Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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ANCIENT SONGS AND BALLADS, &c.
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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
ANCIENT SONGS AND BALLADS, &c.
SERIES THE THIRD.
BOOK I. BALLADS ON KING ARTHUR, &c.
I. THE BOY AND THE MANTLE.
—Is printed verbatim from the old MS described in the Preface. The Editor believes it more ancient, than it will appear to be at first sight; the transcriber of that manuscript having reduced the orthography and style in many instances to the standard of his own times.
The incidents of the Mantle and the Knife have not, that I can recollect, been borrowed from any other writer. The former of these evidently suggested to Spenser his conceit of Florimel's Girdle. B. iv. C. 5. St. 3.
And wivehoood true to all that did it beare;
But whosoever contrarie doth prove,
Might not the same about her middle weare,
But it would loose or else asunder teare.
So it happened to the false Florimel, st. 16, when
They thought to gird, as best it her became,
But by no means they could it thereto frame,
For ever as they fastned it, it loos'd
And fell away, as feeling secret blame, &c.
That all men wondred at the uncouth sight
And each one thought as to their fancies came.
But she herself did think it done for spight,
And touched was with secret wrath and shame
Therewith, as thing deviz'd her to defame:
Then many other ladies likewise tride
About their tender loynes to knit the same,
But it would not on none of them abide,
But when they thought it fast, eftsoones it was untide.
Thereat all knights gan laugh and ladies lowre,
Till that at last the gentle Amoret
And having it about her middle set
Did find it fit withouten breach or let,
Whereat the rest gan greatly to envie.
But Florimel exceedingly did fret
And snatching from her hand, &c.
As for the trial of the Horne, it is not peculiar to our Poet: It occurs in the old romance, intitled Morte Arthur, which was translated out of French in the time of K. Edw. IV. and first printed anno 1484. From that romance Ariosto is thought to have borrowed his tale of the Enchanted Cup, C. 42. &c.
See Mr. Warton's Observations on the Faerie Queen, &c.The story of the Horn in Morte Arthur varies a good deal from this of our Poet, as the reader will judge from the following extract.—“By the way they met with a knight that was sent from Morgan le Faye to king Arthur, and this knight had a fair horne all garnished with gold, and the horne had such a virtue that there might no ladye or gentlewoman drinke of that horne, but if she were true to her husband: and if shee were false she should spill all the drinke, and if shee were true unto her lorde, shee might drink peaceably: and because of queene Guenever and in despite of Sir Launcelot du Lake, this horne was sent unto king Arthur.”—This born is intercepted and brought unto another king named Marke, who is not a whit more fortunate than the British hero, for he makes “his queene drinke thereof and an hundred ladies moe, and there were but foure ladies of all those that drank cleane” of which number the said queen, proves not to be one [Book II. chap. 22. Ed. 1632.]
In other respects the two stories are so different, that we have just reason to suppose this Ballad was written before that romance was translated into English.
As for queen Guènever, she is here represented no otherwise, than as we find her in old histories and romances. Holinshed observes, that “she was evil reported of, as noted of incontinence and breach of faith to hir husband.”
Vol. I. p. 93.Such Readers, as have no relish for pure antiquity, will find a more modern copy of this Ballad at the end of the volume.
To Carleile did come
A kind curteous child,
That cold much of wisdome.
This child had uppon,
With ‘brooches’ and ringes
Full richelye bedone.
About his middle drawne;
Without he cold of curtesye
He thought itt much shame.
Sitting at thy meate:
And the goodly queene Guénever,
I cannott her forgett.
I hett you all to ‘heede’;
Except you be the more surer
Is for you to dread.
And longer wold not dwell,
He pulled forth a pretty mantle,
Betweene two nut-shells.
Have thou heere of mee:
Give itt to thy comely queene
Shapen as itt is alreadye.
That hath once done amisse.
Then every knight in the king's court
Began to care for ‘his.’
To the mantle shee her ‘hied’;
The ladye shee was newfangle,
But yett she was affrayd.
She stoode as she had beene madd:
It was from the top to the toe
As sheeres had itt shread.
Another while was itt greene;
Another while was itt wadded:
Ill itt did her beseeme.
And bore the worst hue:
By my troth, quoth king Arthur,
I thinke thou be not true.
That bright was of blee;
Fast with a rudd redd,
To her chamber can shee flee.
That clothe that had wrought;
And bade a vengeance on his crowne,
That hither hath itt brought.
Under a green tree;
Than in king Arthur's court
Shamed for to bee.
And bade her come neere;
Saies, Madam, and thou be guiltye,
I pray thee hold thee there.
Shortlye and anon;
Boldlye to the mantle
Then is shee gone.
And cast it her about;
Then was she bare
‘Before all the rout.”
That was in the king's court,
Talked, laughed, and showted
Full oft at that sport.
That bright was of blee;
Fast, with a red rudd,
To her chamber can she flee.
Pattering ore a creede,
And he proferred to this litle boy
Twenty markes to his meede;
Willinglye to ffeede;
For why this mantle might
Do his wiffe some need.
Of cloth that was made,
She had no more left on her,
But a tassel and a threed:
Then every knight in the kings court
Bade evill might shee speed.
That bright was of blee;
To her chamber can shee flee.
And bade her come in;
Saith, winne this mantle, ladye,
With a little dinne.
And it shal be thine,
If thou never did amisse
Since thou wast mine.
Shortlye and anon;
But boldlye to the mantle
Then is shee gone.
And cast itt her about,
Upp att her great toe
It began to crinkle and crowt:
Shee said, bowe downe, mantle,
And shame me not for nought.
I tell you certainlye,
When I kist Craddocke's mouth
Under a greene tree;
Before he marryed mee.
And her sinnes shee had tolde;
The mantle stoode about her
Right as shee wold:
Glittering like gold:
Then every knight in Arthurs court
Did her behold.
To Arthur our king;
She hath tane yonder mantle
Not with right, but with wronge.
That maketh her self ‘cleane’?
I have seene tane out of her bedd
Of men five teene;
From her bedeene:
Yett shee taketh the mantle,
And maketh her self cleane.
That kept the mantle in hold;
Sayes, king, chasten thy wiffe,
Of her words shee is too bold:
And a whore bold:
King, in thine owne hall,
Thou art a cuckold.
Looking out a dore;
‘And there as he was lookinge
‘He was ware of a wyld bore.’
Wold have werryed a man:
He pulled forth a wood kniffe,
Fast thither that he ran:
He brought in the bores head,
And quitted him like a man.
And was wonderous bold:
He said there were never a cuckolds kniffe
Carve itt that cold.
Uppon a whetstone:
And said they had none.
Stood looking upon them;
All their knives edges
Turned backe againe.
Of iron and of steele;
He britled the bores head
Wonderous weele;
That every knight in the kings court
Had a morsell.
Of red gold that ronge:
He said, there was noe cuckolde
Shall drinke of my horne;
But he shold itt sheede
Either behind or beforne.
And some on their knee;
He that cold not hitt his mouthe,
Put it in his eye:
And he that was a cuckold
Every man might him see.
And the bores head:
His ladie wan the mantle
Unto her meede.
Everye such lovely ladye
God send her well to speede.
II. THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE
—Is chiefly taken from the fragment of an old ballad in the Editor's MS. which he has reason to believe more ancient than the time of Chaucer, and what furnished that bard with his Wise of Bath's Tale. The original was so extremely mutilated, half of every leaf being torn away, that without large supplements, &c. it would have been improper for this collection: these it has therefore received, such as they are. They are not here particularly pointed out, because the Fragment itself will some time or other be given to the public.
Part the First.
And seemely is to see;
And there with him queene Guenever,
That bride soe bright of blee.
That bride so bright in bowre:
And all his barons about him stoode,
That were both stiffe and stowre.
With mirth and princelye cheare;
To him repaired many a knighte,
That came both farre and neare.
And cups went freely round;
Before them came a faire damsèlle,
And knelt upon the ground.
I beg a boone of thee;
Avenge me of a carlish knighte,
Who hath shent my love and mee.
All on a hill soe hye,
And proudlye rise the battlements,
And gaye the streameres flye.
May pass that castle-walle:
But from that foule discurteous knighte,
Mishappe will them befalle.
Wi' thewes, and sinewes stronge,
And on his backe he bears a clubbe,
That is both thicke and longe.
But yester morne to see;
When to his bowre he bore my love,
And sore misused mee.
As lyttle shold him spare;
Goe tell, sayd hee, that cuckold kinge,
To meete mee if he dare.
And sware by hille and dale,
He ne'er wolde quitt that grimme baròne,
Till he had made him quail.
Goe saddle mee my steede;
Nowe, by my faye, that grimme baròne
Shall rue this ruthfulle deede.
Benethe the castle walle:
“Come forth; come forth; thou proude baròne,
Or yielde thyself my thralle.”
And fenc'd with many a spelle:
Noe valiant knighte could tread thereon,
But straite his courage felle.
King Arthur felte the charme:
His sturdy sinewes lost their strengthe,
Downe sunke his feeble arme.
Now yield thee, unto mee:
Or fighte with mee, or lose thy lande,
Noe better termes maye bee.
And promise on thy faye,
Here to returne to Tearne Wadling,
Upon the new-yeare's daye:
All women moste desyre:
This is thy ransome, Arthur, he sayes,
Ile have noe other hyre.
And sware upon his faye,
Then tooke his leave of the grimme barone
And faste hee rode awaye.
And did of all inquyre,
What thing it is all women crave,
And what they most desyre.
Some rayment fine and brighte;
Some told him mirthe; some flatterye;
And some a jollye knighte.
And seal'd them with his ringe:
But still his minde was helde in doubte,
Each tolde a different thinge.
He saw a ladye sette
Betweene an oke, and a greene holléye,
All clad in red scarlette.
Her chin stoode all awrye;
And where as sholde have been her mouthe,
Lo! there was set her eye:
Her cheekes of deadlye hewe:
A worse-form'd ladye than she was,
No man mote ever viewe.
This ladye was fulle saine;
But king Arthùre all sore amaz'd,
No aunswere made againe.
That wilt not speake to mee;
Sir, I may chance to ease thy paine,
Though I bee foule to see.
And helpe me in my neede;
Ask what thou wilt, thou grimme ladyè,
And it shall bee thy meede.
And promise on thy faye;
And here the secrette I will telle,
That shall thy ransome paye.
And sware upon the roode;
The secrette then the ladye told,
As lightlye well shee cou'de.
And this my guerdon bee,
That some yong, fair and courtlye knight,
Thou bringe to marrye mee.
Ore hille, and dale, and downe:
And soone he founde the barone's bowre;
And soone the grimme baroùne.
Hee stoode bothe stiffe and stronge;
And, when he had the letters reade,
Awaye the lettres flunge.
All forfeit unto mee;
For this is not thy paye, sir king,
Nor may thy ransome bee.
I praye thee hold thy hand;
And give mee leave to speake once moe
In reskewe of my land.
I saw a ladye sette
Betwene an oke, and a greene hollèye,
All clad in red scarlètte.
This is their chief desyre;
Now yield, as thou art a barone true,
That I have payd mine hyre.
The carlish baron swore:
Shee was my sister tolde thee this,
And shee's a mishapen whore.
To do her as ill a turne:
For an ever I may that foule theefe gette,
In a fyre I will her burne.
Part the Seconde.
And a wearye man was hee;
And soone he mette queene Guenever,
That bride so bright of blee.
Howe, Arthur, hast thou sped?
Where hast thou hung the carlish knighte?
And where bestow'd his head?
And free fro mortal harme:
On magicke grounde his castle stands,
And fenc'd with many a charme.
And yielde mee to his hand:
And but for a lothly ladye, there
I sholde have lost my land.
And sorrowe of my life;
I swore a yonge and courtlye knight,
Sholde marry her to his wife.
That was ever a gentle knighte:
That lothly ladye I will wed;
Therefore be merrye and lighte.
My sister's sonne yee bee;
This lothlye ladye's all too grimme,
And all too foule for yee.
Her chin stands all awrye;
A worse form'd ladye than shee is
Was never seen with eye.
And shee be foule to see:
I'll marry her, unkle, for thy sake,
And I'll thy ransome bee.
And a blessing thee betyde!
To-morrow wee'll have knights and squires,
And wee'll goe fetch thy bride.
To cover our intent;
And wee'll away to the greene forèst,
As wee a hunting went.
They rode with them that daye;
And foremoste of the companye
There rode the stewarde Kaye:
And eke sir Garratte keene;
Sir Tristram too, that gentle knight,
To the forest freshe and greene.
Beneathe a faire holley tree
There sate that ladye in red scarlètte
That unseemelye was to see.
And looked upon her sweere;
Whoever kisses that ladye, he sayes
Of his kisse he stands in feare.
And looked upon her snout;
Whoever kisses that ladye, he sayes,
Of his kisse he stands in doubt.
And amend thee of thy life:
For there is a knight amongst us all,
Must marry her to his wife.
I'the devil's name anone;
Get mee a wife wherever I maye,
In sooth shee shall bee none.
And some took up their houndes;
And sayd they wolde not marry her,
For cities, nor for townes.
And sware there by this daye;
For a little foule sighte and mislikìnge,
Yee shall not say her naye.
Nor make debate and strife;
This lothlye ladye I will take,
And marry her to my wife.
And a blessinge be thy meede!
For as I am thine owne ladyè,
Thou never shalt rue this deede.
And home anone they bringe:
And there sir Gawaine he her wed,
And married her with a ringe.
And all were done awaye;
Come turne to mee, mine owne wed-lord
Come turne to mee I praye.
For sorrowe and for care;
When, lo! instead of that lothelye dame,
Hee sawe a young ladye faire.
Her eyen were blacke as sloe:
The ripening cherrye swellde her lippe,
And all her necke was snowe.
Lying upon the sheete:
And swore, as he was a true knighte,
The spice was never soe sweete.
Lying there by his side:
“The fairest flower is not soe faire;
Thou never can'st bee my bride.”
The same whiche thou didst knowe,
That was soe lothlye, and was wont
Upon the wild more to goe.
And make thy choice with care;
Whether by night, or else by daye,
Shall I be foule or faire?
When I with thee should playe!
I had rather farre, my lady deare,
To have thee foule by daye.”
To drinke the ale and wine;
Alas! then I must hide myself,
I must not goe with mine?
I yield me to thy skille;
Because thou art mine owne ladyè
Thou shalt have all thy wille.”
And the daye that I thee see;
For as thou seest mee at this time,
Soe shall I ever bee.
And yet it chanced soe,
He tooke to wife a false ladyè,
Whiche broughte me to this woe.
In the greene forèst to dwelle;
And there to abide in lothlye shape,
Most like a fiend of helle.
To lead a lonesome life:
Till some yong faire and courtlye knighte
Wolde marrye me to his wife:
Such was her devilish skille;
Until he wolde yielde to be rul'd by mee,
And let mee have all my wille.
And made him stiffe and stronge;
And built him a bowre on magicke grounde,
To live by rapine and wronge.
And wronge is turnde to righte;
Henceforth I shall bee a faire ladyè,
And hee be a gentle knighte.
III. KING RYENCE'S CHALLENGE.
This song is more modern than many of those which follow it, but is placed here for the sake of the subject. It was sung before queene Elizabeth at the grand entertainment at Kenelworth-castle in 1575, and was probably composed for that occasion. In a letter describing those festivities, it is thus mentioned; “A minstral came forth with a sollem song, warranted for story out of K. Arthur's acts, whereof I gat a copy, and is this;
So it fell out on a Pentecost &c.”After the song the narrative proceeds: “At this the Minstrell made a pause and a curtezy for primus passus. More of the song is thear, but I gatt it not.”
The story in Morte Arthur, whence it is taken, runs as follows, Came a messenger hastely from king Ryence of North-Wales,—saying, that king Ryence had discomfited and overcomen eleaven kings, and everiche of them did him homage, and that was this; they gave him their beards cleane flayne off, wherefore the messenger came for king Arthur's beard, for king Ryence had purfeled a mantell with kings beards, and there lacked for one place of the mantell, wherefore he sent for his beard, or else he would enter into his lands, and brenn and slay, and never leave till he have thy head and thy beard. Well, said king Arthur, thou bast said thy message, which is the most villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent to a king. Also thou mayest see my beard is full young yet for to make a purfell of, but tell thou the king that—or it be long he shall do to me homage on both his knees, or else he shall leese his head.”
[B. 1. c. 24. See also the same Romance, B. 1. c. 92.]The thought seems to be originally taken from Jeff. Monmouth's hist. B. 10. c. 3. which is alluded to by Drayton in his Poly-Olb. Song 4. and by Spencer in Faer. Qu. 6. 1. 13. 15. See the Observations on Spenser, vol. 2. p. 223.
The following text is composed of the best readings selected from three different copies. The first in Enderbie's Cambria Triumphans, p. 197. The second in the Letter abovementioned. And the third inserted in MS. in a copy of Morte Arthur, 1632, in the Bodl. Library.
“Stow tells us, that king Arthur kept his round table at “diverse places, but especially at Carlion, Winchester, and Camalet in Somersetshire. This Camelet sometimes a famous towne or castle, is situate on a very high tor or hill, &c.”
[See an exact description in Stowe's Annals, Ed. 1631. p. 55.]King Arthur at Camelot kept his court royall,
With his faire queene dame Guenever the gay;
And many bold barons sitting in hall;
With ladies attired in purple and pall;
And heraults in hewkes, hooting on high,
Cryed, Largesse, Largesse, Chevaliers tres-hardie.
Right pertlye gan pricke, kneeling on knee,
With steven fulle stoute amids all the preas,
Sayd, Nowe sir king Arthur, God save thee, and see!
Sir Ryence of North-gales greeteth well thee,
And bids thee thy beard anon to him send,
Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.
With eleven kings beards bordered about,
For thine to stande, to make the twelfth out:
This must be done, be thou never so stout;
This must be done, I tell thee no fable,
Maugre the teethe of all thy round table.
Great was the noyse bothe in hall and in bower:
The king fum'd; the queene screecht; ladies were aghast;
Princes puffd; barons blustred; lords began lower;
Knights stormed; squires startled, like steeds in a stower;
Pages and yeomen yell'd out in the hall,
Then in came sir Kay, the ‘king's’ seneschal.
And in that stound the stowre began still:
‘Then’ the dwarfe's dinner full deerely was dight,
Of wine and wassel he had his wille;
And, when he had eaten and drunken his fill,
An hundred pieces of fine coyned gold
Were given this dwarf for his message bold.
That for his bold message I do him defye;
And shortlye with basins and pans will him ring
Out of North-gales; where he and I
With swords, and not razors, quickly shall trye,
Whether he, or king Arthur will prove the best barbor:
And therewith he shook his good sword Excalàbor.
Largesse, Largesse, The heralds resounded these words as oft as they received of the bounty of the knights. See “Memoires de la Chevalerie.” tom. p. 1. 99.—The expression is still used in the form of installing knights of the garter.
IV. KING ARTHUR's DEATH.
A Fragment.
