sir Valentine,
And knelt upon his knee;
Know you the cloak that wrapt your babe,
If you the same should see? 200
And pulling forth the cloth of gold,
In which himself was found;
The lady gave a sudden shriek,
And fainted on the ground.
But by his pious care reviv'd, 205
His tale she heard anon;
And soon by other tokens found,
He was indeed her son.
But who's this hairy youth? she said;
He much resembles thee: 210
The bear devour'd my younger son,
Or sure that son were he.
Madam, this youth with bears was bred,
And rear'd within their den.
But recollect ye any mark 215
To know you son agen?
Upon his little side, quoth she,
Was stampt a bloody rose.
Here, lady, see the crimson mark
Upon his body grows! 220
Then clasping both her new-found sons
She bath'd their cheeks with tears;
And soon towards hÈr brother's court
Her joyful course she steers.
What pen can paint king Pepin's joy, 225
His sister thus restor'd!
And soon a messenger was sent
To cheer her drooping lord:
Who came in haste with all his peers,
To fetch her home to Greece; 230
Where many happy years they reign'd
In perfect love and peace.
To them sir Ursine did succeed,
And long the scepter bare.
Sir Valentine he stay'd in France, 235
And was his uncle's heir.
? [430] Ver. 23. i.e. a lake that served for a moat to a castle.
XIII.
THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY. This humourous song (as a former Editor[431] has well observed) is to old metrical romances and ballads of chivalry, what Don Quixote is to prose narratives of that kind:—a lively satire on their extravagant fictions. But altho' the satire is thus general, the subject of this ballad is local and peculiar: so that many of the finest strokes of humour are lost for want of our knowing the minute circumstances to which they allude. Many of them can hardly now be recovered, altho' we have been fortunate enough to learn the general subject to which the satire referred, and shall detail the information, with which we have been favoured, at the end of this introduction. In handling his subject, the Author has brought in most of the common incidents which occur in romance. The description of the dragon[432]—his outrages—the people flying to the knight for succour—his care in chusing his armour—his being drest for fight by a young damsel—and most of the circumstances of the battle and victory (allowing for the burlesque turn given to them) are what occur in every book of chivalry, whether in prose or verse. If any one piece, more than other, is more particularly levelled at, it seems to be the old rhiming legend of sir Bevis. There a Dragon is attacked from a Well in a manner not very remote from this of the ballad:— There was a well, so have I wynne,
And Bevis stumbled ryght therein.
* * * * *
Than was he glad without fayle,
And rested a whyle for his avayle;
And dranke of that water his fyll;
And then he lepte out, with good wyll,
And with Morglay his brande
He assayled the dragon, I understande:
On the dragon he smote so faste,
Where that he hit the scales braste:
The dragon then faynted sore,
And cast a galon and more
Out of his mouthe of venim strong,
And on syr Bevis he it flong:
It was venymous y-wis.
This seems to be meant by the Dragon of Wantley's stink, ver. 110. As the politick knight's creeping out, and attacking the dragon, &c. seems evidently to allude to the following: Bevis blessed himselfe and forth yode,
And lepte out with haste full good;
And Bevis unto the dragon gone is;
And the dragon also to Bevis.
Longe, and harde was that fyght
Betwene the dragon, and that knyght:
But ever whan syr Bevis was hurt sore,
He went to the well, and washed him thore;
He was as hole as any man,
Ever freshe as whan he began.
The dragon sawe it might not avayle
Besyde the well to hold batayle;
He thought he would, wyth some wyle,
Out of that place Bevis begyle;
He woulde have flowen then awaye,
But Bevis lepte after with good Morglaye,
And hyt him under the wynge,
As he was in his flyenge, &c.
Sign. M. jv. L. j. &c. After all, perhaps the writer of this ballad was acquainted with the above incidents only thro' the medium of Spenser, who has assumed most of them in his Faery Queen. At least some particulars in the description of the Dragon, &c. seem evidently borrowed from the latter. See book i. canto 11, where the Dragon's "two wynges like sayls—huge long tayl—with stings—his cruel rending clawes—and yron teeth—his breath of smothering smoke and sulphur"—and the duration of the fight for upwards of two days, bear a great resemblance to passages in the following ballad; though it must be confessed that these particulars are common to all old writers of romance. Altho' this ballad must have been written early in the last century, we have met with none but such as were comparatively modern copies. It is here printed from one in Roman letter, in the Pepys collection, collated with such others as could be procured. A description of the supposed scene of this ballad, which was communicated to the Editor in 1767, is here given in the words of the relater:— "In Yorkshire, 6 miles from Rotherham, is a village, called Wortley, the seat of the late Wortley Montague, Esq. About a mile from this village is a lodge, named Warncliff Lodge, but vulgarly called Wantley: here lies the scene of the song. I was there about forty years ago: and it being a woody rocky place, my friend made me clamber over rocks and stones, not telling me to what end, till I came to a sort of a cave; then asked my opinion of the place, and pointing to one end, says, Here lay the dragon killed by Moor of Moor-hall: here lay his head; here lay his tail; and the stones we came over on the hill, are those he could not crack; and yon white house you see half a mile off, is Moor-hall. I had dined at the lodge, and knew the man's name was Matthew, who was a keeper to Mr. Wortley, and, as he endeavoured to persuade me, was the same Matthew mentioned in the song: In the house is the picture of the Dragon and Moor of Moor-hall, and near it a well, which, says he, is the well described in the ballad." Since the former editions of this humorous old song were printed, the following Key to the Satire hath been communicated by Godfrey Bosville, Esq. of Thorp, near Malton, in Yorkshire; who, in the most obliging manner, gave full permission to adjoin it to the poem. Warncliffe Lodge, and Warncliffe Wood (vulgarly pronounced Wantley), are in the parish of Penniston, in Yorkshire. The rectory of Penniston was part of the dissolved monastery of St. Stephen's, Westminster; and was granted to the Duke of Norfolk's family: who therewith endowed an hospital, which he built at Sheffield, for women. The trustees let the impropriation of the great Tythes of Penniston to the Wortley family, who got a great deal by it, and wanted to get still more; for Mr. Nicholas Wortley attempted to take the tythes in kind, but Mr. Francis Bosville opposed him, and there was a decree in favour of the Modus in 37th Eliz. The vicarage of Penniston did not go along with the rectory, but with the copyhold rents, and was part of a large purchase made by Ralph Bosville, Esq. from Q. Elizabeth, in the 2d year of her reign: and that part he sold in 12th Eliz. to his elder brother Godfrey, the father of Francis; who left it, with the rest of his estate, to his wife, for her life, and then to Ralph, 3d son of his uncle Ralph. The widow married Lyonel Rowlestone, lived eighteen years, and survived Ralph. This premised, the ballad apparently relates to the law-suit carried on concerning this claim of tythes made by the Wortley family. "Houses and churches, were to him geese and turkeys:" which are tytheable things, the dragon chose to live on. Sir Francis Wortley, the son of Nicholas, attempted again to take the tythes in kind: but the parishioners subscribed an agreement to defend their Modus. And at the head of the agreement was Lyonel Rowlestone, who is supposed to be one of "the Stones, dear Jack, which the Dragon could not crack." The agreement is still preserved in a large sheet of parchment, dated 1st of James I., and is full of names and seals, which might be meant by the coat of armour, "with spikes all about, both within and without." More of More-hall was either the attorney, or counsellor, who conducted the suit. He is not distinctly remembered, but More-hall is still extant at the very bottom of Wantley [Warncliff] Wood, and lies so low, that it might be said to be in a well: as the dragon's den [Warncliff Lodge] was at the top of the wood, "with Matthew's house hard by it." The keepers belonging to the Wortley family were named, for many generations, Matthew Northall: the last of them left this lodge, within memory, to be keeper to the Duke of Norfolk. The present owner of More-hall still attends Mr. Bosville's Manor-Court at Oxspring, and pays a rose a year. "More of More-hall, with nothing at all, slew the Dragon of Wantley." He gave him, instead of tythes, so small a Modus, that it was in effect nothing at all, and was slaying him with a vengeance. "The poor children three," &c. cannot surely mean the three sisters of Francis Bosville, who would have been coheiresses, had he made no will? The late Mr. Bosville had a contest with the descendants of two of them, the late Sir Geo. Saville's father, and Mr. Copley, about the presentation to Penniston, they supposing Francis had not the power to give this part of the estate from the heirs at law; but it was decided against them. The dragon (Sir Francis Wortley) succeeded better with his cousin Wordesworth, the freehold lord of the manor (for it is the copyhold manor that belongs to Mr. Bosville) having persuaded him not to join the refractory parishioners, under a promise that he would let him his tythes cheap: and now the estates of Wortley and Wordesworth are the only lands that pay tythes in the parish.