The subject of this ballad is evidently taken from the old romance Morte Arthur, but with some variations, especially in the concluding stanzas; in which the author seems rather to follow the traditions of the old Welsh Bards, who “believed that King Arthur was not dead, but conveied awaie by the Fairies into some pleasant place, where he should remaine for a time, and then returne againe and reign in as great authority as ever.” Holingshed. B. 5. c. 14. or as it is expressed in an old Chronicle printed at Antwerp 1493 by Ger. de Leew, “The Bretons supposen, that he [K. Arthur]—shall come yet and conquere all Bretaigne, for certes this is the prophicye of Merlyn: He sayd, that his deth shall be doubteous; and sayd soth, for men thereof yet have doubte, and shullen for ever more,—for men wyt not whether that he lyveth or is dede.”
This fragment being very incorrect and imperfect in the original MS. hath received some conjectural emendations, and even a supplement of 3 or 4 stanzas composed from the romance of Morte Arthur.
This sore battayle was doom'd to bee;
Where manye a knighte cry'd, Well-awaye!
Alacké, it was the more pittìe.
When as the kinge in his bed laye,
He thoughte sir Gawaine to him came,
And there to him these wordes did saye.
And as you prize your life, this daye
O meet not with your foe in fighte;
Putt off the battayle, if yee maye.
And with him many an hardye knighte:
Who will within this moneth be backe,
And will assiste yee in the fighte.
Before the breakinge of the daye;
And tolde them howe sir Gawaine came,
And there to him these wordes did saye.
That earlye in the morning, hee
Shold send awaye an herauld at armes,
To aske a parley faire and free.
The best of all that with him were:
To parley with the foe in field,
And make with him agreement faire.
In readinesse there for to bee:
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre,
Unlesse a sword drawne they shold see.
Twelve of his knights did likewise bringe;
The beste of all his companye,
To hold the parley with the kinge.
In readinesse there for to bee;
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre,
But if a sworde drawne they shold see.
Nor he his nephewe, sothe to tell:
Alacke! it was a woefulle case,
As ere in Christentye befelle.
And both to faire accordance broughte;
And a month's league betweene them sette,
Before the battayle sholde be foughte.
Stunge one o'th' king's knightes on the knee:
Alacke! it was a woefulle chance,
As ever was in Christentìe.
And sawe the wild-worme hanginge there;
His sworde he from his scabberde drewe:
A piteous case as ye shall heare.
They joyned battayle instantlye;
Till of soe manye noble knightes,
On one side there were left but three.
And but some fewe that fled awaye:
Ay mee! it was a bloodye fielde,
As ere was foughte on summer's daye.
Onlye himselfe escaped there,
And Lukyn duke of Gloster free,
And the king's butler Bedevere.
All dead and scattered on the molde;
The teares fast trickled downe his face;
That manlye face in fight so bolde.
Soe true and faithful to your trust:
And must yee then, ye valiant hearts,
Be lefte to moulder into dust!
Most true and faithful unto deathe:
And, oh! to rayse yee up againe,
How freelye could I yield my breathe?
Lo where hee stalkes among the deade!
Nowe bitterlye he shall abye:
And vengeance fall upon his head.
O staye for love and charitìe;
Remember what the vision spake,
Nor meete your foe, if it may bee.
This debt my loyal knights I owe:
Betide me life, betide me death,
I will avenge them of their foe.
And on his horse then mounted hee:
As his butler holpe him to his horse,
His bowels gushed to his knee.
That I should live this sight to see!
To see this good knight here be slaine,
All for his love in helping mee!
And to sir Mordred loud gan crye;
Nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde,
For, traitor, nowe thy death is nye.
And fierce to meet the king ran hee:
The king his speare he through him thrust;
A fathom thorow his bodìe.
And found that he was wounded soe;
He thruste himselfe upon the speare,
And strucke the king a deadlye blowe.
Presentlye upon that tree:
And bloody streames ranne from the kinge,
Ere to the duke returned hee.
Sir knighte, thou hast been faithfulle tryde,
Nowe take my sword Excalibar,
That hangs so freelye by my syde.
And there into the river throwe:
For here, henceforth, benethe this tree,
All use of weapons I foregoe.
A better neer had valiant knighte,
With thee full ofte, and manye a daye,
Have I withstood my foe in fighte.
Oft have I reapd the bloody feelde:
But nowe the fatalle houre is come,
That never more I may thee weelde.
And there his owne sword in threwe hee:
But he kept back Excalibar,
He kept it back in privitee.
And all the hilte of precious stone:
And ever alacke! then sayd the knighte,
Must such a sword awaye be throwne?
Who sayd, Sir Lukyn, what did yee see?
Nothing, my liege, save that the winde
Blewe oer the waters faire and free.
O good fir Lukyn, goe againe:
Into the rivere throwe my sword,
Nor keepe me lingering here in paine.
And the kings scabberd in threwe hee;
But hee kept backe Excalibar,
And hid it undernethe a tree.
Who sayde, Sir Lukyn sawe ye oughte?
Nothinge, my liege, save that the winde
Nowe with the angrye waters fought.
Twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye:
Alacke, whom may wee ever truste,
When suche a knighte soe false can bee?
All for a sword, that wins thine eye:
Nowe goe againe, and throwe it in,
Or here the tone of us shall dye.
No aunswere made unto the kinge:
But to the rivere tooke the sworde,
And threwe it far as he coulde flinge.
And flourishd three times in the air;
Then funke benethe the renninge streme,
And of the duke was seene noe mair.
He stood as still, as still mote bee:
Then hastend backe to telle the kinge;
But he was gone from benethe the tree.
For never after he did him spye:
But hee sawe a barge goe from the lande,
And hee heard ladyes howle and crye.
Hee never knewe, nor ever colde:
For from that sad and direfulle daye,
Hee never more was seene on molde.
Not unlike that passage in Virgil.
Summoque ulularunt vertice nymphæ.Ladies was the word our old English writers used for Nymphs: As in the following lines of an old song in the Editor's MS collection.
“Then Lady Venus went to hunt:
“To whom Diana did resort,
“With all the Ladyes of hills, and valleys,
“Of springs, and floodes, &c.
V. THE LEGEND OF KING ARTHUR.
We have here a short summary of K. Arthur's History as given by Jeff. of Monmouth and the old chronicles, with the addition of a few circumstances from the romance Morte Arthur.—The ancient chronicle of Ger. de Leew, (quoted above in p. 28.) seems to have been chiefly followed: upon the authority of which we have restored some of the names which were corrupted in the MS. and have transposed one stanza, which appeared to be misplaced. [viz. that beginning at v. 49. which in the MS. followed v. 36.]
Printed from the Editor's ancient manuscript.
King Arthur I am to name;
Through Christendome, and Heathynesse,
Well knowne is my worthy fame.
I am a christyan bore:
The Father, Sone, and Holy Gost
One God, I doe adore.
Ore Brittaine I did rayne,
After my savior Christ his byrth:
What time I did maintaine
Soe famous in those dayes;
Whereatt a hundred noble knights,
And thirty sate alwayes:
As bookes done yett record,
Amongst all other nations
Wer feared through the world.
King Uther mee begate
Of Agyana a bewtyous ladye,
And come of his estate.
Then was I crowned kinge:
All Brittaine that was att an upròre,
I did to quiett bringe.
Who had opprest this land;
I conquered with my hand.
These countryes wan I all;
Iseland, Gotheland, and Swetheland;
I made their kings my thrall.
That now is called France;
And slew the hardye Froll in feild
My honor to advance.
Soe terrible to vewe,
That in Saint Barnards mount did lye,
By force of armes I slew:
I brought to deadly wracke;
And a thousand more of noble knightes
For feare did turne their backe:
Amidst that bloody strife;
Besides the Roman emperour
Who alsoe lost his life.
Cladd poorlye on a beere;
And afterward I past Mount-joye
The next approaching yeere.
Right as a conquerour,
And by all the cardinalls solempnelye
I was crowned an emperour.
Then word to mee was brought
Howe Mordred had oppresst the crowne:
What treason he had wrought,
Therefore I came with speede
To Brittaine backe, with all my power,
To quitt that traiterous deede:
Where Mordred me withstoode:
But yett at last I landed there,
With effusion of much blood.
Being wounded in that sore,
The whiche sir Lancelot in fight
Had given him before.
Who fledd to London ryght,
From London to Winchester, and
To Cornewalle tooke his flyght.
Till at the last we mett:
Wherby an appointed day of fight
Was there agreede and sett.
Eche other to deprive,
Till of a hundred thousand men
Scarce one was left a live.
Of Brittaine tooke their end.
O see how fickle is their state
That doe on fates depend!
Not one escapte away;
And there dyed all my vallyant knightes.
Alas! that woefull day!
In honor and great fame;
And thus by death was suddenlye
Deprived of the same.
VI. A DYTTIE TO HEY DOWNE.
Copied from an old MS. in the Cotton Library, [Vesp. A. 25.] intitled, “Divers things of Hen. viij's time.”
Or causse the floods bend to his wyll,
Or els against dame natures kinde
To ‘change’ things frame by cunning skyll:
That man I thinke bestoweth paine,
Thoughe that his laboure be in vaine.
Or goeth about to staye the sunne;
Who thinks to causse an oke to reele,
Which never can by force be done:
That man likewise bestoweth paine,
Thoughe that his laboure be in vaine.
And for to sayle without a maste;
Unlesse he thinks perhapps to faine,
His travell ys forelorne and waste;
And so in cure of all his paine,
His travell'ys his cheffest gaine.
To please eche eye and every eare,
Had nede to have withouten doubt
A golden gyft with hym to beare;
For evyll report shall be his gaine,
Though he bestowe both toyle and paine.
God send us all a happy place;
And let us pray unto the end,
That we may have our princes grace:
Amen, amen! so shall we gaine
A dewe reward for all our paine.
VII. GLASGERION.
An ingenious Friend thinks that the following old Dity (which is printed from the Editor's MS. Collection) may possibly have given birth to the Tragedy of the Orphan, in which Polidore intercepts Monimia's intended favours to Castalio.
And a harper he was goode:
He harped in the kinges chambere,
Where cuppe and caudle stoode.
Till ladyes waxed glad.
And then bespake the kinges daughter;
These were the wordes she sayd.
Of thy striking doe not blinne:
Theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe,
But it glads my harte withinne.
Who taught you nowe to speake!
I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeare
My minde I never durst breake.
When all men are att rest:
As I am a ladye true of my promise,
Thou shalt bee a welcome guest.
A glad man, lord! was hee.
And, come thou hither, Jacke my boy;
Come hither unto mee.
Hath granted mee my boone:
Beffore the cocke have crowen.
Lay your head heere on this stone:
For I will waken you, master deare,
Afore it be time to gone.
And hose and shoone did on:
A coller he cast upon his necke,
He seemed a gentleman.
He thrilled upon a pinn.
The lady was true of her promise,
And rose and lett him in.
To boulster nor to bed:
‘Nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille,
‘A single word he sed.
Nor when he came, nor yode:
And sore that ladye did mistrust
He was of some churls blode.
And did off his hole and shoone;
And cast the coller from off his necke:
He was but a churlès sonne.
The cock hath well-nigh crowen.
Awake, awake, my master deere,
I hold it time to be gone.
Well bridled I have your steede:
And I have served you a good breakfast:
For thereof ye have need.
And did on hose and shoone;
And cast a coller about his necke:
For he was a kinge his sonne.
He thrilled upon the pinne:
The ladye was more than true of promise,
And rose and let him inn.
Your bracelet or your glove?
To know more of my love?
By oake, and ashe, and thorne;
Ladye, I was never in your chambère,
Sith the time that I was borne.
He hath beguiled mee.
Then shee pulled forth a little pen-knìffe,
That hanged by her knee.
Within my bodye spring:
No churlès blood shall eer defile
The daughter of a kinge.
And woe, good lord, was hee.
Sayes, come thou hither, Jacke my boy,
Come hither unto mee.
Jacke, I would tell it thee:
But if I have not killed a man to night
Jacke, thou hast killed three.
And dryed it on his sleeve,
And he smote off that lither ladds head,
Who did his ladye grieve.
The pummil untill a stone:
Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd,
These three lives all were gone.
VIII. OLD SIR ROBIN OF PORTINGALE.
Marrye soe yonge a wife,
As did old ‘sir’ Robin of Portingale;
Who may rue all the dayes of his life.
He chose her to his wife,
And thought with her to have lived in love,
But they fell to hate and strife.
And scarce was hee asleepe,
But upp she rose, and forth shee goes,
To the steward, and gan to weepe.
Or be you not withinn?
Sleepe you, wake you, faire sir Gyles,
Arise and let me inn.
Sweete ladye, what is your wille?
I have bethought me of a wyle
How my wed-lord weell spille.
That dwell about this towne,
Even twenty-four of my near cozèns,
Shall helpe to ding him downe.
As he watered his masters steed;
And for his masters sad perìlle
His verry heart did bleed.
I sweare by the holy roode
The teares he for his master wept
Were blent water and bloode.
As he stood at his garden pale:
Sayes, Ever alacke, my litle foot-page,
What causes thee to wail?
Any of thy fellowes here?
Or is any ‘one’ of thy good friends dead,
That thou shedst manye a teare?
Aggrieved he shal bee:
For no man here within my howse,
Shall doe wrong unto thee.
Nor none of his degree:
But ‘on’ to-morrow ere it be noone
All doomed to die are yee.
And thank your gay ladèe.
If this be true, my litle foot-page,
The heyre of my land thoust bee.
No good death let me die.
If it bee not true, thou litle foot-page,
A dead corse shalt thou lie.
O call her downe to mee:
And tell my ladye gay how sicke,
And like to die I bee.
All clad in purple and pall:
The rings that were on her fingèrs,
Cast light throughout the hall.
What is your will with mee?
O see, my ladye deere, how sicke,
And like to die I bee.
Soe sore it grieveth mee:
But my five maydens and myselfe
Will make the bedde for thee:
We will a hot drinke make:
And at the waking of your first sleepe,
Your sorrowes we will slake.
And mail of manye a fold:
And hee putt a steele cap on his head,
Was gilt with good red gold.
And another att his feete:
And twentye good knights he placed at hand,
To watch him in his sleepe.
Came twentye-four traitours inn:
Sir Giles he was the foremost man,
The leader of that ginn.
Sir Gyles head soon did winn:
And scant of all those twenty-foure,
Went out one quick agenn.
Crept forth at a window of stone:
And he had two armes when he came in,
And he went back with one.
With torches burning bright:
She thought to have brought sir Gyles a drinke,
Butt she found her owne wedd knight.
It was sir Gyles his foote:
Sayes, Ever alacke, and woe is mee!
Here lyes my sweete hart-roote.
It was sir Gyles his heade:
Sayes, Ever, alacke, and woe is me!
Heere lyes my true love deade.
And did her body spille;
He cutt the eares beside her heade,
And bade her love her fille.
And made him there his heyre;
And sayd henceforth my worldlye goodes
And countrye I forsweare.
Of the white ‘clothe’ and the redde ,
And went him into the holy land,
Whereas Christ was quicke and deade.
Every person, who went on a Croisade to the Holy Land, usually wore a cross on his upper garment, on the right shoulder, as a badge of his profession. Different nations were distinguished by crosses of different colours: The English wore white; the French red; &c. This circumstance seems to be confounded in the ballad. [Vide Spelmanns Glossar. Chambers Dict. &c.]
IX. CHILD WATERS.
Child is frequently used by our old writers, as a Title. It is repeatedly given to Prince Arthur in the Fairie Queen: and the son of a king is in the same poem called Child Tristram. [B. 5. c. 11. st. 8. 13.—B. 6. c. 2. st. 36.—Ibid. c. 8. st. 15.] In an old ballad quoted in Shakespeare's K. Lear, the hero of Ariosto is called Child Roland. Mr. Theobald supposes this use of the word received along with their romances from the Spaniards, with whom Infante signifies a Prince. A more eminent critic tells us, that “in the old times of chivalry, the noble youth, who were candidates for knighthood, during the time of their probation were called Infans, Varlets, Damoysels, Bacheliers. The most noble of the youth were particularly called Infans.” [Vid. Warb. Shakesp.] A late commentator on Spenser observes, that the Saxon word cnihz knight, signifies also a Child.
The Editor's MS. collection, whence the following piece is taken, affords several other ballads, wherein the word Child occurs as a title: but in none of these it signifies “Prince.” See the song intitled Gil Morrice, in this volume.
It ought to be observed that the Word Child or Chield is still used in North Britain to denominate a Man, commonly with some contemptuous character affixed to him: but sometimes to denote Man in general.
And stroakt his milke-white steede:
To him a fayre yonge ladye came
As ever ware womans weede.
Sayes, Christ you save, and see:
My girdle of gold that was too longe,
Is now too short for mee.
I feele sturre at my side:
My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
Before, it was too wide.
Be mine as you tell mee;
Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
Take them your owne to bee.
Be mine, as you doe sweare;
Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
And make that childe your heyre.
Childe Waters, of thy mouth;
Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
That lye by north and southe.
Childe Waters, of thine ee:
Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
To take them mine owne to bee.
Farr into the north countree;
The fayrest ladye that I can finde,
Ellen, must goe with mee.
‘Yet let me go with thee’:
And ever I pray you, Childe Watèrs,
Your foot-page let me bee.
As you doe tell to mee;
Then you must cut your gowne of greene,
An inch above your knee:
An inch above your ee:
You must tell no man what is my name;
My footpage then you shall bee.
Ran barefoote by his syde;
Yet was he never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, Ellen, will you ryde?
Ran barefoote thorow the broome;
Yet was hee never soe courteous a knighte,
To say, put on your shoone.
Why doe you ryde so fast?
The childe, which is no mans but thine,
My bodye itt will brast.
That flows from banke to brimme.—
I trust in God, O Childe Waters,
You never will see me swimme.
Shee sayled to the chinne:
Nowe the Lord of heaven be my speede,
For I must learne to swimme.
Our Ladye bare up her chinne:
Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,
To fee faire Ellen swimme.
Shee then came to his knee.
Hee sayd, Come hither, thou fayre Ellèn,
Loe yonder what I see.
Of red gold shines the yate:
Of twenty foure faire ladyes there
The fairest is my mate.
Of red golde shines the towre:
There are twenty four fayre ladyes there,
The fayrest is my paramoure.
Of red golde shines the yate:
God give you good now of yourselfe,
And of your worthye mate.
Of red golde shines the towre:
God give you good now of yourselfe,
And of your paramoure.
A playing at the ball:
And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his steed to the stall.
A playinge at the chesse;
And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his horse to grasse.
These were the wordes sayd shee:
You have the prettyest page, brothèr,
That ever I did see.
His girdle stands soe hye:
And ever I pray you, Childe Watèrs,
Let him in my chamber lye.
That has run throughe mosse and myre,
To lye in the chamber of any ladye,
That weares soe riche attyre.
That has run throughe mosse and myre,
To take his supper upon his knee,
And lye by the kitchen fyre.
To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page,
And hearken what I saye.
And lowe into the streete;
The fayrest ladye that thou canst finde,
Hyre in mine armes to sleepe,
And take her up in thine armes twaine,
For filing of her feete.