N.B. "Two days and a night," mentioned in ver. 125, as the duration of the combat, was probably that of the trial at law.
[In Gough's edition of Camden's Britannia we learn that "Sir Thomas Wortley, who was knight of the body to Edward IV., Richard III., Henry VII. and VIII., built a lodge in his chace of Warncliffe, and had a house and park there, disparked in the Civil War." Mr. Gilfillan has the following note in his edition of the Reliques, "A legend current in the Wortley family states the dragon to have been a formidable drinker, drunk dead by the chieftain of the opposite moors. Ellis thinks it was a wolf or some other fierce animal hunted down by More of More-hall." A writer in the Notes and Queries (3rd S. ix. 29), who signs himself "Fitzhopkins," expresses his disbelief in the above explanation communicated to Percy by Godfrey Bosville.]
Old stories tell how Hercules
A dragon slew at Lerna,
With seven heads, and fourteen eyes,
To see and well discern-a:
But he had a club, this dragon to drub, 5
Or he had ne'er done it, I warrant ye:
But More of More-Hall, with nothing at all,
He slew the dragon of Wantley.
This dragon had two furious wings,
Each one upon each shoulder; 10
With a sting in his tayl as long as a flayl,
Which made him bolder and bolder.
He had long claws, and in his jaws
Four and forty teeth of iron;
With a hide as tough, as any buff, 15
Which did him round environ.
Have you not heard how the Trojan horse
Held seventy men in his belly?
This dragon was not quite so big,
But very near, I'll tell ye. 20
Devoured he poor children three,
That could not with him grapple;
And at one sup he eat them up,
As one would eat an apple.
All sorts of cattle this dragon did eat. 25
Some say he ate up trees,
And that the forests sure he would
Devour up by degrees:
For houses and churches were to him geese and turkies;[433]
He ate all, and left none behind, 30
But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack,
Which on the hills you will find.
In Yorkshire, near fair Rotherham,[434]
The place I know it well;
Some two or three miles, or thereabouts, 35
I vow I cannot tell.
But there is a hedge, just on the hill edge,
And Matthew's house hard by it;
O there and then was this dragon's den,
You could not chuse but spy it. 40
Some say, this dragon was a witch;
Some say, he was a devil,
For from his nose a smoke arose,
And with it burning snivel;
Which he cast off, when he did cough, 45
In a well that he did stand by;
Which made it look, just like a brook
Running with burning brandy.
Hard by a furious knight there dwelt,
Of whom all towns did ring; 50
For he could wrestle, play at quarter-staff, kick, cuff, and huff,
Call son of a whore, do any kind of thing:
By the tail and the main, with his hands twain
He swung a horse till he was dead;
And that which is stranger, he for very anger 55
Eat him all up but his head.
These children, as I am told, being eat;
Men, women, girls and boys,
Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging,
And made a hideous noise: 60
O save us all, More of More-Hall,
Thou peerless knight of these woods;
Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on,
We'll give thee all our goods.
Tut, tut, quoth he, no goods I want; 65
But I want, I want, in sooth,
A fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk, and keen,
With smiles about the mouth;
Hair black as sloe, skin white as snow,
With blushes her cheeks adorning; 70
To anoynt me o'er night, ere I go to fight,
And to dress me in the morning.
This being done, he did engage
To hew the dragon down;
But first he went, new armour to 75
Bespeak at Sheffield town;
With spikes all about, not within but without,
Of steel so sharp and strong;
Both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er
Some five or six inches long. 80
Had you but seen him in this dress,
How fierce he look'd and how big,
You would have thought him for to be
Some Egyptian porcupig:
He frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, 85
Each cow, each horse, and each hog:
For fear they did flee, for they took him to be
Some strange outlandish hedge-hog.
To see this fight, all people then
Got up on trees and houses, 90
On churches some, and chimneys too;
But these put on their trowses,
Not to spoil their hose. As soon as he rose,
To make him strong and mighty,
He drank by the tale, six pots of ale, 95
And a quart of aqua-vitÆ.
It is not strength that always wins,
For wit doth strength excell;
Which made our cunning champion
Creep down into a well; 100
Where he did think, this dragon would drink,
And so he did in truth;
And as he stoop'd low, he rose up and cry'd, boh!
And hit him in the mouth.
O, quoth the dragon, pox take thee, come out, 105
Thou disturb'st me in my drink:
And then he turn'd, and s... at him;
Good lack how he did stink!
Beshrew thy soul, thy body's foul,
Thy dung smells not like balsam; 110
Thou son of a whore, thou stink'st so sore,
Sure thy diet is unwholesome.
Our politick knight, on the other side,
Crept out upon the brink,
And gave the dragon such a douse, 115
He knew not what to think:
By cock, quoth he, say you so: do you see?
And then at him he let fly
With hand and with foot, and so they went to't;
And the word it was, Hey boys, hey! 120
Your words, quoth the dragon, I don't understand:
Then to it they fell at all,
Like two wild boars so fierce, if I may,
Compare great things with small.
Two days and a night, with this dragon did fight 125
Our champion on the ground;
Tho' their strength it was great, their skill it was neat,
They never had one wound.
At length the hard earth began to quake,
The dragon gave him a knock, 130
Which made him to reel, and straitway he thought,
To lift him as high as a rock,
And thence let him fall. But More of More-Hall,
Like a valiant son of Mars,
As he came like a lout, so he turn'd him about, 135
And hit him a kick on the a...
Oh, quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh,
And turn'd six times together,
Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing
Out of his throat of leather; 140
More of More-Hall! O thou rascÀl!
Would I had seen thee never;
With the thing at thy foot, thou hast prick'd my a...gut,
And I'm quite undone for ever.
Murder, murder, the dragon cry'd, 145
Alack, alack, for grief;
Had you but mist that place, you could
Have done me no mischief.
Then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked,
And down he laid and cry'd; 150
First on one knee, then on back tumbled he,
So groan'd, kickt, s..., and dy'd.
XIV.
ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND. The First Part. As the former song is in ridicule of the extravagant incidents in old ballads and metrical romances; so this is a burlesque of their style; particularly of the rambling transitions and wild accumulations of unconnected parts, so frequent in many of them. This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, "imprinted at London, 1612." It is more ancient than many of the preceding; but we place it here for the sake of connecting it with the Second Part.
[Saint George that, O! did break the dragon's heart is one of the ballads offered for sale by Nightingale, the ballad-singer in Ben Jonson's comedy of Bartholomew Fair (act ii. sc. 1), and according to Fielding's Tom Jones, St. George, he was for England, was one of Squire Western's favourite tunes. This ballad is printed in several collections, and Mr. Chappell notices a modernization subscribed S. S. and "printed for W. Gilbertson in Giltspur Street," about 1659, which commences— "What need we brag or boast at all
Of Arthur and his knights."]
Why doe you boast of Arthur and his knightes,
Knowing 'well' how many men have endured fightes?
For besides king Arthur, and Lancelot du lake,
Or sir Tristram de Lionel, that fought for ladies sake;
Read in old histories, and there you shall see
How St. George, St. George the dragon made to flee.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Mark our father Abraham, when first he resckued Lot
Onely with his household, what conquest there he got:
David was elected a prophet and a king,
He slew the great Goliah, with a stone within a sling:
Yet these were not knightes of the table round;
Nor St. George, St. George, who the dragon did confound.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Jephthah and Gideon did lead their men to fight,
They conquered the Amorites, and put them all to flight:
Hercules his labours 'were' on the plaines of Basse;
And Sampson slew a thousand with the jawbone of an asse,
And eke he threw a temple downe, and did a mighty spoyle:
But St. George, St. George he did the dragon foyle.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The warres of ancient monarchs it were too long to tell,
And likewise of the Romans, how farre they did excell;
Hannyball and Scipio in many a fielde did fighte:
Orlando Furioso he was a worthy knighte:
Remus and Romulus, were they that Rome did builde:
But St. George, St. George the dragon made to yielde.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The noble Alphonso, that was the Spanish king,
The order of the red scarffes and bandrolles in did bring:[435]
He had a troope of mighty knightes, when first he did begin,
Which sought adventures farre and neare, that conquest they might win:
The ranks of the Pagans he often put to flight:
But St. George, St. George did with the dragon fight.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Many 'knights' have fought with proud Tamberlaine.
Cutlax the Dane, great warres he did maintaine:
Rowland of Beame, and good 'sir' Olivere
In the forest of Acon slew both woolfe and beare:
Besides that noble Hollander, 'sir' Goward with the bill:
But St. George, St. George the dragon's blood did spill.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Valentine and Orson were of king Pepin's blood:
Alfride and Henry they were brave knightes and good:
The four sons of Aymon, that follow'd Charlemaine:
Sir Hughon of Burdeaux, and Godfrey of Bullaine:
These were all French knightes that lived in that age:
But St. George, St. George the dragon did assuage.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Bevis conquered Ascapart, and after slew the boare,
And then he crost beyond the seas to combat with the moore:
Sir Isenbras, and Eglamore they were knightes most bold;
And good Sir John Mandeville of travel much hath told:
There were many English knights that Pagans did convert:
But St. George, St. George pluckt out the dragon's heart.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The noble earl of Warwick, that was call'd sir Guy,
The infidels and pagans stoutlie did defie;
He slew the giant Brandimore, and after was the death
Of that most ghastly dun cowe, the divell of Dunsmore heath;
Besides his noble deeds all done beyond the seas:
But St George, St. George the dragon did appease.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Richard Coeur-de-lion erst king of this land,
He the lion gored with his naked hand:[436]
The false duke of Austria nothing did he feare;
But his son he killed with a boxe on the eare;
Besides his famous actes done in the holy lande:
But St. George, St. George the dragon did withstande.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Henry the fifth he conquered all France,
And quartered their arms, his honour to advance:
He their cities razed, and threw their castles downe,
And his head he honoured with a double crowne:
He thumped the French-men, and after home he came:
But St. George, St. George he did the dragon tame.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
St. David of Wales the Welsh-men much advance:
St. Jaques of Spaine, that never yet broke lance:
St. Patricke of Ireland, which was St. Georges boy,
Seven yeares he kept his horse, and then stole him away:
For which knavish act, as slaves they doe remaine:
But St. George, St. George the dragon he hath slaine.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
XV.
ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND. The Second Part. Was written by John Grubb, M.A. of Christ Church, Oxford. The occasion of its being composed is said to have been as follows. A set of gentlemen of the university had formed themselves into a club, all the members of which were to be of the name of George: Their anniversary feast was to be held on St. George's day. Our author solicited strongly to be admitted; but his name being unfortunately John, this disqualification was dispensed with only upon this condition, that he would compose a song in honour of their Patron Saint, and would every year produce one or more new stanzas, to be sung on their annual festival. This gave birth to the following humorous performance, the several stanzas of which were the produce of many successive anniversaries.[437] This diverting poem was long handed about in manuscript, at length a friend of Grubb's undertook to get it printed, who, not keeping pace with the impatience of his friends, was addressed in the following whimsical macaronic lines, which, in such a collection as this, may not improperly accompany the poem itself.
Expostulatiuncula, sive Querimoniuncula ad Antonium [Atherton] ob Poema Johannis Grubb, Viri t?? pa?? ingeniosissimi in lucem nondum editi. Toni! Tune sines divina poemata Grubbi
Intomb'd in secret thus still to remain any longer,
?????a s?? shall last, O G??e d?ape?e? ae?,
Grubbe tuum nomen vivet dum nobilis ale-a
Efficit heroas, dignamque heroe puellam.
Est genus heroum, quos nobilis efficit alea-a
Qui pro niperkin clamant, quaternque liquoris
Quem vocitant Homines Brandy, Superi Cherry-brandy,
SÆpe illi longcut, vel small-cut flare Tobacco
Sunt soliti pipos. Ast si generosior herba
(Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum)
Mundungus desit, tum non funcare recusant
Brown-paper tostÂ, vel quod fit arundine bed-mat.
Hic labor, hoc opus est heroum ascendere sedes!
Ast ego quo rapiar! quo me feret entheus ardor
Grubbe, tui memorem? Divinum expande poema.
QuÆ mora? quÆ ratio est, quin Grubbi protinus anser
Virgilii, Flaccique simul canat inter olores?
At length the importunity of his friends prevailed, and Mr. Grubb's song was published at Oxford, under the following title: The British Heroes.
A New Poem in honour of St. George,
By Mr. John Grubb,
School-master of Christ-Church,
Oxon. 1688. Favete linguis: carmina non prius
Audita, musarum sucerdos
Canto.—
Hor. Sold by Henry Clements. Oxon.
The story of king Arthur old
Is very memorable,
The number of his valiant knights,
And roundness of his table:
The knights around his table in 5
A circle sate d'ye see:
And altogether made up one
Large hoop of chivalry.
He had a sword, both broad and sharp,
Y-clepd Caliburn, 10
Would cut a flint more easily,
Than pen-knife cuts a corn;
As case-knife does a capon carve,
So would it carve a rock,
And split a man at single slash, 15
From noddle down to nock.