And lowe into the streete:
She hyred in his armes to sleepe;
And tooke her up in her armes twayne,
For filing of her feete.
Let mee lye at your feete:
For there is noe place about this house,
Where I may saye a sleepe.
‘Down at his beds feet laye:
This done the nighte drove on apace,
And when it was neare the daye,
Give my steede corne and haye;
And give him nowe the good black oats,
To carry mee better awaye.
And gave his steede corne and haye:
And soe shee did the good black oates,
To carry him the better awaye.
And grievouslye did groane:
Shee leaned her back to the manger side,
And there shee made her moane.
Shee heard ‘her woefull woe.’
Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs,
And into thy stable goe.
That grievouslye doth grone:
Or else some woman laboures with childe,
Shee is so woe-begone.
And did on his shirte of silke;
And then he put on his other clothes,
On his bodye as white as milke.
Full still there hee did stand,
That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn,
Howe shee made her monànd.
Lullabye, deare childe, deare:
I wolde thy father were a kinge,
Thy mothere layd on a biere.
Bee of good cheere, I praye;
And the bridall and the churchinge bothe
Shall bee upon one daye.
X. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.
This Sonnet is given from a small quarto MS in the editor's possession, written in the time of Q. Elizabeth. Another Copy of it, containing some variations, is reprinted in the Muses Library p. 295. from an ancient miscellany, intitled England's Helicon 1600. 4to. The author was Nicholas Breton, a writer of some fame in the reign of Elizabeth; who also published an interlude intitled “An old man's lesson and a young man's love.” 1605. 4to. and many other little pieces in prose and verse, the titles of which may be seen in Winstanley, Ames' Typog. and Osborne's Harl. catalog. &c.—He is mentioned with great respect by Meres, in his 2d pt of Wit's Common-wealth. 1598. f. 283. and is alluded to in Beaumont and Fletcher's Scornful Lady, Act 2. and again in Wit without money, A. 3. —See Whalley's Ben Jonson, vol. 3. p. 103.
Phillida and Corydon is one of the Songs in “The Honourable Entertainment gieven to the Queenes Majestie in Progresse at Elvetham in Hampshire, by the R. H. the Earle of Hertford. 1591.” 4to. [Printed by Wolfe. No name of author.] See in that pamphlet,
“The thirde daies Entertainment.“On Wednesday morning about 9 o' clock, as her Majestie opened a casement of her gallerie window, ther were 3 excellent musitians, who being disguised in auncient country attire, did greet her with a pleasant song of Corydon and Phillida, made in 3 parts of purpose. The song, as well for the worth of the dittie, as the aptnesse of the note thereto applied, it pleased her Highnesse after it had been once sung to commend it againe, and highly to grace it with her cheerefull acceptance and commendation.
The Splendour and Magnificence of Elizabeth's reign is no where more strongly painted than in these little Diaries of some of her summer excursions to the houses of her nobility; nor could a more acceptable present be given to the world, than a republication of a select number of such details as this of the entertainment at Elvetham, that at Killingworth, &c. &c. which so strongly mark the spirit of the times and present us with scenes so very remote from modern manners.
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troope of damselles playing
Forthe ‘I yode’ forsooth a maying:
Where that Maye was in his pride,
I espied all alone
Phillida and Corydon.
He wold love, and she wold not:
He sayes, never false to you.
She sayes, love should have no wronge.
Corydon wold kisse her then:
She sayes, maydes must kisse no men,
When she made the shepperde call
All the heavens to wytnes truthe,
Never loved a truer youthe.
Yea and nay, and, faith and trothe;
Suche as seelie shepperdes use
When they would not love abuse;
Was with kisses sweete concluded;
And the mayde with garlands gaye
‘Crownde’ the lady of the Maye.
XI. LITTLE MUSGRAVE AND LADY BARNARD.
This ballad is ancient, and has been popular: we find it quoted in many old plays. See Beaum. and Fletcher's Knight
“And for Chevy-chace no lark comes near me.
In the Pepys Collection is an imitation of this old song, in a different measure, by a more modern pen, with many alterations, but evidently for the worse.
This is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, corrected in part by the Editor's folio manuscript.
As many bee in the yeare,
When yong men and maides together do goe
Their masses and mattins to heare,
The priest was at the mass;
But he had more mind of the fine womèn,
Then he had of our Ladyes grace.
And others were clad in pall;
And then came in my Lord Barnardes wife,
The fairest among them all.
As bright as the summer sunne:
O then bethought him little Musgràve,
This ladyes heart I have wonne.
Fulle long and manye a daye.
So have I loved you, ladye faire,
Yet word I never durst saye.
Full daintilye bedight,
If thoult wend thither, my little Musgràve,
Thoust lig in mine armes all night.
This kindness yee shew to mee;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
This night will I lig with thee.
By his ladyes coach as he ranne:
Quoth he, thoughe I am my ladyes page,
Yet Ime my lord Barnardes manne.
Although I lose a limbe.
And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
He layd hin downe to swimme.
As thou art a man of life,
Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury
Little Musgraves abed with thy wife.
This tale thou hast told to mee,
Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury
I freelye will give to thee.
This tale thou hast told to mee,
On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury
All hanged shalt thou bee.
And saddle to me my steede;
This night must I to Bucklesford-Bury;
God wott, I had never more neede.
And some did loudlye saye,
Whenever lord Barnardes horne it blewe
Awaye, Musgràve, away.
Methinkes I heare the jaye,
Methinkes I heare lord Barnardes horne;
I would I were awaye.
And huggle me from the cold;
For it is but some shephardes boye
A whistling his sheepe to the fold.
Thy horse eating corne and haye?
And thou a gaye ladye within thine armes:
And wouldst thou be awaye?
And lighted upon a stone;
And he pulled out three silver keyes,
And opened the dores eche one.
He lifted up the sheete;
How now, how now, thou little Musgràve,
Dost find my gaye ladye sweete?
The more is my griefe and paine;
Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes
That I were on yonder plaine.
And put thy cloathes nowe on,
It shall never be said in my countree,
That I killed a naked man.
Full deare they cost my purse;
And thou shalt have the best of them,
And I will have the worse.
He hurt lord Barnard sore;
The next stroke that lord Barnard strucke,
Little Musgrave never strucke more.
In bed whereas she laye,
Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgràve,
Yet for thee I will praye:
So long as I have life;
So will I not do for thee, Barnàrd,
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.
Great pitye it was to see
Some drops of this fair ladyes bloode
Run trickling downe her knee.
You never were borne for my goode:
Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
When you see me wax so woode?
That ever rode on a steede;
So have I done the fairest ladyè,
That evér ware womans weede.
To putt these lovers in;
But lay my ladye o' the upper hande,
For shee comes o' the better kin.
XII. THE EW-BUGHTS MARION.
A Scottish Song.
This sonnet is said to be of great antiquity: that and it's simplicity of sentiment have recommended it to a place here.
And wear in the sheip wi' mee?
The sun shines sweit, my Marion,
But nae half sae sweit as thee.
O Marion's a bonnie lass;
And the blyth blinks in her ee:
And fain wad I marrie Marion,
Gin Marion wad marrie mee.
And siller on zour white hauss-bane:
Fou faine wad I kisse my Marion
At eene quhan I cum hame.
Theires braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion,
Quha gape and glowr wi' their ee
At kirk, quhan they see my Marion;
Bot nane of tham lues like mee.
A cow and a brawney quay:
Ile gie tham au to my Marion,
Just on her bridal day.
And zees get a grein sey apron,
And waistcote o' London broun;
And wow bot ze will be vaporing
Quhaneer ze gang to the toun.
Nane dance lik mee on the greine;
And gin ze forsak me, Marion,
Ile een gae draw up wi' Jeane.
Sae put on zour pearlins, Marion,
And kirtle oth cramasie;
And sune as my chin has nae haire on,
I sall cum west, and see zee.
XIII. THE KNIGHT, AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER.
This ballad (given from an old black-letter Copy) was popular in the time of Q. Elizabeth, being usually printed with her picture before it, as Hearne informs us in his preface to “Gul. Neubrig. Hist. Oxon. 1719. 8vo. vol. 1. p. lxx.” It is quoted in Fletcher's comedy of the Pilgrim, Act. 4. sc. 1.
Came tripping on the waye;
And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
Which caused her to staye.
These words pronounced hee:
O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,
If Ive not my wille of thee.
That you shold waxe so wode!
‘But for all that shee could do or saye,
‘He wold not be withstood.
And put me to open shame,
Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
Tell me what is your name?
And some do call mee Jille;
But when I come to the kings faire courte
They call me Wilfulle Wille.
And awaye then he did ride;
She tuckt her girdle about her middle
And ranne close by his side.
She sett her brest and swamme;
And when she was got out againe,
She tooke to her heels and ranne.
To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?
Nor she was never so loving a maide
To saye, sir knighte abide.
She knocked at the ring;
So readye was the king himself
To let this faire maide in.
Now Christ you save and see,
You have a knighte within your courte
This daye hath robbed mee.
Of purple or of pall?
Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
From off thy finger small?
Of purple nor of pall:
But he hath gotten my maiden head,
Which grieves mee worst of all.
His bodye Ile give to thee;
But if he be a married man,
High hanged hee shall bee.
By one, by two, by three;
Sir William used to bee the first,
But nowe the last came hee.
Tyed up withinne a glove:
Faire maid, Ile give the same to thee;
Go, seeke thee another love.
Nor Ile have none of your fee;
But your faire bodye I must have
The king hath granted mee.
Five hundred pound in golde,
Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,
Thy fault will never be tolde.
These words then answered shee,
But your own bodye I must have,
The king hath granted mee.
When I did drinke the wine,
Rather than any shepherds brat
Shold bee a ladye of mine!
When I did drink the ale,
Rather than ever a shepherds brat
Shold tell me such a tale!
You mote have let me bee,
I never had come to the kings faire courte,
To crave any love of thee.
And himself upon a graye;
He hung a bugle about his necke,
And soe they rode awaye.
Where marriage-rites were done,
She proved herself a dukes daughtèr,
And he but a squires sonne.
Your pleasure shall be free:
If you make me ladye of one good towne,
Ile make you lord of three.
If thou hadst not been trewe,
I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
And have changd her for a newe.
They joyned hand in hande:
Thus he had both purse, and person too,
And all at his commande.
This was agreeable to the feudal customs: The Lord had a right to give a wife to his vassals. See Shakespeare's, “All's well, that ends well.”
XIV. THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.
With some sweete harmony:
This wearie eyes is not to kepe
Thy wary company.
Thou seest my heavines:
Beautie is borne but to beguyle
My harte of happines.
That lovde to feede on highe,
Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke,
And in the valley dye.
That were so freshe and greene,
Doe all their deintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.
That made the woodes to ringe,
With all the rest, are now at hushe,
And not a note do singe.
That hath the heavenly throte,
Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde
Recordinge of a note.
The herbs have loste their savoure;
‘For haples Corydon’ hath lost
‘His lovelye Phyllis’ favoure.
That knowest what helpe is best,
Doe nowe thy heavenlie conninge use
To sett my harte at rest:
What fate shall be my frende;
Whether my life shall stil decaye,
Or soone my sorrowes ende.
XV. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ELLINOR.
From an ancient copy in black letter, in the Pepys collection, intitled, “A tragical ballad on the unfortunate love of lord Thomas and fair Ellinor, together with the downfall of the browne girl.”—In the same collection may be seen an attempt to modernize this old song, and reduce it to a different measure. A proof of it's popularity.
And a chaser of the kings deere;
Faire Ellinor was a fine womàn,
And lord Thomas he loved her deare.
And riddle us both as one;
Whether I shall marrye with faire Ellinòr,
And let the browne girl alone?
Faire Ellinor she has got none,
And therefore I charge thee on my blessìng,
To bring me the browne girl home.
As many there are beside,
Lord Thomas he went to faire Ellinòr,
That should have been his bride.
He knocked there at the ring,
And who was so readye as faire Ellinòr,
To lett lord Thomas withinn.
What newes dost thou bring to mee?
I am come to bid thee to my weddìng,
And that is bad newes for thee.
That such a thing should be done;
I thought to have been thy bride my selfe,
And thou to have been the bridegrome.
And riddle it all in one;
Whether I shall goe to lord Thomas his wedding,
Or whether shall tarry at home?
And manye that are your foe,
Therefore I charge you on my blessing,
To lord Thomas his wedding don't goe.
But if thousands there were my foe,
Betide me life, betide me death,
To lord Thomas his wedding Ile goe.
And her merrye men all in greene,
And as they rid through everye towne,
They took her to be some queene.
She knocked there at the ring;
And who was so readye as lord Thomàs,
To lett faire Ellinor in.
Methinks she looks wonderous browne;
Thou mightest have had as faire a womàn,
As ever trod on the grounde.
Despise her not unto mee;
For better I love thy little fingèr,
Than all her whole bodèe.
That was both long and sharpe,
And betwixt the short ribs and the long,
She prickd faire Ellinor's harte.
Methinks thou lookst wonderous wan;
Thou usedst to look with as fresh a colòur,
As ever the sun shone on.
Or canst thou not very well see?
Oh! dost thou not see my owne hearts bloode
Run trickling down my knee.
As he walked about the halle,
He cut off his brides head from her shouldèrs,
And threw it against the walle.
And the point against his harte.
There never three lovers together did meete,
That sooner againe did parte.
The reader will find a Scottish song on a similar subject to this, towards the end of this volume, intitled “Lord Thomas and Lady Annet.”
XVI. CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
This elegant little sonnet is found in the third act of an old play intitled, “Alexander and Campaspe,” written by John Lilye, a celebrated writer in the time of queen Elizabeth. This play was first printed in 1591: but the song is given from a later edition.
At cardes for kisses; Cupid payd:
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mothers doves, and teame of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lippe, the rose
Growing on's cheek, (but none knows how)
With these, the crystal of his browe,
And then the dimple of his chinne;
All these did my Campaspe winne.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of mee?
XVII. THE LADY TURNED SERVING-MAN
—is given from a written copy, containing some improvements, (perhaps modern ones) upon the old popular ballad, intitled, “The famous flower of Serving-men: or the “Lady turned Serving-man.”
I write unto you one and all,
Whereby that you may understand
What I have suffered in the land.
An ancient barons only heire,
And when my good old father dyed,
Then I became a young knightes bride.
Bedeck'd with many a fragrant flower;
A braver bower you ne'er did see
Then my true-love did build for mee.
Till fortune wrought our loves decay;
For there came foes so fierce a band,
That soon they over-run the land.
And brent my bower, and slew my knight;
And trembling hid in mans array,
I scant with life escap'd away.
My servants all did from me flee:
Thus was I left myself alone,
With heart more cold than any stone.
Heaven would not suffer me to dispaire,
Wherefore in haste I chang'd my name
From faire Elise, to sweet Williame:
Resolv'd my man's attire to weare;
And in my beaver, hose and band,
I travell'd far through many a land.
I sate me downe to rest awhile;
My heart it was so fill'd with woe,
That downe my cheeke the teares did flow.
With all his lords a hunting was,
And seeing me weepe, upon the same
Askt who I was, and whence I came.
I am a poore and friendlesse boye,
Though nobly borne, nowe forc'd to bee
A serving-man of lowe degree.
For thee a service I'll provyde;
But tell me first what thou canst do,
Thou shalt be fitted thereunto.
To wait upon my nobles all?
Or wilt be taster of my wine,
To 'tend on me when I shall dine?
About my person to remaine?
Or wilt thou be one of my guard,
And I will give thee great reward?
Then I reply'd, if it please your grace,
To shew such favour unto mee,
Your chamberlaine I faine would bee.
And straitwaye to his court I went;
Where I behavde so faithfullìe,
That hee great favour showd to mee.
The king he would a hunting ride
With all his lords and noble traine,
Sweet William must at home remaine.
My former state came in my mind,
I wept to see my mans array,
No longer now a ladye gay.
Within the same myself I drest
With silken robes, and jewels rare,
I deckt me as a ladye faire.
Upon the same I strove to play,
And sweetly to the fame did sing,
As made both hall and chamber ring.
“As ever Europe did afford;
“My mother was a lady bright;
“My husband was a valiant knight:
“Bedeckt with gorgeous rich array;
“The happiest lady in the land,
“Had not more pleasure at command.
“Harmonious lessons for to play;
“I had my virgins fair and free,
“Continually to wait on mee.
“And all my friends are from me fled,
“My former days are past and gone,
“And I am now a serving-man.”
As thinking no one then was nigh,
In pensive mood I laid me lowe,
My heart was full, the tears did flowe.
Grewe weary of his sport anone,
And leaving all his gallant traine,
Turn'd on the sudden home againe:
Hearing one sing within his bower,
He stopt to listen, and to see
Who sung there so melodiouslìe.
And sawe the pearlye teares I shed,
And found to his amazement there,
Sweete William was a ladye faire.
And dry, said he, those lovelye eyes,
For I have heard thy mournful tale,
The which shall turne to thy availe.
I blusht for shame, and hung my head,
To find my sex and story knowne,
When as I thought I was alone.
Grewe soe enamour'd of my face,
The richest gifts he proffered mee,
His mistress if that I would bee.
I'll rather in my grave be layd,
And though your grace hath won my heart,
I ne'er will act soe base a part.
Thy virtue shall rewarded bee,
And since it is soe fairly tryde
Thou shalt become my royal bride.
He tooke sweet William to his wife:
The like before was never seene,
A serving-man became a queene.
XVIII. GIL MORRICE.
A Scottish Ballad.
The following piece has lately run thro' two editions in Scotland: the second was printed at Glasgow in 1755. 8 vo. Prefixed to them both is an advertisement, setting forth that the preservation of this poem was owing “to a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses;” And any reader that can render it more correct or complete,” is desired to oblige the public with such improvements. In consequence of this advertisement sixteen additional verses have been produced and handed about in manuscript, which are here inserted in their proper places: (these are from ver. 109. to ver. 121. and from ver. 124. to ver. 129. and are perhaps after all only an ingenious interpolation.)
As this poem lays claim to a pretty high antiquity, we have assigned it a place among our early pieces: though, after all, there is reason to believe it has received very considerable modern improvements: for in the Editor's ancient MS collection is a very old imperfect copy of the same ballad: wherein though the leading features of the story are the same, yet the colouring here is so much improved and heightened, and so many additional strokes are thrown in, that it is evident the whole has undergone a revisal.
N. B. The Editor's MS instead of “lord Barnard”, has “John Stewart”; and instead of “Gil Morrice”, Child Maurice, which last is probably the original title.
His name it waxed wide;
Nor zet his mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to lord Barnards ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand Willie;
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld baròns,
For to triest furth his wife.
My bird Willie, my boy Willie;
My dear Willie, he sayd:
How can ze strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyd.
In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.
Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi' speid:
Ill gar zour body bleid.
'Tis a' gowd bot the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
Speir nae bauld barons leave.
Though it be to zour cost;
Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt,
As ze will see before its nicht,
How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
Sae sair against my will,
I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
It sall be done for ill.