As Roman Augur's steel of yore
Dissected Tarquin's riddle,
So this would cut both conjurer
And whetstone thro' the middle. 20
He was the cream of Brecknock,
And flower of all the Welsh:
But George he did the dragon fell,
And gave him a plaguy squelsh.[438]
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; 25
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Pendragon, like his father Jove,
Was fed with milk of goat;
And like him made a noble shield
Of she-goat's shaggy coat: 30
On top of burnisht helmet he
Did wear a crest of leeks;
And onions' heads, whose dreadful nod
Drew tears down hostile cheeks.
Itch, and Welsh blood did make him hot, 35
And very prone to ire;
H' was ting'd with brimstone, like a match,
And would as soon take fire.
As brimstone he took inwardly
When scurf gave him occasion, 40
His postern puff of wind was a
Sulphureous exhalation.
The Briton never tergivers'd,
But was for adverse drubbing,
And never turn'd his back to aught, 45
But to a post for scrubbing.
His sword would serve for battle, or
For dinner, if you please;
When it had slain a Cheshire man,
'Twould toast a Cheshire cheese. 50
He wounded, and, in their own blood
Did anabaptize Pagans:
But George he made the dragon an
Example to all dragons.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; 55
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Brave Warwick Guy, at dinner time,
Challeng'd a gyant savage;
And streight came out the unweildy lout
Brim-full of wrath and cabbage: 60
He had a phiz of latitude,
And was full thick i' th' middle;
The chekes of puffed trumpeter,
And paunch of squire Beadle.[439]
But the knight fell'd him, like an oak, 65
And did upon his back tread;
The valiant knight his weazon cut,
And Atropos his packthread.
Besides he fought with a dun cow,
As say the poets witty, 70
A dreadful dun, and horned too,
Like dun of Oxford city:
The fervent dog-days made her mad,
By causing heat of weather,
Syrius and Procyon baited her, 75
As bull-dogs did her father:
Grafiers, nor butchers this fell beast,
E'er of her frolick hindered;
John Dosset[440] she'd knock down as flat,
As John knocks down her kindred: 80
Her heels would lay ye all along,
And kick into a swoon;
Frewin's[441] cow-heels keep up your corpse,
But hers would beat you down.
She vanquisht many a sturdy wight, 85
And proud was of the honour;
Was pufft by mauling butchers so,
As if themselves had blown her.
At once she kickt, and pusht at Guy,
But all that would not fright him; 90
Who wav'd his winyard o'er sir-loyn,
As if he'd gone to knight him.
He let her blood, frenzy to cure,
And eke he did her gall rip;
His trenchant blade, like cook's long spit, 95
Ran thro' the monster's bald-rib:
He rear'd up the vast crooked rib,
Instead of arch triumphal:
But George hit th' dragon such a pelt,
As made him on his bum fall. 100
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Tamerlain, with Tartarian bow,
The Turkish squadrons slew;
And fetch'd the pagan crescent down, 105
With half-moon made of yew:
His trusty bow proud Turks did gall,
With showers of arrows thick,
And bow-strings, without strangling, sent
Grand Viziers to old Nick: 110
Much turbants, and much Pagan pates
He made to humble in dust;
And heads of Saracens he fixt
On spear, as on a sign-post:
He coop'd in cage Bajazet the prop 115
Of Mahomet's religion,
As if't been the whispering bird,
That prompted him; the pigeon.
In Turkey leather scabbard, he
Did sheathe his blade so trenchant: 120
But George he swinged the dragon's tail,
And cut off every inch on't.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The amazon Thalestris was 125
Both beautiful, and bold;
She sear'd her breasts with iron hot,
And bang'd her foes with cold.
Her hand was like the tool, wherewith
Jove keeps proud mortals under: 130
It shone just like his lightning,
And batter'd like his thunder.
Her eye darts lightning, that would blast
The proudest he that swagger'd,
And melt the rapier of his soul, 135
In its corporeal scabbard.
Her beauty, and her drum to foes
Did cause amazement double;
As timorous larks amazed are
With light, and with a low-bell: 140
With beauty, and that lapland-charm,[442]
Poor men she did bewitch all;
Still a blind whining lover had,
As Pallas had her scrich-owl.
She kept the chastness of a nun 145
In armour, as in cloyster:
But George undid the dragon just
As you'd undo an oister.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense. 150
Stout Hercules, was offspring of
Great Jove, and fair Alcmene:
One part of him celestial was,
One part of him terrene.
To scale the hero's cradle walls 155
Two fiery snakes combin'd,
And, curling into swaddling cloaths,
About the infant twin'd:
But he put out these dragons' fires,
And did their hissing stop; 160
As red-hot iron with hissing noise
Is quencht in blacksmith's shop.
He cleans'd a stable, and rubb'd down
The horses of new-comers;
And out of horse-dung he rais'd fame, 165
As Tom Wrench[443] does cucumbers.
He made a river help him through;
Alpheus was under-groom;
The stream, disgust at office mean,
Ran murmuring thro' the room: 170
This liquid ostler to prevent
Being tired with that long work,
His father Neptune's trident took,
Instead of three-tooth'd dung-fork.
This Hercules, as soldier, and 175
As spinster, could take pains;
His club would sometimes spin ye flax,
And sometimes knock out brains:
H' was forc'd to spin his miss a shift
By Juno's wrath and hÉr-spite; 180
Fair Omphale whipt him to his wheel,
As cook whips barking turn-spit.
From man, or churn he well knew how
To get him lasting fame:
He'd pound a giant, till the blood, 185
And milk till butter came.
Often he fought with huge battoon,
And oftentimes he boxed;
Tapt a fresh monster once a month,
As Hervey[444] doth fresh hogshead. 190
He gave Anteus such a hug,
As wrestlers give in Cornwall:
But George he did the dragon kill,
As dead as any door-nail.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; 195
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The Gemini, sprung from an egg,
Were put into a cradle:
Their brains with knocks and bottled ale,
Were often-times full addle: 200
And, scarcely hatch'd, these sons of him,
That hurls the bolt trisulcate,
With helmet-shell on tender head,
Did tustle with red-ey'd pole-cat.
Castor a horseman, Pollux tho' 205
A boxer was, I wist:
The one was fam'd for iron heel;
Th' other for leaden fist.
Pollux to shew he was god,
When he was in a passion 210
With fist made noses fall down flat
By way of adoration:
This fist, as sure as French disease,
Demolish'd noses' ridges:
He like a certain lord[445] was famd' 215
For breaking down of bridges.
Castor the flame of fiery steed,
With well-spur'd boots took down;
As men, with leathern buckets, quench
A fire in country town. 220
His famous horse, that liv'd on oats,
Is sung on oaten quill;
By bards' immortal provender
The nag surviveth still.
This shelly brood on none but knaves 225
Employ'd their brisk artillery:
And flew as naturally at rogues,
As eggs at thief in pillory.[446]
Much sweat they spent in furious fight,
Much blood they did effund: 230
Their whites they vented thro' the pores;
Their yolks thro' gaping wound:
Then both were cleans'd from blood and dust
To make a heavenly sign;
The lads were, like their armour, scowr'd, 235
And then hung up to shine;
Such were the heavenly double-Dicks,
The sons of Jove and Tyndar:
But George he cut the dragon up,
As he had bin duck or windar.[447] 240
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Gorgon a twisted adder wore
For knot upon her shoulder:
She kemb'd her hissing periwig, 245
And curling snakes did powder.
These snakes they made stiff changelings
Of all the folks they hist on;
They turned barbars into hones,
And masons into free-stone: 250
Sworded magnetic Amazon
Her shield to load-stone changes;
Then amorous sword by magic belt
Clung fast unto her haunches.
This shield long village did protect, 255
And kept the army from-town,
And chang'd the bullies into rocks,
That came t' invade Long-Compton.[448]
She post-diluvian stores unmans,
And Pyrrha's work unravels; 260
And stares Deucalion's hardy boys
Into their primitive pebbles.
Red noses she to rubies turns,
And noddles into bricks:
But George made dragon laxative; 265
And gave him a bloody flix.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
By boar-spear Meleager got,
An everlasting name, 270
And out of haunch of basted swine,
He hew'd eternal fame.
This beast each hero's trouzers ript,
And rudely shew'd his bare-breech,
Prickt but the wem, and out there came 275
Heroic guts and garbadge.
Legs were secur'd by iron boots
No more, than peas by peascods:
Brass helmets, with inclosed sculls,
Wou'd crackle in's mouth like chestnuts. 280
His tawny hairs erected were
By rage, that was resistless;
And wrath, instead of cobler's wax,
Did stiffen his rising bristles.
His tusk lay'd dogs so dead asleep, 285
Nor horn, nor whip cou'd wake 'um:
It made them vent both their last blood,
And their last album-grecum.
But the knight gor'd him with his spear,
To make of him a tame one, 290
And arrows thick, instead of cloves,
He stuck in monster's gammon.
For monumental pillar, that
His victory might be known,
He rais'd up, in cylindric form, 295
A collar of the brawn.
He sent his shade to shades below,
In Stygian mud to wallow:
And eke the stout St. George eftsoon,
He made the dragon follow. 300
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Achilles of old Chiron learnt
The great horse for to ride;
H' was taught by th' Centaur's rational part, 305
The hinnible to bestride.
Bright silver feet, and shining face
Had that stout hero's mother;
As rapier's silver'd at one end,
And wounds you at the other. 310
Her feet were bright, his feet were swift,
As hawk pursuing sparrow:
Her's had the metal, his the speed
Of Braburn's[449] silver arrow.
Thetis to double pedagogue 315
Commits her dearest boy;
Who bred him from a slender twig
To be the scourge of Troy:
But ere he lash't the Trojans, h' was
In Stygian waters steept; 320
As birch is soaked first in piss,
When boys are to be whipt.
With skin exceeding hard, he rose
From lake, so black and muddy,
As lobsters from the ocean rise, 325
With shell about their body:
And, as from lobster's broken claw,
Pick out the fish you might:
So might you from one unshell'd heel
Dig pieces of the knight. 330
His myrmidons robb'd Priam's barns
And hen-roosts, says the song;
Carried away both corn and eggs,
Like ants from whence they sprung.
Himself tore Hector's pantaloons, 335
And sent him down bare-breech'd
To pedant Radamanthus, in
A posture to be switch'd.
But George he made the dragon look,
As if he had been bewitch'd. 340
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Full fatal to the Romans was
The Carthaginian Hanni-
bal; him I mean, who gave them such 345
A devilish thump at CannÆ:
Moors thick, as goats on Penmenmure,
Stood on the Alpes's front:
Their one-eyed guide,[450] like blinking mole,
Bor'd thro' the hindring mount: 350
Who, baffled by the massy rock,
Took vinegar for relief;
Like plowmen, when they hew their way
Thro' stubborn rump of beef.
As dancing louts from humid toes 355
Cast atoms of ill favour
To blinking Hyatt,[451] when on vile crowd
He merriment does endeavour,
And saws from suffering timber out
Some wretched tune to quiver: 360
So Romans slunk and squeak'd at sight
Of Affrican carnivor.
The tawny surface of his phiz
Did serve instead of vizzard:
But George he made the dragon have 365
A grumbling in his gizzard.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The valour of Domitian,
It must not be forgotten; 370
Who from the jaws of worm-blowing flies,
Protected veal and mutton.
A squadron of flies errant,
Against the foe appears;
With regiments of buzzing knights, 375
And swarms of volunteers:
The warlike wasp encourag'd 'em,
With animating hum;
And the loud brazen hornet next,
He was their kettle-drum: 380
The Spanish don Cantharido
Did him most sorely pester,
And rais'd on skin of vent'rous knight
Full many a plaguy blister.
A bee whipt thro' his button hole, 385
As thro' key hole a witch,
And stabb'd him with her little tuck
Drawn out of scabbard breech:
But the undaunted knight lifts up
An arm both big and brawny, 390
And slasht her so, that here lay head,
And there lay bag and honey:
Then 'mongst the rout he flew as swift,
As weapon made by Cyclops,
And bravely quell'd seditious buz, 395
By dint of massy fly-flops.
Surviving flies do curses breathe,
And maggots too at CÆsar:
But George he shav'd the dragon's beard,
And Askelon[452] was his razor. 400
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
John Grubb, the facetious writer of the foregoing song, makes a distinguished figure among the Oxford wits so humorously enumerated in the following distich: Alma novem genuit cÉlebres Rhedycina poetas
Bub, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trap, Young, Carey, Tickel, Evans.
These were Bub Dodington (the late lord Melcombe), Dr. Stubbes, our poet Grubb, Mr. Crabb, Dr. Trapp the poetry-professor, Dr. Edw. Young, the author of Night-Thoughts, Walter Carey, Thomas Tickel, Esq., and Dr. Evans the epigrammatist. As for our poet Grubb, all that we can learn further of him is contained in a few extracts from the University Register, and from his epitaph. It appears from the former that he was matriculated in 1667, being the son of John Grubb, "de Acton Burnel in comitatu Salop. pauperis." He took his degree of Bachelor of Arts, June 28, 1671: and became Master of Arts, June 28, 1675. He was appointed Head Master of the Grammar School at Christ Church: and afterwards chosen into the same employment at Gloucester, where he died in 1697, as appears from his monument in the church of St. Mary de Crypt in Gloucester, which is inscribed with the following epitaph:— H. S. E.
Johannes Grubb, A. M.
Natus apud Acton Burnel in agro Salopiensi
Anno Dom. 1645.
Cujus variam in linguis notitiam,
et felicem erudiendis pueris industriam,
grat adhuc memori testatur Oxonium:
Ibi enim Ædi Christi initiatus,
artes excoluit;
Pueros ad easdem mox excolendas
accuratÈ formavit:
Huc demum
unanimi omnium consensu accitus,
eandem suscepit provinciam,
quam feliciter adeo absolvit,
ut nihil optandum sit
nisi ut diutius nobis interfuisset:
Fuit enim
propter festivam ingenij suavitatem,
simplicem morum candorem, et
prÆcipuam erga cognatos benevolentiam,
omnibus desideratissimus.
Obiit 2do die Aprilis, Anno Dni. 1697.
Ætatis suÆ 51.
XVI.
MARGARET'S GHOST. This ballad, which appeared in some of the public newspapers in or before the year 1724, came from the pen of David Mallet, Esq. who in the edition of his poems, 3 vols. 1759, informs us that the plan was suggested by the four verses quoted above in page 124, which he supposed to be the beginning of some ballad now lost. "These lines, says he, naked of ornament and simple, as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago." The two introductory lines (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz. "When all was wrapt in dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep," &c.