And quhen he came to broken brigue,
He bent his bow and swam;
And quhen came to grass growìng,
Set down his feet and ran.
Would neither chap nor ca':
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Though he stude at the gait;
Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.
My message winna waite;
Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod
Before that it be late.
Ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl,
Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
Ev'n by your sel alane.
Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morìce;
Speir nae bauld barons leave.
The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
And winked wi' hir ee;
Bot a' that she coud say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.
It neir could be to me.
I trow that ze be she.
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon hir knee)
If it be cum frae Gill Morìce,
It's deir welcum to mee.
Sae loud's I heire ze lee;
I brocht it to lord Barnards lady;
I trow ze be nae shee.
Then up and spack the bauld baròn,
An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee;
Till siller cup and ezar dish
In flinders he gard flee.
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' zour lemmàn.
O bide at hame, now lord Barnàrd,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi' nane.
He whistled and he sang:
O what mean a' the folk comìng,
My mother tarries lang.
His hair was like the threeds of gold,
Drawne frae Minervas loome:
His lipps like roses drapping dew,
His breath was a' perfume.
Gilt by the morning beam:
His cheeks like living roses glow:
His een like azure stream.
The boy was clad in robes of grene,
Sweete as the infant spring:
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.
Wi' mickle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gill Morìce
Kameing his zellow hair:
That sweetly wavd around his face,
That face beyond compare:
He sang sae sweet it might dispel,
A' rage but fell dispair.
My lady loed thee weel,
The fairest part of my body
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet neir the less now, Gill Morìce,
For a' thy great bewty,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sall gae wi' me.
And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
He's gar cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice' head
And set it on a speir:
The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr
And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',
Beheld baith dale and doun;
And there she saw Gill Morice' head
Cum trailing to the toun.
Bot and that zellow hair,
As they lig here and thair.
And she has tain her Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin:
I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip is o' the stean.
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
Under the heavy rain:
Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,
And fondly seen thee sleip;
Bot now I gae about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.
And syne his bluidy chin:
O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a' my kith and kin!
Away, away, ze ill womàn,
And an il deith mait ze dee:
Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
He'd neir bin slain for mee.
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi that saim speir O pierce my heart!
And put me out o' pain.
Thy jelous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
That neir to thee did ill.
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.
Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae mee;
I rather lourd it had been my sel
Than eather him or thee.
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsom dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's blude on the ground.
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were my ain;
On which the zouth was slain.
The foregoing ballad is said to have furnished the plot to the tragedy of Douglas.
It may be proper to mention that other copies read ver. 110. thus
“Shot frae the golden sun.”And ver. 116. as follows
“His een like azure sheene.”BOOK II.
I. THE LEGEND OF SIR GUY
—contains a short summary of the exploits of this famous champion, as recorded in the old story books; and is commonly intitled, “A pleasant song of the valiant deeds of chivalry atchieved by that noble knight sir Guy of Warwick, who, for the love of fair Phelis, became a
The history of sir Guy, tho' now very properly resigned to children, was once admired by all readers of wit and taste: for taste and wit had once their childhood. Tho' of English growth, it was early a favourite with other nations: it appeared in French in 1525: and is alluded to the old Spanish romance Tirante el blanco, which it is believed was written not long after the year 1430. See advertisement to the French translation, 2 vols. 12 mo.
The original whence all these stories are extracted is a very ancient romance in old English verse, which is quoted by Chaucer as a celebrated piece even in his time, (viz.)
“Of Horne childe and Ippotis,
“Of Bevis, and sir Guy, &c.
R. of Thop.
and was usually sung to the harp at Christmas dinners and brideales, as we learn from Puttenham's art of poetry, 4 to. 1589.
This ancient romance is not wholly lost. An imperfect copy in black letter, “Imprynted at London—for Wylliam Copland.” in 34 sheets 4 to. without date, is still preserved among Mr. Garrick's collection of old plays. As a specimen of the poetry of this antique rhymer, take his description of the dragon mentioned in ver. 105 of the following ballad,
“Syr king, he sayd, lysten me now,
“For bad tydinges I bring you,
“In Northumberlande there is no man,
“But that they be slayne everychone:
“For there dare no man route,
“By twenty myle rounde aboute,
“For doubt of a fowle dragon,
“That sleath men and beastes downe.
“He is blacke as any cole,
“Rugged as a rough fole;
“His bodye from the navill upwarde
“No man may it pierce it is so harde;
“He renneth as swifte as any distrere;
“Pawes he hath as a lyon:
“All that he toucheth he sleath dead downe.
“Great winges he hath to flight,
“That is no man that bare him might.
“There may no man fight him agayne,
“But that he sleath him certayne:
“For a fowler beast then is he,
“Ywis of none never heard ye.”
The accurate Dugdale is of opinion that the story of Guy is not wholly apocryphal, tho' he acknowledges the monks have sounded out his praises too hyperbolically. In particular, he gives the duel fought with the Danish champion as a real historical truth, and fixes the date of it in the year 929, Ætat. Guy, 70.
The following is written upon the same plan, as ballad V. Book I. but which is the original and which the copy, cannot be decided. This song is ancient, as may be inferred from the idiom preserved in the margin, ver. 94. 102: and was once popular, as appears from Fletcher's Knight of the burning pestle, act. 2. sc. ult.
Printed from an ancient MS copy in the Editor's old folio volume, collated with two printed ones, one of which is in black letter in the Pepys collection.
Soe tost in love, as I sir Guy
For Phelis fayre, that lady bright
As ever man beheld with eye?
The valiant knight with sheeld and speare,
Ere that her love shee wold grant me;
Which made mee venture far and neare.
In deeds of armes the doughtyest knight
That in those dayes in England was,
With sworde and speare in feild to fight.
In faith of Christ a christyan true:
The wicked lawes of infidells
I sought by prowesse to subdue.
After our Saviour Christ his birthe,
When king Athèlstone wore the crowne,
I lived heere upon the earthe.
And, as I sayd, of very truthe
A ladyes love did me constraine
To seeke strange ventures in my youthe.
In strange and sundry heathen lands;
Where I atchieved for her sake
Right dangerous conquests with my hands.
And there I stoutlye wan in fight
The emperours daughter of Almayne,
From manye a vallyant worthye knight.
To helpe the emperour in his right;
Against the mightye souldans hoaste
Of puissant Persians for to fight.
And heathen pagans, manye a man;
And slew the souldans cozen deare,
Who had to name doughtye Coldràn.
To death likewise I did pursue:
And Elmayne king of Tyre alsoe,
Most terrible in fight to viewe.
Being thither on embassage sent,
And brought his head awaye with mee,
I having slaine him in his tent.
Most fiercelye mett me by the way
As hee a lyon did pursue,
Which I myself did alsoe slay.
And came to Pavye land aright:
Where I the duke of Pavye killd,
His hainous treason to requite.
To wedd faire Phelis ladye bright:
For love of whome I travelled farr
To try my manhood and my might.
I stayd with her but fortye dayes,
Ere that I left this ladye faire,
And went from her beyond the seas.
My voyage from her I did take
Unto the blessed Holy-land,
For Jesus Christ my Saviours sake.
And all his sonnes which were fifteene,
Who with the cruell Sarazens
In prison for long time had beene.
In battel fiercelye hand to hand:
And doughty Barknard killed I,
A treacherous knight of Pavye land.
And here with Colbronde fell I fought:
An ugly gyant, which the Danes
Had for their champion hither brought.
And slewe him soone right valliantlye;
Wherebye this land I did redeeme
From Danish tribute utterlye.
The use of weapons solemnlye
At Winchester, whereas I fought,
In sight of manye farr and nye.
A bore of passing might and strength;
Whose like in England never was
For hugenesse both in bredth, and length.
Within the castle there doe lye:
One of his sheild-bones to this day
Hangs in the citye of Coventrye.
A monstrous wyld and cruell beast,
Calld the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath;
Which manye people had opprest.
Still for a monument doe lye;
Which unto every lookers viewe
As wonderous strange, they may espye.
I alsoe did in fight destroye,
Which did bothe man and beast oppresse,
And all the countrye sore annoye.
Like pilgrime poore and was not knowne;
And there I livd a hermites life
A mile and more out of the towne.
Out of a craggy rocke of stone;
And lived like a palmer poore
Within that cave myself alone:
Of Phelis at my castle gate;
Not knowne unto my loving wife,
Who dailye mourned for her mate.
Yea sicke soe sore that I must die;
I sent to her a ringe of golde,
By which she knewe me presentlye.
Before that I gave up the ghost;
Herself closd up my dying eyes:
My Phelis faire, whom I lovd most.
To bring my corpes unto the grave;
And like a palmer dyed I,
Wherby I sought my soule to save.
Though now it be consumed to mold;
My statue faire engraven in stone,
In Warwicke still you may behold.
II. GUY AND AMARANT.
The Editor found this Poem in his ancient folio manuscript among the old ballads; he was desirous therefore that it should still accompany them; and as it is not altogether devoid of merit, its insertion here will be pardoned.
Although this piece seems not imperfect, there is reason to believe that it is only a part of a much larger poem, which contained the whole history of sir Guy: for upon comparing it with the common story book 12mo, we find the latter to be nothing more than this poem reduced to prose: which is only effected by now and then altering the rhyme, and throwing out some few of the poetical ornaments. The disguise is so slight that it is an easy matter to pick complete stanzas in any page of that book.
The author of this poem has shown some invention. Though he took the subject from the old romance quoted before, he has adorned it afresh, and made the story intirely his own.
Whereas the Jewes fayre citye sometime stood,
Wherin our Saviours sacred head was crownd,
And where for sinfull man he shed his blood:
To see the sepulcher was his intent,
The tombe that Joseph unto Jesus lent.
And passed desart places full of danger,
At last with a most woefull wight did meet,
A man that unto sorrow was noe stranger:
For he had fifteen sonnes, made captives all
To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall.
Whom noe man durst encounter for his strength:
Who in a castle, which he held, had chaind them:
Guy questions, where? and understands at length
The place not farr.—Lend me thy sword, quoth hee,
Ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free.
Like one, he sayes, that must, and will come in:
The gyant he was nere soe rowzd before;
For noe such knocking at his gate had bin:
Soe takes his keyes, and clubb, and goeth out
Staring with ireful countenance about.
Art come to feast the crowes about my walls?
Didst never heare, noe ransome cold him cleere,
That in the compas of my furye falls:
For making me to take a porters paines,
With this same clubb I will dash out thy braines.
Choller and you are something neere of kin:
Most dangerous at a clubb belike you bee,
I have bin better armd, though nowe goe thin;
But shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spight,
Keene is my weapon, and must doe me right.
About the head, the shoulders, and the sides:
Whilst his erected clubb doth death proclaime,
Standinge with huge Colossus' spacious strides,
Putting such vigour to his knotted beame,
That like a furnace he did smoke extreame.
For Guy was nimble to avoyde them still,
And ere he cold recover his clubb againe,
Did beate his plated coat against his will:
Att such advantage Guy wold never fayle,
To beat him soundlye in his coate of mayle.
And sayd to Guy, as thou'rt of humane race,
Shew itt in this, give natures wants their dewe,
Let me but goe, and drinke in yonder place:
Thou canst not yeeld to ‘me’ a smaller thing,
Than to grant life, thats given by the spring.
Go pledge the dragon, and the savage bore :
Succeed the tragedyes that they have past,
But never thinke to drinke cold water more:
Drinke deepe to Death and unto him carouse:
Bid him receive thee in his earthen house.
Takeing the water in extremely like
Some wracked shipp that on some rocke is burst,
Whose forced hulke against the stones does stryke;
Scoping it in soe fast with both his hands,
That Guy admiring to behold him stands.
Thou stayest about thy liquor overlong;
The fish, which in the river doe remaine,
Will want thereby; thy drinking doth them wrong:
But I will ‘have’ their satisfaction made,
With gyants blood they must, and shall be payd.
Thy life shall pay thy daring toungs offence:
This clubb, which is about some hundred weight,
Has deathes commission to dispatch thee hence:
Dresse thee for ravens dyett I must needes;
And breake thy bones, as they were made of reedes.
Which worthye Guy cold ill endure to heare,
He hewes upon those bigg supporting postes,
Which like two pillars did his body beare:
Amarant for those wounds in choller growes,
And desperatelye att Guy his clubb he throwes:
Soe heavy, and so weighty there-withall,
That downe to ground on sudden came the knight;
And, ere he cold recover from his fall,
The gyant gott his clubb againe in fist,
And aimd a blowe that wonderfullye mist.
This coward act to intercept my bloode.
Sayes Amarant, Ile murther any way,
With enemyes all vantages are good:
O cold I poyson in thy nostrills blowe,
Besure of it I wold destroy thee soe.
Within that beastlye bulke where devills dwell,
Which are thy tenants while thou livest heare,
But will be landlords when thou comest in hell:
Vile miscreant, prepare thee for their den,
Inhumane monster, hurtfull unto men.
For flameing Phœbus with his fyerye eye
Torments me soe with burning heat, I thinke
My thirst wold serve to drinke an ocean drye:
Forbear a litle, as I delt with thee.
Quoth Amarant, thou hast noe foole of mee.
How I shold use such enemyes as thou,
By all my gods I doe rejoice at itt,
To understand that thirst constraines thee now;
For all the treasure, that the world containes,
One drop of water shall not coole thy vaines.
Refresh an adversarye to my wrong:
If thou imagine this, a child thou art:
Noe, fellow, I have known the world too long
To be soe simple: now I know thy want,
A minutes space to thee I will not grant.
Into the ayre, he swings the same about:
And, like the Cyclops, in his pride doth shout,
Sirra, sayes hee, I have you at a lift,
Now you are come unto your latest shift.
A medicine, will doe thy thirst much good;
Take noe more care of drinke before I end thee,
And then weele have carouses of thy blood:
Here's at thee with a butchers downright blow,
To please my furye with thine overthrow.
That seemst a lumpe of crueltye from hell;
Ungratefull monster, since thou dost deny
The thing to mee wherin I used thee well:
With more revenge, than ere my sword did make,
On thy accursed head revenge Ile take.
Except thy sun-scorcht skin be weapon proof:
Farewell my thirst; I doe disdaine to drinke,
Streames keepe your waters to your owne behoof;
Or let wild beasts be welcome thereunto;
With those pearle drops I will not have to do.
For thus I doe begin my bloodye bout:
You cannot chuse but like the greeting ill;
It is not that same clubb will beare you out
A blowe that brought him with a vengeance downe.
And from his shoulders did his head divide,
Which with a yawninge mouth did gape unblest,
Noe dragons jawes were ever seene soe wide
To open and to shut, till life was spent.
Then Guy tooke keyes and to the castle went.
Which had beene tyred with extremitye,
Whom he in freindly manner did unbind,
And reasoned with them of their miserye:
Eche told a tale with teares, and sighes, and cryes,
All weeping to him with complaining eyes.
That were surprised in the desart wood,
And had noe other dyett everye day,
Than flesh of humane creatures for their food:
Some with their lovers bodyes had beene fed,
And in their wombes their husbands buryed.
To enlarge the wronged brethren from their woes;
And, as he searcheth, doth great clamours heare,
By which sad sounds direction on he goes,
Untill he findes a darksome obscure gate,
Armd strongly ouer all with iron plate.
The strangest object that he ever saw;
Men that with famishment of many yeares,
Were like deathes picture, which the painters draw;
Divers of them were hanged by eche thumb:
Others head-downward: by the middle some.
With lybertye their thraldome to acquaint:
Then the perplexed knight the father calls,
And sayes, Receive thy sonnes though poore and faint:
I promisd you their lives, accept of that;
But did not promise you they shold be fat.
Where tyranye for many yeeres did dwell:
Procure the gentle tender ladyes ease,
For pittyes sake, use wronged women well:
Men easilye revenge the wrongs men do:
But poore weake women have no strength thereto.
Fell on the ground, and wold have kist Guys feete:
Father, quoth he, refraine soe base a kiss,
For age to honor youth I hold unmeete:
Ambitious pryde hath hurt mee all it can,
I goe to mortifie a sinfull man.
The foregoing poem on Guy and Amarant has
been discovered to be a fragment of, “the famous historie of
Whether the edition in 1649, was the first, is not known, but the author Sam. Rowlands was one of the minor poets, who lived in the reigns of Q. Elizabeth, and James I. and perhaps later. His other poems are chiefly of the religious kind, which makes it probable that the hist. of Guy was one of his earliest performance.—There are extant of his (1.) “The betraying of Christ, Judas in dispaire, the seven words of our Saviour on the crosse, with other poems on the passion, &c. 1598. 4to. [Ames Typ. p. 428.]—(2.) A Theatre of delightful Recreation. Lond. printed for A. Johnson. 1605.” 4to. (Penes editor.) This is a book of poems on subjects chiefly taken from the old Testament. (3.) “Memory of Christ's miracles, in verse. Lond. 1618. 4to.” (4.) “Heaven's glory, earth's vanity, and hell's horror. Lond. 1638. 8vo. [These 2 in Bod. Cat.]
III. THE AULD GOOD-MAN.
A Scottish Song.
We have not been able to meet with a more ancient copy of this humorous old song, than that printed in the Tea-Table miscellany, &c. which seems to have admitted some corruptions.
A little before the sun gade down,
And there I chanc't, by accident,
To light on a battle new begun:
I canna weel tell ye how it began;
But aye she wail'd her wretched life,
Cryeng, Evir alake, mine auld goodman!
Thy auld goodman, that thou tells of,
The country kens where he was born,
Was but a silly poor vagabond,
And ilka ane leugh him to scorn:
For he did spend and make an end
Of gear ‘his fathers nevir’ wan;
He gart the poor stand frae the door;
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.
She.
My heart, alake! is liken to break,
Whan I think on my winsome John,
His blinkan ee, and gait sae free,
Was naithing like thee, thou dosend drone;
Wi' his rosie face, and flaxen hair,
And skin as white as ony swan,
He was large and tall, and comely withall;
Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.
He.
Why dost thou plein? I thee maintein;
For meal and mawt thou disna want;
But thy wild bees I canna please,
Now whan our gear gins to grow scant:
Thou wants for neither pot nor pan;
Of sicklike ware he left thee bare;
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.
She.
To think on those blyth days I had,
Whan I and he, together ley
In armes into a well-made bed:
But now I sigh and may be sad,
Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan,
Thou falds thy feet and fa's asleep;
Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.
And gane was a' the light of day?
The carle was fear'd to miss his mark,
And therefore wad nae longer stay:
Then up he gat, and ran his way,
I trowe, the wife the day she wan;
And aye the owreword of the fray
Was, Evir alake! mine auld goodman.
IV. FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM.
This seems to be the old song quoted in Fletcher's “Knight of the burning pestle.” Acts 2d and 3d; altho' the six lines there preserved are somewhat different from those in the ballad, as it stands at present. The Reader will not wonder at this, when he is informed that this is only given from a modern printed copy picked up on a stall. It's full title is “Fair Margaret's Misfortunes; or Sweet William's frightful dreams on his wedding night, with the sudden death and burial of those noble lovers.”—
The lines preserved in the play are this distich,
“I am no love for you.”