In a late publication, intitled, The Friends, &c. Lond. 1773, 2 vols. 12mo. (in the first volume, p. 71) is inserted a copy of the foregoing ballad, with very great variations, which the editor of that work contends was the original; and that Mallet adopted it for his own and altered it, as here given.—But the superior beauty and simplicity of the present copy, gives it so much more the air of an original, that it will rather be believed that some transcriber altered it from Mallet's, and adapted the lines to his own taste; than which nothing is more common in popular songs and ballads.
[This ballad, more generally known as William and Margaret, is supposed to have been printed for the first time in Aaron Hill's Plain Dealer (No. 36, July 24, 1724), when the author was a very young man. Hill introduced it to the reader as the work of an old poet, and wrote, "I am sorry I am not able to acquaint my readers with his name to whom we owe this melancholy piece of finished poetry under the humble title of a ballad." In the following month the editor announced that "he had discovered the author to be still alive." The verses were probably written in 1723, in the August of which year Mallet left Scotland, for Allan Ramsay, in his Stanzas to Mr. David Mallock on his departure from Scotland, alludes to them:— "But he that could, in tender strains,
Raise Margaret's plaining shade,
And paints distress that chills the veins,
While William's crimes are red."
The ballad at once became popular, and was printed in several collections, undergoing many alterations for the worse by the way. Sundry attempts were made to rob Mallet of the credit of his song. Besides the one mentioned above by Percy, Captain Thompson, the editor of Andrew Marvell's Works, claimed it for Marvell, but this claim was even more ridiculous than those he set up against Addison and Watts. Although Mallet doubtless knew the ballads Fair Margaret and Sweet William (book ii. No. 4) and Sweet William's Ghost (No. 6), he is said to have founded his own upon a true story which came under his observation. A daughter of Professor James Gregory of St. Andrews, and afterwards of Edinburgh, was seduced by a son of Sir William Sharp of Strathyrum, who had promised to marry her, but heartlessly deserted her. The ballad has been extravagantly praised: Ritson observes, "It may be questioned whether any English writer has produced so fine a ballad as William and Margaret." Percy describes it as one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any other language; and Allan Ramsay writes, "I know not where to seek a finer mixture of pathos and terror in the whole range of Gothic romance." Scott, on the other hand, was of opinion that "The ballad, though the best of Mallet's writing, is certainly inferior to the original, which I presume to be the very fine and terrific old Scottish tale, beginning 'There came a ghost to Margaret's door.'"
The extreme popularity of the poem is seen by the various parodies, one of which, Watty and Madge, is printed in Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany (vol. iii.). It commences— "'Twas at the shining mid-day hour,"
and each succeeding verse is parodied in the same manner. Vincent Browne imitated the original in Latin verse, and a German version was published as Wilhelm und Gretchen. Mallet was a native of Crieff in Perthshire, and is believed to have been born in the year 1702. He was sometime tutor to the Montrose family, through whose influence he was introduced into public life. He changed his name from Malloch to Mallet when he settled in London, and in 1742 he was appointed Under Secretary to the Prince of Wales. He died on the 21st of April, 1765. Mallet is a writer little cared for now, but he can hardly be said to be neglected, for in 1857 Mr. Frederick Dinsdale published an illustrated edition of his Ballads and Songs, chiefly made up of copious notes on William and Margaret and Edwin and Emma.]
'Twas at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn, 5
Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shrowd.
So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown: 10
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek, 15
Just opening to the view.
But love had, like the canker worm,
Consum'd her early prime:
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy'd before her time. 20
"Awake!" she cry'd, "thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to save.
"This is the dark and dreary hour, 25
When injur'd ghosts complain;
Now yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.
"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge, and broken oath: 30
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.
"Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, 35
Yet leave those eyes to weep?
"How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break? 40
"Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the flattering tale?
"That face, alas! no more is fair; 45
These lips no longer red:
Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.
"The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear: 50
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.
"But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence!
A long and last adieu!
Come see, false man, how low she lies, 55
Who dy'd for love of you."
The lark sung loud; the morning smil'd,
With beams of rosy red:
Pale William shook in ev'ry limb,
And raving left his bed. 60
He hyed him to the fatal place,
Where Margaret's body lay;
And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf,
That wrapt her breathless clay:
And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name, 65
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more.
XVII.
LUCY AND COLIN Was written by Thomas Tickell, Esq. the celebrated friend of Mr. Addison, and editor of his works. He was son of a clergyman in the north of England, had his education at Queen's college, Oxon, was under secretary to Mr. Addison and Mr. Craggs, when successively secretaries of state; and was lastly (in June, 1724) appointed secretary to the Lords Justices in Ireland, which place he held till his death in 1740.[453] He acquired Mr. Addison's patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond, written while he was at the University. It is a tradition in Ireland, that the song was written at Castletown, in the county of Kildare, at the request of the then Mrs. Conolly—probably on some event recent in that neighbourhood. [Gray called Lucy and Colin "the prettiest" ballad in the world, although he was not partial to Tickell's other poems. The fine old melody given by Dr. Rimbault for this ballad is taken from "The Merry Musician; or a Cure for the Spleen; being a collection of the most diverting Songs and pleasant Ballads set to Musick," 1716.]
Of Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so fair a face.
Till luckless love, and pining care 5
Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lip, and damask cheek,
And eyes of glossy blue.
Oh! have you seen a lily pale,
When beating rains descend? 10
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid;
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair:
Of vengeance due to broken vows, 15
Ye perjured swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And at her window, shrieking thrice,
The raven flap'd his wing. 20
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
That solemn boding sound;
And thus, in dying words, bespoke
The virgins weeping round.
"I hear a voice, you cannot hear, 25
Which says I must not stay:
I see a hand, you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.
"By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die. 30
Am I to blame, because his bride
Is thrice as rich as I?
"Ah Colin! give not her thy vows;
Vows due to me alone:
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, 35
Nor think him all thy own.
"To-morrow in the church to wed,
Impatient, both prepare;
But know, fond maid, and know, false man,
That Lucy will be there, 40
"Then, bear my corse; ye comrades, bear,
The bridegroom blithe to meet;
He in his wedding-trim so gay,
I in my winding-sheet."
She spoke, she dy'd;—her corse was borne, 45
The bridegroom blithe to meet;
He in his wedding-trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.
Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were those nuptials kept? 50
The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair
At once his bosom swell:
The damps of death bedew'd his brow, 55
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride (ah bride no more!)
The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead. 60
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever now remains.
Oft at their grave the constant hind 65
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots
They deck the sacred green.
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear; 70
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.
XVIII.
THE BOY AND THE MANTLE, AS REVISED AND ALTERED BY A MODERN HAND. Mr. Warton, in his ingenious Observations on Spenser, has given his opinion, that the fiction of the Boy and the Mantle is taken from an old French piece intitled Le court mantel, quoted by M. de St. Palaye in his curious MÉmoires sur l'ancienne Chevalerie, Paris, 1759, 2 tom. 12mo., who tells us the story resembles that of Ariosto's inchanted cup. 'Tis possible our English poet may have taken the hint of this subject from that old French romance, but he does not appear to have copied it in the manner of execution; to which (if one may judge from the specimen given in the MÉmoires) that of the ballad does not bear the least resemblance. After all, 'tis most likely that all the old stories concerning K. Arthur are originally of British growth, and that what the French and other southern nations have of this kind, were at first exported from this island. See MÉmoires de l'Acad. des Inscrip. tom. xx. p. 352. (Since this volume was printed off, the Fabliaux ou Contes, 1781, 5 tom. 12mo., of M. le Grand, have come to hand: and in tom. i. p. 54, he hath printed a modern version of the old tale Le Court Mantel, under a new title Le Manteau maltaillÉ; which contains the story of this ballad much enlarged, so far as regards the Mantle; but without any mention of the Knife, or the Horn.)