And the following stanza,
“And all were fast asleep,
“In came Margarets grimly ghost
“And stood at William feet.”
These lines have acquired an importance by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any language. See the song intituled Margaret's Ghost, at the end of this volume.
In this second edition some improvements are inserted, which were communicated by a lady of the first distinction, as she had heard this song repeated in her infancy.
Two lovers they sat on a hill;
They sat together that long summer's day,
And could not talk their fill.
And you see none by mee;
Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock
A rich wedding you shall see.
Combing her yellow hair;
There she spyed sweet William and his bride,
As they were a riding near.
And braided her hair in twain:
She went alive out of her bower,
But ne'er came alive in't again.
And all men fast asleep,
There came the spirit of fair Marg'ret,
And stood at Williams feet.
Or, sweet William, are you asleep?
God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,
And me of my winding-sheet.
And all men wak'd from sleep,
Sweet William to his lady sayd,
My dear, I have cause to weep.
Such dreames are never good:
I dreamt my bower was full of red swine,
And my bride-bed full of blood.
They never do prove good;
To dream thy bower was full of ‘red’ swine,
And thy bride-bed full of blood.
By one, by two, and by three;
Saying, I'll away to fair Marg'rets bower,
By the leave of my ladyè.
He knocked at the ring;
And who so ready as her seven brethrèn
To let sweet William in.
Pray let me see the dead:
Methinks she does look pale and wan,
She has lost her cherry red.
Than any of thy kin;
For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
Though a smile I cannot win.
Making most piteous mone:
You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
And let our sister alone.
I do but what is right;
I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse
By day, nor yet by night.
Deal on your cake and your wine;
For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.
Sweet William dyed the morrow:
Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love,
Sweet William dyed for sorrow.
And William in the higher:
Out of her brest there sprang a rose,
And out of his a briar.
And then they could grow no higher;
And there they tyed in a true lovers knot,
Which made all the people admire.
As you the truth shall hear,
And by misfortune cut them down,
Or they had now been there.
V. BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY.
Given, with some corrections, from an old printed copy in the editor's possession, intitled, “Barbara Allen's cruelty, or the young man's tragedy.”
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
When greene buds they were swellin,
Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
To the town, where shee was dwellin;
You must come to my master deare,
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him,
O lovelye Barbara Allen.
And ore his harte is stealin,
Yet little better shall he bee,
For bonny Barbara Allen.
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Yong man, I think y'are dying.
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
What needs the tale you are tellin:
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell; sayd Barbara Allen.
As deadlye pangs he fell in:
Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
Adieu to Barbara Allen.
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.
And spied the corps a coming:
Laye downe, laye down the corps, she sayd,
That I may look upon him.
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to morrowe.
Who loved me so dearlye:
O that I had beene more kind to him,
When he was alive and neare me!
Beg'd to be buried by him:
And sore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.
VI. SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.
A Scottish Ballad.
With many a grievous grone,
And ay he tirled at the pin;
But answer made she none.
Or is't my brother John?
Or is't my true love Willie,
From Scotland new come home?
Nor yet thy brother John:
But tis thy true love Willie
From Scotland new come home.
I pray thee speak to mee:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.
‘Of me shalt nevir win,’
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.
I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy lipp,
Thy days will not be lang.
I pray thee speak to mee:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.
‘Of me shalt nevir win,’
Till thou take me to yon kirk yard,
And wed me with a ring.
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my sprite, Margret,
That's speaking now to thee.
As for to do her best:
Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,
God send your soul good rest.
A piece below her knee:
And a' the live-lang winter night
The dead corps followed shee.
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willie,
Wherein that I may creep?
There's nae room at my feet,
There's no room at my side, Margret,
My coffin is made so meet.
And up then crew the gray:
Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,
That you were gane away.
But, with a grievous grone,
Evanish'd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.
The constant Margret cried:
Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een,
Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.
VII. SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN.
A Scottish Ballad.
When the greene leaves wer a fallan;
That Sir John Grehme o' the west countrye,
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.
To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
O haste and cum to my maister deare,
Gin ye bin Barbara Allan.
To the plaice wher he was lyan;
And whan she drew the curtain by,
Young man, I think ye're dyan .
And its a' for Barbara Allan:
O the better for me ye'se never be,
Though your harts blude wer spillan.
Whan ye the cups wer fillan;
How ye maide the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?
And death was with him dealan;
Adiew! adiew! my dear friends a',
Be kind to Barbara Allan.
And hooly, hooly left him;
And sighan said, she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.
Whan she heard the deid-bell knellan;
And everye jow the deid-bell geid,
Cried, wae to Barbara Allan!
O mak it saft and narrow:
Since my luve died sor me to day,
Ile die for him to morrowe.
An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes Dyand and Lyand ought to be transposed; as the taunt Young man, I think ye're lyand, would be very characteristical.
VIII. THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.
From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. The full title is “True love requited: Or, the Bailiffs daughter of Islington.” Islington in Norfolk is probably the place here meant.
And he was a squires son:
He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
That lived in Islington.
That he did love her soe,
Noe nor at any time would she
Any countenance to him showe.
His fond and foolish minde,
They sent him up to faire London
An apprentice for to binde.
And never his love could see:
Many a teare have I shed for her sake.
When she little thought of mee.
Went forth to sport and playe,
All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
She secretly stole awaye.
And put on ragged attire,
And to faire London she would go
Her true love to enquire.
The weather being hot and drye,
She sat her downe upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding bye.
Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
One penny, one penny, kind sir, she sayd,
Will ease me of much paine.
Praye tell me where you were borne.
At Islington, kind sir, sayd shee,
Where I have had many a scorne.
O tell me, whether you knowe
The bayliffes daughter of Islington.
She is dead, sir, long agoe.
My saddle and my bowe;
For I will into some farr countrye,
Where noe man shall me knowe.
She standeth by thy side;
She is here alive, she is not dead,
And readye to be thy bride.
Ten thousand times therefore;
For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
Whom I thought I should never see more.
IX. THE WILLOW-TREE.
A Pastoral Dialogue.
From the small black-letter collection, intitled, “The Golden Garland of princely delights;” collated with two other copies and corrected by conjecture.
How now, shepherde, what meanes that?
Why that willowe in thy hat?
Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe
Turn'd to branches of greene willowe?
Cuddy.
They are chang'd, and so am I;
Sorrowes live, but pleasures die:
Phillis hath forsaken mee,
Which makes me weare the willowe-tree.
Willy.
Phillis! shee that lov'd thee long?
Is shee the lass hath done thee wrong?
Shee that lov'd thee long and best,
Is her love turn'd to a jest?
Shee that long true love profest,
She hath robb'd my heart of rest:
For she a new love loves, not mee;
Which makes me wear the willowe-tree.
Willy.
Come then, shepherde, let us joine,
Since thy happ is like to mine:
For the maid I thought most true
Mee hath also bid adieu.
Cuddy.
Thy hard happ doth mine appease,
Companye doth sorrowe ease:
Yet, Phillis, still I pine for thee,
And still must weare the willowe-tree.
Willy.
Shepherde, be advis'd by mee,
Cast off grief and willowe-tree:
For thy grief brings her content,
She is pleas'd if thou lament.
Cuddy.
Herdsman, I'll be rul'd by thee,
There lyes grief and willowe-tree:
Henceforth I will do as they,
And love a new love every day.
X. THE LADY'S FALL
—is given from the editor's ancient folio MS, collated with two printed copies in black letter; one in the British Museum, the other in the Pepys collection. Its old title is, “A lamentable ballad of the Lady's fall. To the tune of, In Pescod Time, &c.”—The ballad here referred to is preserved in the Muses Library 8vo. p. 281. It is an allegory or vision, intitled “The Shepherds Slumber,” and opens with some pretty rural images, viz.
“Gives eare till buck be kil'd,
“And little lads with pipes of corne
“Sate keeping beasts a-field,
“I went to gather strawberries
“By woods and groves full fair,” &c.
You loyall lovers all,
And heedfully beare in your brest,
A gallant ladyes fall.
Long was she woo'd, ere she was wonne,
To lead a wedded life,
But folly wrought her overthrowe
Before shee was a wife.
And yeelded to his will,
Though he protested to be true,
And faithfull to her still.
Shee felt her body altered quite,
Her bright hue waxed pale,
Her lovelye cheeks chang'd color white,
Her strength began to fayle.
This beauteous ladye milde,
With greeved hart, perceiv'd herselfe
To have conceiv'd with childe.
Shee kept it from her parents sight
As close as close might bee,
And soe put on her silken gowne
None might her swelling see.
Her greefe shee did bewray,
And walking with him hand in hand,
These words to him did say;
Behold, quoth shee, a maids distresse
By love brought to thy bowe,
Behold I goe with childe by thee,
But none thereof doth knowe.
To heare its fathers voyce,
Lett it not be a bastard call'd,
Sith I made thee my choyce:
Come, come, my love, perform thy vowe
And wed me out of hand;
O leave me not in this extreme,
In griefe alwayes to stand.
Thy oathes and vowes eche one;
Remember with what bitter teares
To mee thou madest thy moane.
Convay me to some secrett place,
And marry me with speede;
Or with thy rapyer end my life,
Ere further shame proceede.
My greatest joye on earthe,
Which waye can I convay thee hence,
Without a sudden death?
Thy friends are all of hye degree,
And I of meane estate;
Full hard it is to gett thee forthe
Out of thy fathers gate.
For if thou taken bee,
My selfe will step betweene the swords,
And take the harme on mee:
Soe shall I scape dishonor quite;
And if I should be slaine
What could they say, but that true love
Had wrought a ladyes bane.
My selfe will soe devise,
That I will ryde away with thee
Unknowne of mortal eyes:
Disguised like some pretty page,
Ile meete thee in the darke,
And all alone Ile come to thee,
Hard by my fathers parke.
If God soe lend me life,
On this day month without all faile
I will make thee my wife.
Then with a sweet and loving kisse,
They parted presentlye,
And att their partinge brinish teares
Stoode in eche others eye.
On which this beauteous mayd,
With longing eyes, and strange attire,
For her true lover stayd:
When any person shee espyed
Come ryding ore the plaine,
She hop'd it was her owne true love;
But all her hopes were vaine.
Her most unhappy fate;
Then did shee speake these woefull words,
As succourless shee sate:
O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,
Disloyall in thy love,
Hast thou forgott thy promise past,
And wilt thou perjur'd prove?
In this my great distresse,
To end my dayes in open shame,
Which thou mightst well redresse?
Woe worth the time I eer believ'd
That flattering tongue of thine;
Would God that I had never seene
The teares of thy false eyne.
Homewards she went againe;
Noe rest came in her waterye eyes,
Shee felt such privye paine.
In travail strong shee fell that night,
With many a bitter throwe;
What woefull pangs shee then did feel,
Doth eche good woman knowe.
That lay at her bedds feete,
Who musing at her mistress woe,
Began full fast to weepe.
Weepe not, said shee, but shutt the dores,
And windowes round about,
Let none bewray my wretched state,
But keepe all persons out.
Of women you have neede,
And of some skilfull midwifes helpe,
That better you may speed.
Call not my mother for thy life,
Nor fetch no women here,
The midwifes helpe comes all too late,
My death I doe not feare.
No creature being nye,
And with one sighe, which brake her heart,
This gallant dame did dye.
The lovely little infant yonge,
The mother being dead,
Resigned its new received breath
To him that had it made.
Affrighted at the newes,
And he for sorrow slew himselfe,
Whom eche one did accuse.
The mother with her new borne babe,
Were both laid in one grave,
Their parents overcome with woe,
No joy thenceforth cold have.
Of flattering words beware,
And of the honour of your name
Have an especial care.
Too true, alas! this story is,
As many one can tell.
By others harmes learne to be wise,
And you shall do full well.
XI. WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.
A Scottish Song.
This is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from modern copies. Some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed,
“And muscles grow on every tree,
“When frost and snaw sall warm us aw',
“Than sall my love prove true to me.”
See the Orpheus Caledonius, &c.
Arthur-seat mentioned in ver. 17. is a hill near Edinborough; at the bottom of which is St. Anthony's well.
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love wer wont to gae.
I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lightly me.
A little time while it is new,
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa' like morning dew.
Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
The sheets sall neir be fyl'd by me:
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum?
For of my life I am wearìe.
Nor blawing snaws inclemencìe;
Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,
But my loves heart grown cauld to me.
Whan we came in by Glasgowe town,
We were a comely sight to see,
My love was cled i'th' black velvet,
And I my sell in cramasìe.
That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinnd it with a siller pin.
And set upon the nurses knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane!
For a maid again Ile never be.
XII. THE WANTON WIFE OF BATH.
From an ancient copy in black-print, in the Pepys collection. Mr. Addison has pronounced this an excellent ballad: See the Spectator, No. 248.
As Chaucer he doth write;
Who did in pleasure spend her dayes,
And many a fond delight.
And at the length did dye;
And then her soul at heaven gate
Did knocke most mightilye.
Who knocketh there? quoth hee.
I am the wife of Bath, she sayd,
And faine would come to thee.
And here no place shalt have.
And so art thou, I trowe, quoth shee;
Now, gip, you doting knave.
Of all such churles as thee;
Thou wert the causer of our woe,
Our paine and misery;
In pleasure of thy wife.—
When Adam heard her tell this tale,
He ranne away for life.
And bids her packe to hell;
Thou false deceiving knave, quoth she,
Thou mayst be there as well.
And thine own brother too.
Away ‘slunk’ Jacob presently,
And made no more adoo.
And Lot he chides her straite.
How now, quoth she, thou drunken ass,
Who bade thee here to prate?
On them two bastardes got.
And thus most tauntingly she chast
Against poor silly Lot.
With such shrill sounding notes?
This fine minkes surely came not here,
Quoth she, for cutting throats.
When she heard her say soe!
King David hearing of the same,
He to the gate would goe.
And maketh all this strife?
You were more kinde, good Sir, she sayd,
Unto Uriah's wife.
In battle to be slaine;
Thou causedst far more strife than I,
Who would come here so faine.
That thus doth taunt a king.
Not half so mad as you, she sayd
I trowe, in manye a thing.
For whom thou didst provide;
And yet, god wot, three hundred whores
Thou must maintaine beside:
And worship stockes and stones;
Besides the charge they put thee to
In breeding of young bones.
Thou wouldst not thus have ventur'd;
And therefore I do marvel much,
How thou this place hast enter'd.
So vile a scold as this.
Thou whore-son run-away, quoth she,
Thou diddest more amiss.
Of aspen-leaves are made.
Thou unbelieving wretch, quoth she,
All is not true that's sayd.
She came unto the gate.
Quoth she, good woman, you must think
Upon your former state.
Quoth Mary Magdalene. Then
'Twere ill for you, fair mistress mine,
She answered her agen:
Had once been ston'd to death;
Had not our Saviour Christ come by,
And written on the earth.
You are become divine:
I hope my soul in Christ his passion,
Shall be as safe as thine.
And to this wife he cryed,
Except thou shake thy sins away,
Thou here shalt be denyed.
All through a lewd desire:
How thou didst persecute God's church,
With wrath as hot as fire,
And to the gate he hies:
Fond fool, quoth he, knock not so fast,
Thou weariest Christ with cries.
For mercye may be won;
I never did deny my Christ,
As thou thyselfe hast done.
With heavenly angels bright,
He comes unto this sinful soul;
Who trembled at his sight.
Quoth he, thou hast refus'd
My proffer'd grace, and mercy both,
And much my name abus'd.
And spent my time in vaine;
But bring me like a wandring sheepe
Into thy fold againe.
My former wicked vice:
The thief for one poor silly word
Past into paradise.
Saith Christ, were knowne to thee;
But of the same in any wise,
Not yet one word did yee.
Most lewdly did I live;
But yet the loving father did
His prodigal son forgive.
Through thy repenting crye;
Come enter then into my rest,
I will not thee denye.
Gip, gep, or guep, is a common interjection of contempt in our old poets. See Gray's Hudibras, pt. 1. canto 3. v. 202. note.
XIII. DULCINA.
Given from two ancient copies, one in black-print, in the Pepys collection; the other in the editor's folio MS. The fourth stanza is not found in MS, and seems redundant.
This song is quoted as very popular in Walton's Compleat Angler, chap. 2. It is more ancient than the song of Robin Good-Fellow printed below, which yet is supposed to have been written by Ben Jonson.
In her sweete and shady bower;
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lappe to sleep an hour.
A wounde he tooke
So deepe, that for a further boone
The nymphe he prayes:
Whereto she sayes,
Foregoe me now, come to me soone.
To departe her presence soe;
Having a thousand tongues to allure him,
And but one to bid him goe;
Where lippes invite,
And eyes delight,
And cheekes, as fresh as rose in june,
Persuade delay;
What boots to say,
Foregoe me now, come to me soone?
Can there be more fit than now:
She sayes, night gives love that leisure,
Which the day doth not allow.
He sayes, the sight
‘Improves delight:
‘Which shee denies; nights mirkie noone
In Venus' playes
Makes bold, she sayes;
Foregoe me now, come to mee soone.
From his hands could purchase scope?
Who would sell the sweet possession
Of such beautye for a hope?
Or for the sight
Of lingering night
Foregoe the present joyes of noone?
Though ne'er soe faire
Her speeches were,
Foregoe me now, come to me soone.
Shee was fayre, and he was young:
The tongue may tell what th'eye discovers;
Joyes unseene are never sung.
Did shee consent,
Or he relent;
Accepts hee night, or grants shee noone;
Left he her mayd,
Or not; she sayd
Foregoe me now, come to me soone.
XIV. THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.
This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263. folio. It is there intitled, “The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty: being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble duke, &c. To the tune of the Lady's Fall.” To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, “The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation.”
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.
To see both sport and playe;
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.
Whose beauty shone so bright,
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.
A creature faire was shee;
She was her fathers only joye;
As you shall after see.
Did envye her so much;
That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such.
To take her life awaye:
And taking of her daughters book,
She thus to her did saye.
Go hasten presentlìe;
And tell unto the master-cook
These wordes that I tell thee.
That faire and milk-white doe,
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe.
Obey'd her mothers will;
And presentlye she hasted home,
Her pleasure to fulfill.
Her message for to tell;
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell.
Do that which I thee tell:
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you do knowe full well.
He on the ladye layd;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:
See here, behold my knife;
For it is pointed presently
To ridd thee of thy life.
As loud as loud might bee:
O save her life, good master-cook,
And make your pyes of mee!
My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye,
For Christes sake save her life.
Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.
For to fit downe and eat;
He called for his daughter deare,
To come and carve his meat.
O sit you downe to meat:
Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget.
Before the companìe:
That he would neither eat nor drinke,
Until he did her see.
With a loud voice so hye:
If now you will your daughter see,
My lord, cut up that pye:
And parched with the fire;
All caused by her step-mothèr,
Who did her death desire.
O cursed may he bee!
I proffered him my own hearts blood,
From death to set her free.
And for his daughters sake,
He judged her cruell step-mothèr
To be burnt at a stake.
In boiling lead to stand;
And made the simple scullion-boye
The heire of all his land.