[See book i. No. 1, for the original of this ballad.]
In Carleile dwelt king Arthur,
A prince of passing might;
And there maintain'd his table round,
Beset with many a knight.
And there he kept his Christmas 5
With mirth and princely cheare,
When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
Before him did appeare.
A kirtle and a mantle
This boy had him upon, 10
With brooches, rings, and owches[454]
Full daintily bedone.
He had a sarke[455] of silk
About his middle meet;
And thus, with seemly curtesy, 15
He did king Arthur greet.
"God speed thee, brave king Arthur,
Thus feasting in thy bowre.
And Guenever thy goodly queen,
That fair and peerlesse flowre. 20
"Ye gallant lords, and lordings,
I wish you all take heed,
Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose
Should prove a cankred weed."
Then straitway from his bosome 25
A little wand he drew;
And with it eke a mantle
Of wondrous shepe, and hew.
"Now have thou here, king Arthur,
Have this here of mee, 30
And give unto thy comely queen,
All-shapen as you see.
"No wife it shall become,
That once hath been to blame."
Then every knight in Arthur's court 35
Slye glaunced at his dame.
And first came lady Guenever,
The mantle she must trye.
This dame, she was new-fangled,
And of a roving eye. 40
When she had tane the mantle,
And all was with it cladde,
From top to toe it shiver'd down,
As tho' with sheers beshradde.
One while it was too long, 45
Another while too short,
And wrinkled on her shoulders
In most unseemly sort.
Now green, now red it seemed,
Then all of sable hue. 50
"Beshrew me, quoth king Arthur,
I think thou beest not true."
Down she threw the mantle,
Ne longer would not stay;
But storming like a fury, 55
To her chamber flung away.
She curst the whoreson weaver,
That had the mantle wrought:
And doubly curst the froward impe,
Who thither had it brought. 60
"I had rather live in desarts
Beneath the green-wood tree:
Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
The sport of them and thee."
Sir Kay call'd forth his lady, 65
And bade her to come near:
"Yet dame, if thou be guilty,
I pray thee now forbear."
This lady, pertly gigling,
With forward step came on, 70
And boldly to the little boy
With fearless face is gone.
When she had tane the mantle,
With purpose for to wear:
It shrunk up to her shoulder, 75
And left her b**side bare.
Then every merry knight,
That was in Arthur's court,
Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
To see that pleasant sport. 80
Down she threw the mantle,
No longer bold or gay,
But with a face all pale and wan,
To her chamber slunk away.
Then forth came an old knight, 85
A pattering o'er his creed;
And proffer'd to the little boy
Five nobles to his meed;
"And all the time of Christmass
Plumb-porridge shall be thine, 90
If thou wilt let my lady fair
Within the mantle shine."
A saint his lady seemed,
With step demure, and slow,
And gravely to the mantle 95
With mincing pace doth goe,
When she the same had taken,
That was so fine and thin,
It shrivell'd all about her,
And show'd her dainty skin. 100
Ah! little did HER mincing,
Or HIS long prayers bestead;
She had no more hung on her,
Than a tassel and a thread.
Down she threwe the mantle, 105
With terror and dismay,
And, with a face of scarlet,
To her chamber hyed away.
Sir Cradock call'd his lady,
And bade her to come neare; 110
"Come win this mantle, lady,
And do me credit here.
"Come win this mantle, lady,
For now it shall be thine,
If thou hast never done amiss, 115
Sith first I made thee mine."
The lady gently blushing,
With modest grace came on,
And now to trye this wondrous charm
Courageously is gone. 120
When she had tane the mantle,
And put it on her backe,
About the hem it seemed
To wrinkle and to cracke.
"Lye still, shee cried, O mantle! 125
And shame me not for nought,
I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
Or blameful I have wrought.
"Once I kist Sir Cradocke
Beneathe the green wood tree: 130
Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
Before he married me."
When thus she had her shriven,
And her worst fault had told,
The mantle soon became her 135
Right comely as it shold.
Most rich and fair of colour,
Like gold it glittering shone:
And much the knights in Arthur's court
Admir'd her every one. 140
Then towards king Arthur's table
The boy he turn'd his eye:
Where stood a boar's-head garnished
With bayes and rosemarye.
When thrice he o'er the boar's head 145
His little wand had drawne,
Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife,
Can carve this head of brawne."
Then some their whittles rubbed
On whetstone, and on hone: 150
Some threwe them under the table,
And swore that they had none.
Sir Cradock had a little knife
Of steel and iron made;
And in an instant thro' the skull 155
He thrust the shining blade.
He thrust the shining blade
Full easily and fast:
And every knight in Arthur's court
A morsel had to taste. 160
The boy brought forth a horne,
All golden was the rim:
Said he, "No cuckolde ever can
Set mouth unto the brim.
"No cuckold can this little horne 165
Lift fairly to his head;
But or on this, or that side,
He shall the liquor shed."
Some shed it on their shoulder,
Some shed it on their thigh; 170
And hee that could not hit his mouth,
Was sure to hit his eye.
Thus he, that was a cuckold,
Was known of every man:
But Cradock lifted easily, 175
And wan the golden can.
Thus boar's head, horn and mantle
Were this fair couple's meed:
And all such constant lovers,
God send them well to speed. 180
Then down in rage came Guenever,
And thus could spightful say,
"Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
Hath borne the prize away.
"See yonder shameless woman, 185
That makes herselfe so clean:
Yet from her pillow taken
Thrice five gallants have been.
"Priests, clarkes, and wedded men
Have her lewd pillow prest: 190
Yet she the wondrous prize forsooth
Must beare from all the rest."
Then bespake the little boy,
Who had the same in hold:
"Chastize thy wife, king Arthur, 195
Of speech she is too bold:
"Of speech she is too bold,
Of carriage all too free;
Sir king, she hath within thy hall
A cuckold made of thee. 200
"All frolick light and wanton
She hath her carriage borne:
And given thee for a kingly crown
To wear a cuckold's horne."
?
? The Rev. Evan Evans, editor of the specimens of Welsh Poetry, 4to. affirmed that the Boy and the Mantle is taken from what is related in some of the old Welsh MSS. of Tegan Earfron, one of King Arthur's mistresses. She is said to have possessed a mantle that would not fit any immodest or incontinent woman; this, (which, the old writers say, was reckoned among the curiosities of Britain) is frequently alluded to by the old Welsh Bards. Carleile, so often mentioned in the ballads of K. Arthur, the editor once thought might probably be a corruption of Caer-leon, an ancient British city on the river Uske, in Monmouthshire, which was one of the places of K. Arthur's chief residence; but he is now convinced, that it is no other than Carlisle, in Cumberland; the old English minstrels, being most of them northern men, naturally represented the hero of romance as residing in the north: And many of the places mentioned in the old ballads are still to be found there: As Tearne-Wadling, &c. Near Penrith is still seen a large circle, surrounded by a mound of earth, which retains the name of Arthur's Round Table.
[For a full statement of the claims of the "North" to be considered as the home of King Arthur, see J. S. Stuart Glennie's Essay on Arthurian Localities, in the edition of the Prose Romance of Merlin, published by the Early English Text Society.]
XIX.
THE ANCIENT FRAGMENT OF THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE.[456] The second poem in this volume, intitled The Marriage of Sir Gawaine, having been offered to the reader with large conjectural supplements and corrections, the old fragment itself is here literally and exactly printed from the editor's folio MS. with all its defects, inaccuracies, and errata; that such austere antiquaries, as complain that the ancient copies have not been always rigidly adhered to, may see how unfit for publication many of the pieces would have been, if all the blunders, corruptions, and nonsense of illiterate reciters and transcribers had been superstitiously retained, without some attempt to correct and emend them. This ballad had most unfortunately suffered by having half of every leaf in this part of the MS. torn away; and, as about nine stanzas generally occur in the half page now remaining, it is concluded, that the other half contained nearly the same number of stanzas.
[The following poem is printed in Hales' and Furnivall's edition of the MS., vol. i. p. 105.]
Kinge Arthur liues in merry Carleile,
& seemely is to see,
& there he hath wth him Queene Genevr,
yt bride soe bright of blee.
And there he hath wth him Queene Genever,
yt bride soe bright in bower,
& all his barons about him stoode
yt were both stiffe & stowre.
The K. kept a royall Christmasse
of mirth & great honor,
& when....
[About Nine Stanzas wanting.] And bring me word what thing it is
yt a woman most desire.
this shalbe thy ransome, Arthur, he sayes
for Ile haue noe other hier.
K. Arthur then held vp his hand
according thene as was the law;
he tooke his leaue of the baron there,
& homward can he draw.
And when he came to Merry Carlile,
to his chamber he is gone,
& ther came to him his Cozen Sr Gawaine
as he did make his mone.
And there came to him his Cozen Sr Gawaine
yt was a curteous knight,
why sigh you soe sore vnckle Arthur, he said
or who hath done thee vnright.
O peace, o peace, thou gentle Gawaine,
yt faire may thee beffall,
for if thou knew my sighing soe deepe,
thou wold not meruaile att all;
ffor when I came to tearne wadling,
a bold barron there I fand,
wth a great club vpon his backe,
standing stiffe & strong;
And he asked me wether I wold fight,
or from him I shold be gone,
o[r] else I must him a ransome pay
& soe dep't him from.
To fight wth him I saw noe cause,
me thought it was not meet,
ffor he was stiffe & strong wth all,
his strokes were nothing sweete.
Therfor this is my ransome, Gawaine
I ought to him to pay
I must come againe, as I am sworne,
vpon the Newyeers day.
And I must bring him word what thing it is
[About Nine Stanzas wanting.] [About Nine Stanzas wanting.] And when he came to the tearne wadling
the baron there cold he fimde[459]
wth a great weapon on his backe,
standing stiffe & stronge
And then he tooke k. Arthur's letters in his hands
& away he cold them fling,
& then he puld out a good browne sword,
& cryd himselfe a k.
And he sayd, I haue thee & thy land, Arthur
to doe as it pleaseth me,
for this is not thy ransome sure,
therfore yeeld thee to mee.
And then bespoke him noble Arthur,
& bad him hold his hands,
& give me leave to speake my mind
in defence of all my land.
He said as I came over a More,
I see a lady where shee sate
betweene an oke & a green hollen;
shee was clad in red scarlett;
And she says a woman will haue her will,
& this is all her cheefe desire:
doe me right as thou art a baron of sckill,
this is thy ransome & and all thy hyer.
He sayes an early vengeance light on her,
she walkes on yonder more;
it was my sister that told thee this
& she is a misshappen hore.
But heer Ile make mine avow[460] to god
to do her an euill turne,
for an euer I may thate fowle theefe get,
in a fyer I will her burne.
[About Nine Stanzas wanting.]
The 2d Part. Sir Lancelott & Sr Steven bold
they rode wth them that day,
and the formost of the company
there rode the steward Kay,
Soe did Sr Banier & Sr Bore
Sr Garrett wth them soe gay,
soe did Sr Tristeram yt gentle kt,
to the forrest fresh & gay
And when he came to the greene forrest
vnderneath a greene holly tree
their sate that lady in red scarlet
yt vnseemly was to see.
Sr Kay beheld this Ladys face,
& looked vppon her smire[461]
whosoeuer kisses this lady, he sayes
of his kisse he standes in feare.
Sir Kay beheld the lady againe,
& looked vpon her snout,
whosoeuer kisses this lady, he saies,
of his kisse he stands in doubt.
Peace coz. Kay, then said Sr Gawaine
amend thee of thy life;
for there is a knight amongst us all
yt must marry her to his wife.
What, wedd her to wiffe, then said Sr Kay,
in the diuells name anon,
gett me a wiffe where ere I may,
for I had rather be slaine.
Then soome tooke vp their hawkes in hast
& some tooke vp their hounds,
& some sware they wold not marry her
for Citty nor for towne.
And then be spake him noble k. Arthur,
& sware there by this day,
for a litle foule sight and misliking
[About Nine Stanzas wanting.] Then shee said choose thee gentle Gawaine,
truth as I doe say,
wether thou wilt haue me in this liknesse
in the night or else in the day.
And then bespake him Gentle Gawaine,
wth one soe mild of moode,
sayes, well I know what I wold say,
god grant it may be good.
To haue thee fowle in the night
when I wth thee shold play;
yet I had rather, if I might
haue thee fowle in the day.
What, when Lords goe wth ther seires,[462] shee said
both to the Ale & wine
alas then I must hyde my selfe,
I must not goe withinne.
And then bespake him gentle gawaine,
said, Lady thats but a skill;
And because thou art my owne lady,
thou shalt haue all thy will.
Then she said, blesed be thou gentle Gawain
this day yt I thee see,
for as thou see me att this time,
from hencforth I wilbe:
My father was an old knight,
& yett it chanced soe
that he marryed a younge lady
yt brought me to this woe.
Shee witched me, being a faire young Lady,
to the greene forrest to dwell,
& there I must walke in womans liknesse,
most like a feend of hell.
She witched my brother to a Carlist B....
[About Nine Stanzas wanting.] that looked soe foule & that was wont
on the wild more to goe.
Come kisse her, Brother Kay, then said Sr Gawaine,
& amend the of thy liffe;
I sweare this is the same lady
yt I marryed to my wiffe.
Sr Kay kissed that lady bright,
standing vpon his ffeete;
he swore, as he was trew knight,
the spice was neuer soe sweete.
Well, Coz. Gawaine, sayes Sr Kay,
thy chance is fallen arright,
for thou hast gotten one of the fairest maids
I euer saw wth my sight.
It is my fortune, said Sr Gawaine;
for my Vnckle Arthurs sake
I am glad as grasse wold be of raine,
great Ioy that I may take.
Sr Gawaine tooke the lady by the one arme,
Sr Kay tooke her by the tother,
they led her straight to k. Arthur
as they were brother & brother.
K. Arthur welcomed them there all,
& soe did lady Geneuer his queene,
wth all the knights of the round table
most seemly to be seene.
K. Arthur beheld that lady faire
that was soe faire & bright,
he thanked christ in trinity
for Sr Gawaine that gentle knight;
Soe did the knights, both more and lesse,
reioyced all that day
for the good chance yt hapened was
to Sr Gawaine & his lady gay.
Ffins. THE END OF THE THIRD BOOK.
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