XV. A HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.
This Poem, which is in imitation of the first Idyllium of Moschus, is extracted from Ben Jonson's Masque at the marriage of lord viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday 1608. One stanza full of dry mythology we have omitted, as we found it dropt in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called “Le Prince d'amour. Lond. 1660.” 8vo.
The hue and cry after Cupid is a kind of Translation of a pretty poem of Tasso's, called Amore fuggitivo, generally printed with his Aminta, and originally imitated from Moschus.
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blinde;
Cruel now; and then as kinde?
If he be amongst yee, say;
He is Venus' run-away.
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kisse,
How and where herselfe would wish:
But who brings him to his mother
Shall have that kisse, and another.
You may know him among twentie:
And his breath a flame entire:
Which, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
He will leape from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart;
Yet not stay in any part.
And, if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himselfe in kisses.
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrowes, which outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharpe than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.
When his daies are to be cruell;
Lovers hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest bloud:
Nought but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.
Seldome with his heart doe meet:
All his practice is deceit;
Everie gift is but a bait:
And most treason in his teares.
Then the straggler makes his gaine,
By presenting maids with toyes
And would have yee thinke hem joyes:
'Tis the ambition of the elfe,
To have all childish, as himselfe.
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though yee had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him,
Since yee heare this falser's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.
XVI. THE KING OF FRANCE'S DAUGHTER.
The story of this Ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of Charles the Bald, king of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph king of England: but before the marriage was consummated, Ethelwulph died, and she returned to France: whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forrester of Flanders; who after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king's consent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A. D. 863.
The following copy is given from the editor's ancient folio MS. collated with another in black letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled, “An excellent Ballad of a prince of England's courtship to the king of France's daughter, &c. To the tune of Crimson Velvet.”
Many breaches having been made in this old song by the hand of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhime; we have attempted to repair them.
When faire France did flourish,
Storyes plaine have told,
Lovers felt annoye.
The queene a daughter bare,
Whom beautye's queene did nourish:
She was lovelye faire,
She was her fathers joye.
A prince of England came,
Whose deeds did merit fame,
But he was exil'd, and outcast:
Love his soul did fire,
Shee granted his desire,
Their hearts in one were linked fast.
Which when her father proved,
Sorelye he was moved,
And tormented in his minde.
He sought for to prevent them;
And, to discontent them,
Fortune cross'd these lovers kinde.
Were thus barr'd of pleasure,
Through the kinges disdaine,
The lady soone prepar'd
Her jewells and her treasure;
Having no regard
For state and royall bloode;
In homelye poore array
She went from court away,
To meet her joye and hearts delight;
Who in a forrest great
Had taken up his seat,
To wayt her coming in the night.
But, lo! what sudden danger
To this princely stranger
Chanced, as he sate alone!
By outlawes he was robbed,
And with ponyards stabbed,
Uttering many a dying grone.
And by chaste desire,
All the night did rove
Without dread at all:
Still unknowne she past
In her strange attire;
Coming at the last
Within echoes call,—
You faire woods, quoth shee,
Honoured may you bee,
Harbouring my hearts delight;
Which encompass here
My joye and only deare,
My trustye friend, and comelye knight.
Sweete, I come to woo thee;
That thou mayst not angrye bee
For my long delaying;
For thy curteous staying
Soone amendes Ile make to thee.
Through the silent forest,
Many a grievous grone
Sounded in her eares:
She heard one complayne
And lament the sorest,
Seeming all in payne,
Shedding deadly teares.
Farewell, my deare, quoth hee,
Whom I must never see;
For why my life is att an end,
Through villaines crueltye:
For thy sweet sake I dye,
To show I am a faithfull friend.
Here I lye a bleeding,
While my thoughts are feeding
On the rarest beautye found.
O hard happ, that may be!
Little knowes my ladye
My heartes blood lyes on the ground.
Which did burst in sunder
All the tender ‘bands’
She, who knewe his voice,
At his wordes did wonder;
All her former joyes
Did to griefe convert.
Strait she ran to see,
Who this man shold bee,
That soe like her love did seeme:
Her lovely lord she found
Lye slaine upon the ground,
Smear'd with gore a ghastlye streame.
Which his lady spying,
Shrieking, fainting, crying,
Her sorrows could not uttered bee:
Fate, she cryed, too cruell!
For thee—my dearest jewell,
Would God! that I had dyed for thee.
Twentye times she kissed,
And his face did wash
With her trickling teares:
Every gaping wound
Tenderlye she pressed,
And did wipe it round
With her golden haires.
Speake, faire love, quoth shee,
Speake, faire prince, to mee,
One sweete word of comfort give:
Lift up thy deare eyes,
Listen to my cryes,
Thinke in what sad griefe I live.
All in vaine she wooed,
The prince's life was fled and gone.
There stood she still mourning,
Till the suns retourning,
And bright day was coming on.
Weeping, wayling ever,
Oft shee cryed, alas!
What will become of mee?
To my fathers court
I returne will never:
But in lowlye sort
Will a servant bee.
While thus she made her mone,
Weeping all alone,
In this deepe and deadlye feare:
A for'ster all in greene,
Most comelye to be seene,
Ranging the woods did find her there:
Moved with her sorrowe,
Maid, quoth he, good morrowe,
What hard happ has brought thee here?
Harder happ did never
Two kinde hearts dissever:
Here lyes slaine my brother deare.
Gentle for'ster, shew me,
A service in my neede?
Paines I will not spare:
This kinde favour doe me,
It will ease my care;
Heaven shall be thy meede.
The for'ster all amazed,
On her beautye gazed,
Till his heart was set on fire,
If, faire maid, quoth hee,
You will goe with mee,
You shall have your hearts desire.
He brought her to his mother,
And above all other
He sett forth this maidens praise.
Long was his heart inflamed,
At length her love he gained,
And fortune crown'd his future dayes.
With a kings faire daughter;
Children seven they had,
Ere she told her birth.
Which when once he knew,
Humblye he besought her,
He to the world might shew
Her rank and princelye worth.
He cloath'd his children then,
(Not like other men)
In partye-colours strange to see;
The left side to behold,
Of woollen cloth still framed hee .
Men thereatt did wonder;
Golden fame did thunder
This strange deede in every place:
The king of France came thither,
It being pleasant weather,
In these woods the hart to chase.
So their mother will'd it,
Where the royall king
Must of force come bye:
Their mothers riche array,
Was of crimson velvet:
Their fathers all of gray,
Seemelye to the eye.
Then this famous king,
Noting every thing,
To let his wife soe weare,
And decke his children there,
In costly robes of pearl and gold.
The forrester replying,
And the cause descrying ,
To the king these words did say,
Well may they, by their mother,
Weare rich clothes with other,
Being by birth a princesse gay.
More heedfullye beheld them,
Till a crimson blush
His remembrance crost.
The more I fix my mind
On thy wife and children,
The more methinks I find
The daughter which I lost.
Falling on her knee,
I am that child, quoth shee;
Pardon mee, my soveraine liege.
The king perceiving this,
His daughter deare did kiss,
While joyfull teares did stopp his speeche.
With his traine he tourned.
And with them sojourned.
Strait he dubb'd her husband knight;
Then made him erle of Flanders,
Thus were their sorrowes put to flight.
This will remind the reader of the livery and device of Charles Brandon, a private gentleman, who married the Queen Dowager of France, sister of Henry VIII. At a tournament which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half Cloth of gold, and half Frieze, with the following Motto,
“Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Frize;
“Cloth of Frize, be not too bold,
“Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Gold.”
See Sir W. Temple's Misc. vol. 3. p. 336.
XVII. THE SWEET NEGLECT.
This little madrigal (extracted from Ben Jonson's Silent Woman, Act 1. Sc. 1. First acted in 1609.) is in imitation of a Latin poem printed at the end of the Variorum Edit. of Petronius, beginning ‘Semper munditias, semper Basilissa, decoras, &c.”’ See Whalley's Ben Jonson, vol. 2. p. 420.
As you were going to a feast:
Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th'adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
XVIII. THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.
The subject of this very popular ballad (which has been set in so favourable a light by the Spectator, No. 85.) seems to be taken from an old play, intitled, “Two lamentable Tragedies, The one of the murder of Maister Beech, a chandler in Thames-streete, &c. The other of a young child murthered in a wood by two ruffins, with the consent of his unkle. By Rob. Yarrington, 1601. 4to.” Our ballad-maker has strictly followed the play in the description of the father and mother's dying charge: in the uncle's promise to take care of their issue: his hiring two ruffians to destroy his ward, under pretence of sending him to school: their chusing a wood to perpetrate the murder in: one of the ruffians relenting, and a battle ensuing, &c. In other respects he has departed from the play. In the latter the scene is laid in Padua: there is but one child: which is murdered by a sudden stab of the unrelenting ruffian: he is slain himself by his less bloody companion, but ere he dies gives the other a mortal wound: the latter living just long enough to impeach the uncle: who in consequence of this impeachment is arraigned and executed by the hand of justice, &c. Whoever compares the play with the ballad, will have no doubt but the former is the original: the language is far more obsolete, and such a vein of simplicity runs thro' the whole performance, that had the ballad been written first, there is no doubt but every circumstance of it would have been received into the drama: whereas this was probably built on some Italian novel.
Printed from two ancient copies, one of them in black letter in the Pepys Collection. It's title at large is, “The Children in the Wood: or, The Norfolk Gentleman's Last Will and Testament: To the tune of Rogero, &c.”
These wordes, which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall heare,
In time brought forth to light:
A gentleman of good account
In Norfolke dwelt of late,
Who did in honour far surmount
Most men of his estate.
No helpe his life could save;
His wife by him as sicke did lye,
And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kinde,
In love they liv'd, in love they dyed,
And left two babes behinde:
Not passing three yeares olde;
The other a girl more young than he,
And fram'd in beautyes molde.
The father left his little son,
As plainly doth appeare,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred poundes a yeare.
Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid downe on marriage-day,
Which might not be controll'd:
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
For so the wille did run.
Look to my children deare;
Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friendes else have they here:
To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye;
But little while be sure we have
Within this world to staye.
And uncle all in one;
God knowes what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone.
With that bespake their mother deare,
O brother kinde, quoth shee,
You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or miserie.
Then God will you reward;
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deedes regard.
With lippes as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
God bless you both, my children deare;
With that the teares did fall.
To this sicke couple there,
The keeping of your little ones
Sweet sister, do not feare;
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children deare,
When you are layd in grave.
The children home he takes,
And bringes them straite unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a daye,
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both awaye.
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take these children young,
And slaye them in a wood:
He told his wife an artful tale,
He would the children send
To be brought up in faire Londòn,
With one that was his friend.
Rejoycing at that tide,
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the waye,
To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives decaye.
Made Murder's heart relent;
And they that undertooke the deed,
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart,
Did vowe to do his charge,
Because the wretch, that hired him,
Had paid him very large.
So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the childrens life:
And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slaye the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood,
While babes did quake for feare.
Teares standing in their eye,
And bad them straitwaye follow him,
And look they did not crye:
While they for food complaine:
Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread,
When I come back againe.
Went wandering up and downe;
But never more could see the man
Approaching from the town:
Their prettye lippes with black-berries,
Were all besmear'd and dyed,
And when they sawe the darksome night,
They sat them downe and cryed.
Till deathe did end their grief,
In one anothers armes they dyed,
As wanting due relief:
No burial ‘this’ pretty ‘pair’
Of any man receives,
Till Robin-red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves.
Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell:
His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd,
His landes were barren made,
And nothing with him stayd.
Two of his sonnes did dye;
And to conclude, himselfe was brought
To want and miserye:
He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven yeares came about.
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this meanes come out:
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judged to dye,
Such was Gods blessed will;
Who did confess the very truth,
As here hath been display'd:
Their uncle having dyed in gaol,
Where he for debt was layd.
And overseers eke
Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such like miserye
Your wicked minds requite.
XIX. A LOVER OF LATE.
For Cupid would have it soe,
The boye that hath never an eye,
As everye man doth knowe:
I sighed and sobbed, and cryed, alas!
For her that laught, and call'd me ass.
When I saw it was all in vaine
A ladye so coy to woe,
Who gave me the asse so plaine:
Yet would I her asse freelye bee,
Soe shee would helpe and beare with mee.
Or shee were as fond as I,
What paire could have made, as wee,
So prettye a sympathye:
I was as fond as shee was faire,
But for all this we could not paire.
With her I will never paire;
That cunningly can be coy,
For being a little faire.
The asse I'll leave to her disdaine;
And now I am myselfe againe.
XX. THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD.
It has been a favourite subject with our English ballad-makers to represent our kings conversing, either by accident or design, with the meanest of their subjects. Of the former kind, besides this song of the King and the Miller; we have K. Henry and the Soldier; K. James I. and the Tinker; K. William III. and the Forrester, &c. Of the latter sort, are K. Alfred and the Shepherd; K. Edward IV. and the Tanner; K. Henry VIII. and the Cobler, &c.—A few of the best of these we have admitted into this collection. Both the author of the following ballad, and others who have written on the same plan, seem to have copied a very ancient poem, intitled John the Reeve, which is built on an adventure of the same kind, that happened between K. Edward Longshanks, and one of his Reeves or Bailiffs. This is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of Edward IV. and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners, is infinitely superior to all that have been since written in imitation of it. The editor has a copy in his ancient folio MS. but its length rendered it improper for this volume, it consisting of more than 900 lines. It contains also some corruptions, and the editor chuses to defer its publication in hopes that some time or other he shall be able to remove them.
The following is printed from the editor's ancient folio MS. collated with an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, intitled “A pleasant ballad of K. Henry II. and the Miller of Mansfield, &c.”
Part the First.
To the greene forest so pleasant and faire;
To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping:
Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire:
Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd;
For the game, in the same, with good regard.
With all his princes and nobles eche one;
Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye,
Till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home.
Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite
All his lords in the wood, late in the night.
With a rude miller he mett at the last:
Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham;
Sir, quoth the miller, I meane not to jest,
Yet I thinke, what I thinke, sooth for to say,
You doe not lightlye ride out of your way.
Passing thy judgment upon me so briefe?
I guess thee to bee but some gentleman thiefe:
Stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne,
Lest that I presentlye cracke thy knaves crowne.
I am a gentleman; lodging doe lacke.
Thou hast not, quoth th'miller, one groat in thy purse;
All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.
I have gold to discharge all that I call
If it be forty pence, I will pay all.
I sweare by my toll-dish, I'll lodge thee all night.
Here's my hand, quoth the king, that was I ever.
Nay, soft, quoth the miller, thou may'st be a sprite.
Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake;
With none but honest men hands will I take.
Where they were seething of puddings and souse:
The miller first enter'd in, after him went the king;
Never came hee in soe smoakye a house.
Now, quoth hee, let me see here what you are.
Quoth our king, looke your fill, and doe not spare.
With my son Richard this night thou shalt lye.
Quoth his wise, by my troth, it is a handsome youth,
Art thou no run-away, prythee, youth, tell?
Shew me thy passport, and all shal be well.
With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say;
I have no passport, nor never was servitor,
But a poor courtyer, rode out of my way:
And for your kindness here offered to mee,
I will requite you in everye degree:
Saying, it seemeth, this youth's of good kin,
Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners;
To turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin.
Yea, quoth hee, you may see, he hath some grace,
When he doth speake to his betters in place.
And, though I say it, well lodged shall be:
Fresh straw will I have, laid on thy bed so brave,
And good brown hempen sheetes likewise, quoth shee.
Aye, quoth the good man; and when that is done,
Thou shalt lye with no worse, than our own sonne.
Hast thou noe creepers within thy gay hose?
Or art thou not troubled with the scabbado?
I pray, quoth the king, what creatures are those?
If thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee.
Till the teares trickled fast downe from his eyes.
Then to their supper were they set orderlye,
With hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes;
Nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle,
Which did about the board merrilye trowle.
And to all ‘cuckolds, wherever they bee.’
I pledge thee, quoth our king, and thanke thee heartilye
For my good welcome in everye degree:
And here, in like manner, I drinke to thy sonne.
Do then, quoth Richard, and quicke let it come.
That we of his sweetnesse a little may taste:
A fair ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye;
Eate, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no waste.
Here's dainty lightfoote, in faith, sayd the king,
I never before eate so daintye a thing.
For we doe eate of it everye day.
In what place, sayd our king, may be bought like to this?
We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay:
Now and then we make bold with our kings deer.
Eche foole, quoth Richard, full well may know that:
Never are wee without two or three in the roof,
Very well fleshed, and excellent fat:
But, prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe;
We wold not, for two pence, the king should it knowe.
The king shall never know more on't for mee.
A cupp of lambs-wool they dranke unto him then,
And to their bedds they past presentlie.
The nobles, next morning, went all up and down,
For to seeke out the king in everye towne.
As he was mounting upon his faire steede;
To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee;
Which made the millers heart wofully bleede:
Shaking and quaking, before him he stood,
Thinking he should have been hang'd, by the rood.
Drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed:
The miller downe did fall, crying before them all,
Doubting the king would have cut off his head:
But he his kind courtesye for to requite,
Gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight.
Part the Second.
And with his nobles at Westminster lay;
Recounting the sports and pastimes they had taken,
In this late progress along on the way;
Of them all, great and small, he did protest,
The miller of Mansfield's sport liked him best.
Against St. Georges next sumptuous feast,
That this old miller, our new confirmed knight,
With his son Richard, shall here be my guest:
For, in this merryment, 'tis my desire
To talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire.
They were right joyfull and glad in their hearts;
A pursuivant there was sent straight on the business,
The which had often-times been in those parts.
When he came to the place, where they did dwell,
His message orderlye then 'gan he tell.
And grant your ladye her owne hearts desire;
And to your sonne Richard good fortune and happiness;
That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire.
Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say,
You must come to the court on St. Georges day;
I wis, quoth the miller, this is an odd jest:
What should we doe there? faith, I am halfe afraid.
I doubt, quoth Richard, to be hang'd at the least.
Nay, quoth the messenger, you doe mistake;
Our king he provides a great feast for your sake.
Thou hast contented my worshippe full well.
Hold here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness,
For these happy tydings, which thou dost tell.
Let me see, hear thou mee; tell to our king,
We'll wayt on his mastershipp in everye thing.
And, making many leggs, tooke their reward;
And taking then his leave with great humilitye
To the kings court againe he repair'd;
Shewing unto his grace, merry and free,
The knightes most liberall gift and bountie.
Here come expences and charges indeed;
Now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend all we have;
For of new garments we have great need:
Of horses and serving-men we must have store,
With bridles and saddles, and twentye things more.
You shall n'er be att no charges for mee;
For I will turne and trim up my old russet gowne,
With everye thing else as fine as may bee;
And on our mill-horses swift we will ride,
With pillowes and pannells as we shall provide.
Their jolly sonne Richard rode foremost of all;
Who set up, by good hap, a cocks feather in his cap,
And so they jetted downe to the kings hall;
The merry old miller with hands on his side;
His wife, like maid Marian, did mince at that tide.
Meeting this gallant knight with his brave traine;
Welcome, sir knight, quoth he, with your gay lady:
Good sir John Cockle, once welcome againe:
And so is the squire of courage soe free.
Quoth Dicke, Abots on you; do you know mee?
That wast my owne bed-fellow, well it I wot.
Yea, sir, quoth Richard, and by the same token,
Thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot.
Thou whore-son unhappy knave, then quoth the knight,
Speake cleanly to our king, or else go shite.
While the king taketh them both by the hand;
With ladyes and their maids, like to the queen of spades
The millers wife did soe orderly stand,
A milk-maids courtesye at every word;
And downe the folkes were set to the board:
Sate at his dinner with joy and delight;
When they had eaten well, then hee to jesting fell,
And in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight:
Here's to you both, in wine, ale and beer;
Thanking you heartilye for my good cheer.
Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire:
But then said our king, now I think of a thing;
Some of your lightfoote I would we had here.
Ho! ho! quoth Richard, full well I may say it,
'Tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it.
In faith, I take it now very unkind:
I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily.
Quoth Dicke, You are like to stay till I have din'd:
You feed us with twatling dishes soe small;
Zounds, a blacke-pudding is better than all.
Could a man get but one here for to eate.
With that Dicke straite arose, and pluckt one from his hose,
Which with heat of his breech gan to sweate.
The king made a proffer to snatch it away:—
'Tis meat for your master: good sir, you must stay.
And then the ladyes prepared to dance:
Old Sir John Cockle, and Richard, incontinent
Unto their paces the king did advance:
Here with the ladyes such sport they did make,
The nobles with laughing did make their sides ake.
Asking young Richard then, if he would wed;
Among these ladyes free, tell me which liketh thee?
Quoth he, Jugg Grumball, Sir, with the red head:
She's my love, she's my life, her will I wed;
She hath sworn I shall have her maidenhead.
And of merry Sherwood made him o'er-seer;
And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye;
Now take heede you steale no more of my deer:
And once a quarter let's here have your view;
And now, sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu.
XXI. THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.
This beautiful old song was written by a poet, whose name would have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved by Swift, as a term of contempt. “Dryden and Wither” are coupled by him like the Bavius and Mævius of Virgil. Dryden however has had justice done him by posterity: and as for Wither, though of subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius, will be judged from the following stanzas. The truth is, Wither was a very voluminous party-writer: and as his political and satyrical strokes rendered him extremely popular in his life time; so afterwards, when their date was out, they totally consigned his writings to oblivion.
George Wither was born June 11. 1588, and in his younger years distinguished himself by some pastoral pieces, that were not inelegant; but growing afterwards involved in the political and religious disputes in the times of James I, and Charles I, he employed his poetical vein in severe pasquils on the court and clergy, and was occasionally a sufferer for the freedom of his pen. In the civil war that ensued, he exerted himself in the service of the Parliament, and became a considerable sharer in the spoils. He was even one of those provincial tyrants, whom Oliver distributed over the kingdom, under the name of Major Generals; and had the fleecing of the county of Surrey: but surviving the Restoration, he outlived both his power and his affluence; and giving vent to his chagrin in libels on
During the whole course of his life, Wither was a continual publisher; having generally for opponent, Taylor the Water-poet. The long list of his productions may be seen in Wood's Athænæ. Oxon. vol. 2. His most popular satire, is intitled, “Abuses whipt and stript.” 1613. His most poetical pieces were eclogues, intitled, “The Shepherd's Hunting.” 1615, 8vo. and others printed at the end of Browne's “Shepherd's Pipe.” 1614. 8vo. The following sonnet is extracted from a long pastoral piece of his, intitled, “The Mistresse of Philarete.” 8vo. which is said in the preface to be one of the Author's first poems: and may therefore be dated as early as any of the foregoing.
Dye because a woman's faire?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosie are?
Be shee fairer then the day,
Or the flowry meads in may;
If she think not well of me,
What care I how faire shee be?
Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joyned with a lovely feature?
Be shee meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican:
If shee be not so to me,
What care I how kind shee be?
Me, to perish for her love?
Or, her well deservings knowne,
Make me quite forget mine owne?
Be shee with that goodnesse blest,
Which may merit name of Best;
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
Shall I play the foole and dye?
Those that beare a noble minde,
Where they want of riches find,
Thinke what with them they would doe,
That without them dare to woe;
And, unlesse that minde I see,
What care I, though great she be?
I will ne'er the more dispaire:
If she love me, this beleeve;
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me, when I wooe;
I can scorne and let her goe:
For, if shee be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
XXII. THE WANDERING PRINCE OF TROY.
This excellent old ballad, which perhaps ought to have been placed earlier in the volume, is given from the editor's folio MS. collated with two different printed copies, both in black letter in the Pepys collection.
The reader will smile to observe with what natural and affecting simplicity, our ancient ballad-maker has engrafted a Gothic conclusion on the classic story of Virgil, from whom, however, it is probable he had it not. Nor can it be denied, but he has dealt out his poetical justice with a more impartial hand, than that celebrated poet.
Withstood the Greeks in manful wise,
Then did their foes increase so fast,
That to resist nought could suffice:
Waste lye those walls, that were soe good,
And corn now grows where Troy towne stood.
When he for land long time had sought,
At length arriving with great joy,
To mighty Carthage walls was brought;
Where Dido queen, with sumptuous feast,
Did entertaine this wandering guest.
The queen, desirous newes to hear,
‘Says, of thy Troys unhappy fate’
Declare to me thou Trojan dear:
The heavy hap and chance so bad,
Which thou, poore wandering prince, hast had.
With words demure, as he could well,
Of their unhappy ten yeares ‘fight’,
So true a tale began to tell,
With words so sweet, and sighs so deepe,
That oft he made them all to weepe.
And everye sighe brought teares amaine;
That where he sate the place was wet,
As though he had seene those warrs againe;
Soe that the queene, with ruth therefore
Sayd, worthye prince, enough, no more.
And twinkling starres the skye bespred;
When he his dolefull tale had done,
And everye one was laid in bed:
Where they full sweetlye took their rest,
Save only Dido's boyling breast.
But in her chamber, all alone,
And to the walls shee made her mone;
That shee should still desire in vaine
The thing, she never must obtaine.
Till twinkling starres the skye were fled,
And Phœbus, with his glistering light,
Through misty cloudes appeared red;
Then tidings came to her anon,
That all the Trojan shipps were gone.
Did arme her heart as hard as stone,
Yet, ere she bared the bloody knife,
In woefull wise shee made her mone;
And, rolling on her carefull bed,
With sighes and sobs, these words shee sed:
I see thy end approacheth neare;
For he is fled away from thee,
Whom thou didst love and hold so deare:
What is he gone, and passed bye?
O heart, prepare thyself to dye.
And stay my hand from bloody stroke;
Thee, treacherous heart, I must not spare,
Which fettered me in Cupids yoke.
And with those words she pierc'd her heart.
Of Dido, Carthaginian queene;
Whose bloody knife did end the smart,
Which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene;
Æneas being shipt and gone,
Whose flattery caused all her mone;
And all things finisht mournfullye;
Her bodye fine in mold was laid,
Where itt consumed speedilye:
Her sisters teares her tombe bestrew'd;
Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shew'd.
In Grecia, where he stay'd long space,
Whereatt her sister in short while,
Writt to him to his vile disgrace;
In speeches bitter to his minde
Shee told him plaine, hee was unkinde.
And traiterouslye thou hast betraid
Unto thy lure a gentle heart,
Which unto thee much welcome made;
My sister deare, and Carthage' joy,
Whose folly bred her dere annoy.
Shee prayed for thy prosperitye,
Beseeching god, that every day
Might breed thee great felicitye:
Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend;
Heaven send thee such untimely end.
Perused had, and weighed them right,
His lofty courage 'gan to fall;
And straight appeared in his sight
Queene Dido's ghost, both grim and pale;
Which made this valliant souldier quail.
My whole delight while I did live,
Thee of all men I loved most;
To thee my fancye I did give;
And for the welcome I thee gave,
Unthankfully thou didst me grave.
To wander with me in the ayre;
Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle,
Because of me thou tookst no care:
Delay not time, thy glasse is run,
Thy date is past, thy life is done.
Be not so hasty to convay
Where it shall ne'er behold bright day.
O doe not frown, thy angry looke
Hath all my soule with horror shooke.
And bootlesse is my dismall crye;
Time will not be recall'd againe,
Nor thou surcease before I dye.
O let me live, and make amends
To some of thy most dearest friends.
And wilt no pitye on me showe,
Because from thee I did depart,
And left unpaid what I did owe:
I must content myself, to take
What lott to me thou wilt partake.
A multitude of uglye fiends
About this woefull prince did dance;
He had no helpe of any friends:
His body then they tooke away,
And no man knew his dying day.
XXIII. THE WITCHES' SONG
—From Ben Jonson's Masque of Queens, presented at Whitehall, Feb. 2, 1609.
The editor thought it incumbent on him to insert some old pieces on the popular superstition concerning witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and ghosts. The last of these make their appearance in most of the tragical ballads; and in the following songs will be found some description of the former.
It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classic antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, with our British Solomon James I. at their head: and these had so ransacked all writers ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished.
By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellow-creatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated.
I have beene all day looking after
A raven feeding upon a quarter;
And, soone as she turn'd her beak to the south,
I snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth.
2 Witch.
I have beene gathering wolves haires,
The mad dogges foame, and adders eares;
And all since the evening starre did rise.
3 Witch.
I last night lay all alone
O' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone;
And pluckt him up, though he grew full low:
And, as I had done, the cocke did crow.
4 Witch.
And I ha' beene chusing out this scull
From charnell houses that were full;
From private grots, and publike pits;
And frighted a sexton out of his wits.
5 Witch.
Under a cradle I did creepe
By day; and, when the childe was a-sleepe
At night, I suck'd the breath; and rose,
And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.
6 Witch.
I had a dagger: what did I with that?
Killed an infant to have his fat.
A piper it got, at a church-ale,
I bade him again blow wind i' the taile.
7 Witch.
A murderer, yonder, was hung in chaines;
The sunne and the wind had shrunke his veines:
I brought off his ragges, that danc'd i'the ayre.
8 Witch.
The scrich-owles egges, and the feathers blacke,
The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his backe
I have been getting; and made of his skin
A purset, to keepe sir Cranion in.
9 Witch.
And I ha' beene plucking (plants among)
Hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue,
Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards-bane;
And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.
10 Witch.
I from the jawes of a gardiner's bitch
Did snatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch:
Yet went I back to the house againe,
Kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine.
11 Witch.
I went to the toad, breedes under the wall,
I charmed him out, and he came at my call;
I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before;
I tore the batts wing: what would you have more?
Dame.
Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows,
Horned poppie, cypresse boughes,
And juice, that from the larch-tree comes,
The basiliskes bloud, and the vipers skin:
And now our orgies let's begin.
Since this ballad was printed off the Editor hath seen an ancient black-letter copy, containing some variations, and intitled, “The merry pranks of Robin Good-Fellow. To the tune of Dulcina, &c.”
To this copy were prefixed two wooden cuts of Robin Good-Fellow, which seem to represent the dresses in which this whimsical character was formerly exhibited on the stage. To gratify the curious these are engraven below.
XXIV. ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW
—alias Pucke, alias Hobgoblin, in the creed of ancient superstition, was a kind of merry sprite, whose character and atchievements are recorded in this ballad, and in those well-known lines of Milton's L'Allegro, which the antiquarian Peck supposes to be owing to it;
“To earn his cream-bowle duly set;
“When in one night, ere glimpse of morne,
“His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
“That ten day-labourers could not end;
“Then lies him down the lubbar fiend,
“And stretch'd out all the chimneys length,
“Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
“And crop-full out of doors he flings,
“Ere the first cock his matins rings.”
The reader will observe that our simple ancestors had reduced all these whimsies to a kind of system, as regular, and perhaps more consistent, than many parts of classic mythology: a proof of the extensive influence and vast antiquity of these superstitions. Mankind, and especially the common people, could not every where have been so unanimously agreed concerning these arbitrary notions, if they had not prevailed among them for many ages. Indeed, a learned friend in Wales assures the editor, that the existence of Fairies and Goblins is alluded to by the most ancient British Bards, who mention them under various names, one of the most common of
This song (which Peck attributes to Ben Jonson, tho' it is not found among his works) is given from an ancient black letter copy in the British Museum. It seems to have been originally intended for some Masque. See the last page of this volume.
The king of ghosts and shadowes there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to viewe the night-sports here.
What revell rout
Is kept about,
In every corner where I go,
I will o'ersee,
And merry bee,
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!
About this aery welkin soone,
And, in a minutes space, descrye
Each thing that's done belowe the moone.
There's not a hag
Or ghost shall wag,
Or cry, ware Goblins! where I go;
But Robin I
Their feates will spy,
And send them home, with ho, ho, ho!
As from their night-sports they trudge home;
And call them on, with me to roame
Thro' woods, thro' lakes,
Thro' bogs, thro' brakes;
Or else, unseene, with them I go,
All in the nicke
To play some tricke
And frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho!
Sometimes, an ox; sometimes, a hound;
And to a horse I turn me can;
To trip and trot about them round.
But if, to ride,
My backe they stride,
More swift than wind away I go,
Ore hedge and lands,
Thro' pools and ponds,
I whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!
With possets and with juncates fine;
Unseene of all the company,
I eat their cakes and sip their wine;
And, to make sport,
I fart and snort;
And out the candles I do blow:
The maids I kiss;
They shrieke—Who's this?
I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho!
At midnight I card up their wooll;
And while they sleepe, and take their ease,
With wheel to threads their flax I pull.
I grind at mill
Their malt up still;
I dress their hemp, I spin their tow.
If any 'wake,
And would me take,
I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!
I pinch the maidens blacke and blue;
The bed-clothes from the bed pull I,
And lay them naked all to view.
'Twixt sleepe and wake,
I do them take,
And on the key-cold floor them throw.
If out they cry,
Then forth I fly,
And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho!
We lend them what they do require;
And for the use demand we nought;
Our owne is all we do desire.
If to repay,
They do delay,
Abroad amongst them then I go,
I them affright
With pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho!
But study how to cog and lye;
To make debate and mischief too,
'Twixt one another secretlye:
I marke their gloze,
And it disclose,
To them whom they have wronged so;
When I have done,
I get me gone,
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!
In loop-holes, where the vermine creepe,
Who from their foldes and houses, get
Their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe:
I spy the gin,
And enter in,
And seeme a vermine taken so;
But when they there
Approach me neare,
I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!
We nightly dance our hey-day guise;
And to our fairye king, and queene,
We chant our moon-light minstrelsies.
Away we fling;
And babes new-borne steal as we go,
An elfe in bed
We leave instead,
And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!
Thus nightly revell'd to and fro;
And for my pranks men call me by
The name of Robin Good-fellòw.
Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,
Who haunt the nightes,
The hags and goblins do me know;
And beldames old
My feates have told;
So Vale, Vale; ho, ho, ho!
XXV. THE FAIRY QUEEN.
We have here a short display of the popular belief concerning Fairies. It will afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to their origin. Whoever considers, how early, how extensively, and how uniformly they have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those, who fetch them from the east so late as the time of the Croisades. Whereas it is well known that our Saxon ancestors long before they left their German forests, believed the existence of
This Song is given from an old black-letter copy.
Ye Fairy Elves that be
Light tripping oer the green,
Come follow Mab your queen;
Hand in hand we'll dance around,
Because this place is fairye ground.
And snoring in their nest;
Unheard, and un-espy'd,
Through key-holes we do glide;
Over tables, stooles, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairye elves.
With platter, dish or bowl,
Up staires we nimbly creep,
And find the sluts asleep:
Then we pinch their armes and thighes;
None us heares, and none us spies.
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the houshold maid,
And duely she is paid:
We drop a tester in her shoe.
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye, or wheat,
The diet that we eat;
Pearly drops of dew we drink
In acorn cups fill'd to the brink.
With unctuous fat of snailes,
Between two cockles stew'd,
Is meat that's easily chew'd;
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice
Do make a dish, that's wonderous nice.
Serve for our minstrelsy,
Grace said, we dance a while,
And so the time beguile:
And if the moon doth hide her head,
The glow-worm lightes us home to bed.
So nimbly we do passe,
The young and tender stalk
Ne'er bends where we do walk:
Yet in the morning may be seene
Where we the night before have beene.
XXVI. THE FAIRIES FAREWELL.
This humorous old song fell from the hand of the facetious bishop Corbet (probably in his youth), and is printed from his Poëtica Stromata, 1648, 12 mo. (compared with the third edition of his poems, 1672.) It is there called, “A proper new Ballad, intituled, The Fairies Farewell, or God-a-mercy Will, to be sung or whistled to the tune of The Meddow brow, by the learned: by the unlearned, to the tune of Fortune.”
The departure of Fairies is here attributed to the abolition of monkery: Chaucer has, with equal humour, assigned a cause the very reverse.
“(Of which the Britons speken grete honour)
“All was this lond fulfilled of fayry;
“The elf-quene, with her jolly company,
“Daunsed full oft in many a grene mede.
“This was an old opinion as I rede:
“I speke of many hundred yere agoe:
“But now can no man see no elfes moe:
“For now the grete charite, and prayeres
“Of Limitours, and other holy freres,
“That serchen every lond, and every streme,
“As thick as motes in the sunne beme,
“Blessing halles, chambers, kitchins, and bowres,
“Cities, borowes, castelles, and hie toures,
“Thropes, and bernes, shepens, and dairies;
“This maketh that there ben now no fairies:
“For there as wont to walken was an elfe,
“There walketh now the Limitour himselfe,
“In undermeles and in morrownynges,
“And saieth his mattins and his holie thinges,
“Wymen may now go safely up and doune,
“In every bush, and under every tree,
“There is none other incubus but he:
“And he ne will don hem no dishonour.”
Wife of Bath's Tale.
Dr. Richard Corbet, having been bishop of Oxford about three years, and afterwards as long Bp. of Norwich, died in 1635, Ætat. 52.
Good housewives now may say;
For now foule sluts in dairies,
Doe fare as well as they:
And though they sweepe their hearths no less
Than mayds were wont to doe,
Yet who of late for cleaneliness
Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?
The fairies lost command;
They did but change priests babies,
But some have chang'd your land:
And all your children stoln from thence
Are now growne Puritanes,
Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your demaines.
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleepe and sloth,
These prettie ladies had.
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabour,
And nimbly went their toes.
Of theirs, which yet remaine;
Were footed in queene Maries dayes
On many a grassy playne.
But since of late Elizabeth
And later James came in;
They never danc'd on any heath,
As when the time hath bin.
Were of the old profession:
Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession.
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
They never could endure;
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punish'd sure:
It was a just and christian deed
To pinch such blacke and blue:
O how the common-welth doth need
Such justices, as you!
A Register they have,
Who can preserve their charters;
A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.
Give laud and praises due,
Who every meale can mend your cheare
With tales both old and true:
To William all give audience,
And pray yee for his noddle:
For all the fairies evidence
Were lost, if it were addle.
After these Songs on the Fairies, the Reader may be curious to see the manner in which they were formerly invoked and bound to human service. In Ashmole's Collection of MSS. at Oxford, [Num. 8259. 1406. 2.] are the papers of some Alchymist, which contain a variety of Incantations and Forms of Conjuring both Fairies, Witches and Demons, principally, as it should seem, to assist him in his Great Work of transmuting Metals. Most of them are too impious to be reprinted: but the two following may be very innocently laughed at.
Whoever looks into Ben Jonson's Alchymist, will find that these impostors, among their other Secrets, affected to have a power over Fairies.
“An excellent way to gett a Fayrie. (For myself I call Margarett Barrance; but this will obteine any one that is not allready bownd.)
“FIRST, gett a broad square christall or Venice glasse, in length and breadth 3 inches. Than lay that glasse or christall in the bloud of a white henne, 3 Wednesdayes, or 3 Fridayes. Then take it out, and wash it with holy aq. and fumigate it. Then take 3 hazle sticks, or wands of an yeare groth: pill them fayre and white; and make ‘them.’ soe longe, as you write the Spiritts name, or Fayries name, which you call, 3 times on every sticke being made flatt on one side. Then bury them under some hill, whereas you suppose Fayries haunt, the Wednesday before you call her: And the Friday followinge take them uppe, and call her at 8 or 3 or 10 of the clocke, which be good planetts and houres for that turne: but when you call, be in clean life, and turne thy face towards the east. And when you have her, bind her to that stone or glasse.”
“An Unguent to annoynt under the Eyelids, and upon the Eyelids evninge and morninge: but especially when you call; or find your sight not perfect.
“R. A pint of sallet-oyle, and put it into a viall glasse: but first wash it with rose-water, and marygold-water; the flowers ‘to’ be gathered towards the east. Wash it till the oyle come white; then put it into the glasse, ut supra: and then put thereto the budds of holyhocke, the flowers of marygold, the flowers or toppes of wild thime, the budds of young hazle: and the thime must be gathered neare the side of a hill where Fayries use to be: and ‘take’ the grasse of a fayrie throne, there. All these put into the oyle, into the glasse: and set it to dissolve 3 dayes in the sunne, and then keep it for thy use; ut supra.”
After this follows a Form of Incantation, wherein the Alchymist conjures a Fairy, named Elaby Gathon, to appear to him in that Chrystal Glass, meekly and mildly; to resolve him truly in all manner of questions; and to be obedient to all his commands, under pain of Damnation, &c.
BOOK III.
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 ; 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
The Seven Champions, tho' written in a wild inflated style, contains some strong Gothic painting; which seems, for the most art, 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. 100.] 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,“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
“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. Georges ribs were sore 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 tells us that about the time of the Norman invasion was Bevis famous with the title of Earl of Southampton, whose residence was at Dunction in Wiltshire; but observes that the monkish enlargements of his story, have made his very existence doubted. See Notes on Poly-Olbion, Song III.
As for the martial History of St. George, it is given up as entirely apocryphal. 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 a learned writer has lately shewn that it is neither more nor less, than a charm or amulet borrowed from some eastern heretics; which having been originally worn as a protection from the malignity of the air, at length was considered as a preservative from wounds, and a means to insure victory in battle. For it seems the ancient orientals represented the sun by a man on horseback; the sun's rays by a spear; and any noxious exhalation by a serpent.
It cannot be denied, but that a great part of the following ballad is modern: for which reason it would have been thrown to the end of the volume, had not its subject procured it a place here.
I sing the wonderous birth
Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm
Rid monsters from the earth:
He travell'd many a day;
In honour of the christian faith,
Which shall endure for aye.
A knight of worthy fame,
Lord Albret was his name.
Whose beauty did excell.
This virtuous lady, being with child,
In sudden sadness fell:
Had clos'd her wakeful eyes,
But, lo! a foul and fearful dreame
Her fancy did surprize:
Conceiv'd within her womb;
Whose mortal fangs her body rent
Ere he to life could come.
She nourisht constant woe:
Yet strove to hide it from her lord,
Lest he should sorrow know.
Who watch'd her slightest look,
Discover'd soon her secret paine,
And soon that paine partook.
She weeping did impart,
The anguish of her heart.
Those pearly drops refraine;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll try to ease thy paine.
That causeth all thy woe,
Trust me I'll travel far away
But I'll the meaning knowe.
And shedding many a teare,
To the weïrd lady of the woods
He purpos'd to repaire.
Full long and many a daye,
Thro' lonely shades, and thickets rough
He winds his weary waye.
With dismal yews o'erhung;
Where cypress spred it's mournful boughes,
And pois'nous nightshade sprung.
He hears no chearful sound;
And serpents hiss around.
Ran howling thro' his eare:
A chilling horror froze his heart,
Tho' all unus'd to feare.
And pierce those sickly dewes:
Three times to bear his trembling corse
His knocking knees refuse.
He signs the holy crosse;
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th'unhallow'd mosse.
All vaulted like a grave,
And opening in the solid rocke,
He found the inchanted cave.
All hideous and forlorne;
And, fasten'd by a silver chaine,
Near hung a brazen horne.
Three times he blowes amaine:
Did answer him againe.
“Who, like a dragon bright,
“Shall prove most dreadful to his foes,
“And terrible in fight.
“On banners shall be worne:
“But lo! thy lady's life must passe
“Before he can be borne.”
Long time lord Albret stood;
At length he winds his doubtful waye
Back thro' the dreary wood.
Then fast he travels backe:
But when he reach'd his castle gate,
His gate was hung with blacke.
A sullen silence reigne;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maidens' plaine;
With many a grievous grone:
His lady's life was gone.
Yet half affraid to goe;
With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.
They said, then stopt to weepe:
“Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare
“In death's eternal sleepe.
“So sore that she must dye;
“Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
“Could ease her presentlye.
“Too soon declared hee,
“She, or her babe must lose its life;
“Both saved could not bee.
“My little infant save:
“And O commend me to my lord,
“When I am laid in grave.
“Cost him a tender wife:
“Who died to save his life.
“And praying still for thee;
“Without repining or complaint,
“Her gentle soul did flee.”
The bitter tears he shed,
The bitter pangs that wrung his heart,
To find his lady dead?
And shedding many a teare,
At length he askt to see his son;
The son that cost so deare.
At length they faultering saye;
“Alas! my lord, how shall we tell?
“Thy son is stoln awaye.
“Such was his infant mien:
“And on his little body stampt
“Three wonderous marks were seen:
“A dragon on his breast:
“Was round his leg exprest.
“Our little lord to keepe:
“One gave him sucke, one gave him food,
“And one did lull to sleepe.
“We heard a fearful sound:
“Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook;
“And lightning flasht around.
“But rousing up anon,
“We ran to see our little lord:
“Our little lord was gone!
“For lying on the ground,
“In deep and magic slumbers laid,
“The nurses there we found.”
No more his tongue cou'd say,
When falling in a deadly swoone,
Long time he lifeless lay.
He nourisht endless woe,
No future comfort knowe.
A fair and stately oake,
Whose vigorous arms are torne away,
By some rude thunder-stroke.
He loathes his wonted home;
His native country he forsakes
In foreign lands to roame.
Clad in a palmer's gowne;
Till his brown locks grew white as wool,
His beard as thistle downe.
He laid his reverend head.
Meantime amid the lonely wilds
His little son was bred.
Had borne him far away,
And train'd him up in feates of armes,
And every martial play.
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 12 mo, the other in folio.
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
St. George's deeds, an English knight.
Fought he full long and many a day;
Where many gyants he subdu'd,
In honour of the christian way:
And after many adventures past
To Egypt land he came at last.
Within that countrey there did rest
A dreadful dragon fierce and fell,
Whereby they were full sore opprest:
Who by his poisonous breath each day,
Did many of the city slay.
Throughout the limits of the land,
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.
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.
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,
The living scarce could bury the dead.
For to appease the dragon's rage,
But to present some virgin clear,
Whose blood his fury might asswage;
Each day he would a maiden eat,
For to allay his hunger great.
Which truly must observed be;
Wherefore throughout the city round
A virgin pure of good degree
Was by the kings commission still
Taken up to serve the dragon's will.
Untimely crop some virgin flowr,
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.
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.
And to the king in rage they went;
They said his daughter deare should dye,
The dragon's fury to prevent:
Our daughters all are dead, quoth they,
And have been made the dragons prey:
And thou hast sav'd thy life thereby;
And now in sooth it is but faire,
For us thy daughter so should die.
O save my daughter, said the king;
And let me feel the dragon's sting.
And to her father dear did say,
O father, strive not thus for me,
But let me be the dragon's prey;
It may be, for my sake alone
This plague upon the land was thrown.
Than all your subjects perish quite;
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.
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.
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,
Therefore do what you will with me.
And as thou art a virgin bright,
That hast for vertue famous been,
So let me cloath thee all in white;
And crown thy head with flowers sweet,
An ornament for virgins meet.
According to her mother's mind,
Unto the stake then did she go;
To which her tender limbs they bind:
And being bound to stake a thrall
She bade farewell unto them all.
And my sweet mother meek and mild;
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.
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.
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,
What caitif thus abuseth thee?
Which here is figured on my breast,
I will revenge it on his brow,
And break my lance upon his chest:
And speaking thus whereas he stood,
The dragon issued from the wood.
The dreadful dragon coming so,
Unto St. George aloud did cry,
And willed him away to go;
Here comes that cursed fiend, quoth she,
That soon will make an end of me.
The fiery dragon soon espy'd,
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.
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.
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,
There was great mirth and melody.
Had slain the dragon in the field,
To court he brought the lady fair
Which to their hearts much joy did yield.
He in the court of Egypt staid
Till he most falsely was betray'd.
He counted her his only joy;
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:
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.
To make the christian knight away,
With letters him in curteous wise
They straightway sent to Persia:
But wrote to th'sophy him to kill,
And treacherously his blood to spill.
With evil, and most subtilly
By much vile meanes they had regard
To work his death most cruelly;
Who, as through Persia land he rode,
With zeal destroy'd each idol god.
Into a dungeon dark and deep;
Where, when he thought his wrongs upon,
He bitterly did wail and weep:
Yet like a knight of courage stout,
At length his way he digged out.
By night this valiant champion slew,
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.
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.
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,
He wrought unto his heart's content.
For Sabra bright her only sake,
And, ere for her he had regard,
He meant a tryal kind to make:
Mean while the king o'ercome in field
Unto saint George did quickly yield.
And took fair Sabra to his wife,
But meant to try if she were true
Ere with her he would lead his life:
And, tho' he had her in his train,
She did a virgin pure remain.
The brave St. George conducted strait,
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.
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.
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,
Whereby they shew'd, she was a maid.
And did behold this heavy chance,
Then for his lovely virgin's sake
His courage strait he did advance,
And came into the lions sight,
Who ran at him with all their might.
Who, like a stout and valiant knight,
Did both the hungry lyons slay
Within the lady Sabra's sight:
Who all this while sad and demure,
There stood most like a virgin pure.
This lady was a virgin true,
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.
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.
III. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.
And over the waves;
Under the fountains,
And under the graves;
Over floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
For the glow-worm to lye;
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Lest herself fast she lay;
If love come, he will enter,
And soon find out his way.
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;
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.
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,
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
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 these 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.
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.
Fair Annet took it ill:
A'! I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friends will.
A wife wull neir wed yee.
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee:
A gude rede gie to mee:
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
And let faire Annet bee?
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty fair Annet haes,
O it wull soon be gane!
Now brother rede ye mee;
A' fall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let fair Annet bee?
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast fair Annet bye.
And her kye into the byre;
And I sall hae nothing to my sell,
Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.
Now sister rede ye mee;
O fall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And set fair Annet free?
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh and say, Alace!
What is this we brought hame?
And marrie me owt o' hand;
And I will tak the nut-browne bride;
Fair Annet may leive the land.
Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane into the bower,
Wherein fair Annet lay.
Put on your silken sheene;
Let us gae to St. Maries kirke,
And see that rich weddeen.
And dress to me my hair;
Whair-eir yee laid a plait before,
See yee lay ten times mair.
And dress to me my smock;
The one half is o' the holland fine,
The other o' needle-work.
He amblit like the wind,
Wi' siller he was shod before,
Wi' burning gowd behind.
Wer a' tyed till his mane,
And yae tift o' the norland wind,
They tinkled ane by ane.
Rade by fair Annets side,
And four and twanty fair ladies,
As gin she had bin a bride.
She sat on Maries stean;
The cleading that fair Annet had on
It skinkled in their een.
She shimmer'd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist,
Was a' wi' pearles bedone.
And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
Whan fair Annet she drew.
And he gae it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
Laid it on fair Annets knee.
She spak wi' meikle spite;
And whair gat ye that rose-water,
That does mak yee sae white?
Whair ye wull neir get nane,
For I did get that very rose-water
Into my mithers wame.
Frae out her gay head gear,
And strake fair Annet unto the heart,
That word she nevir spak mair.
And marvelit what mote bee:
But whan he saw her dear hearts blude,
A' wood-wroth wexed hee.
That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave it into the nut-browne bride,
That fell deid at his feit.
Now stay, my dear, he cry'd;
Than strake the dagger untill his heart,
And fell deid by her side.
Fair Annet within the quiere;
And o' the tane thair grew a birk,
The other a bonny briere.
As they was faine be neare;
And by this ye may ken right weil,
They were twa luvers deare.
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 fewer in ordinary to his majesty (Charles I). Lond. 1640.” This elegant, and almost-forgotten writer, whose poems deserve to be 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.
Or a corall lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seeke
Fuell to maintaine his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
Gentle thoughts, and calme desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd
Kindle never-dying fires:
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 vncle 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.
The First Part.
That dwell both far and near,
Regard my story that I tell,
And to my song give ear.
A merchant's prentice bound;
My name George Barnwell; that did spend
My master many a pound.
And their enticing trains;
For by that means I have been brought
To hang alive in chains.
Was walking through the street
About my master's business,
A wanton I did meet.
And sumptuous in attire;
With smiling look she greeted me,
And did my name require.
She gave me then a kiss,
And said, if I would come to her,
I should have more than this.
If I the place may know,
This evening I will be with you,
For I abroad must go
That are my master's due:
And ere that I do home return,
I'll come and visit you.
Do thou to Shoreditch come,
And ask for Mrs. Millwood's house,
Next door unto the Gun.
If thou keep touch with me,
My dearest friend, as my own heart
Thou shalt right welcome be.
And home I passed right;
Then went abroad, and gathered in,
By six o'clock at night,
With bag under my arm
I went to Mrs. Millwood's house,
And thought on little harm;
Straightway herself came down;
Rustling in most brave attire,
With hood and silken gown.
So gloriously did shine,
That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes,
She seemed so divine.
And with a modest grace,
Welcome, sweet Barnwell, then quoth she,
Unto this homely place.
As good as thy word to be;
A homely supper, ere we part,
Thou shalt take here with me.
Fair mistress, I you pray;
For why, out of my master's house,
So long I dare not stay.
Are you so strictly ty'd,
You may not with your dearest friend
One hour or two abide?
If it be so, quoth she;
I would I were a prentice bound,
To live along with thee:
List well what I shall say,
And do not blame a woman much,
Her fancy to bewray.
Be counted lewd desire,
Nor think it not immodesty,
I should thy love require.
And with a blushing red,
A mournful motion she bewray'd
By hanging down her head.
All wrought with silk and gold:
Which she to stay her trickling tears
Before her eyes did hold.
Was wondrous rare and strange;
And in my soul and inward thought,
It wrought a sudden change:
To take her by the hand:
Saying, Sweet mistress, why do you
So dull and pensive stand?
But Sarah, thy true friend,
Thy servant, Millwood, honouring thee,
Until her life hath end.
Thou art in years a boy;
So was Adonis, yet was he
Fair Venus' only joy.
Of woman found such grace,
But seeing now so fair a dame
Give me a kind embrace,
With joys that did abound;
And for the same paid presently,
In money twice three pound.
For my farewel she gave;
Crying, Sweet Barnwell, when shall I
Again thy company have?
Sweet George, have me in mind.
Her words bewitcht my childishness,
She uttered them so kind:
Next Sunday without fail,
With my sweet Sarah once again,
To tell some pleasant tale.
The tears fell from her eye;
O George, quoth she, if thou dost fail,
Thy Sarah sure will dye.
The appointed day was come,
That I must with my Sarah meet;
Having a mighty sum
Unto her house went I,
Whereas my love upon her bed
In saddest sort did lye.
My Sarah dear? quoth I;
Let not my love lament and grieve,
Nor sighing pine, and die.
What may thy woes amend,
And thou shalt lack no means of help,
Though forty pound I spend.
And sickly thus did say,
Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great,
Ten pound I have to pay
And God he knows, quoth she,
I have it not. Tush, rise, I said,
And take it here of me.
Shall make my love decay.
Then from my bag into her lap,
I cast ten pound straightway.
To banqueting we go;
She proffered me to lye with her,
And said it should be so.
I gave her store of coyn,
Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once;
All which I did purloyn.
Until my master then
Did call to have his reckoning in
Cast up among his men.
I knew not what to say:
For well I knew that I was out
Two hundred pound that day.
I ran in secret sort;
And unto Sarah Millwood there
My case I did report.
In this his care and woe,
And all a strumpet's wiley ways,
The second part may showe.
The Second Part.
Sweet Sarah, my delight;
I am undone unless thou stand
My faithful friend this night.
Hath just occasion found;
And I am caught behind the hand,
Above two hundred pound:
My love, I fly to thee,
Hoping some time I may remaine
In safety here with thee.
And looking all aquoy,
Quoth she, What should I have to do
With any prentice boy?
Your master's goods away,
The case is bad, and therefore here
You shall no longer stay.
How all which I could get,
I gave it, and did spend it all
Upon thee every whit.
To charge me in this sort,
Being a woman of credit fair,
And known of good report.
Be packing with good speed,
I do defie thee from my heart,
And scorn thy filthy deed.
You did to me protest?
Is this the great affection which
You so to me exprest?
The best is, I may speed
To get a lodging any where
For money in my need.
Whilst twenty pound doth last,
My anchor in some other haven
With freedom I will cast.
I had store of money there:
Stay, George, quoth she, thou art too quick:
Why, man, I did but jeer:
That I would let thee go?
Faith no, said she, my love to thee
I wiss is more than so.
I heard you just now swear,
Wherefore I will not trouble you.—
—Nay, George, hark in thine ear;
What chance soe're befall:
But man we'll have a bed for thee,
Or else the devil take all.
And snar'd with fancy still,
Had then no power to ‘get’ away,
Or to withstand her will.
And cheer upon good cheer;
And nothing in the world I thought
For Sarah's love too dear.
I had such merriment;
All, all too little I did think,
That I upon her spent.
When all my gold is gone,
In faith, my girl, we will have more,
Whoever I light upon.
Should I want store of gold?
Nay with a father sure, quoth she,
A son may well make bold.
I'll rob her ere I'll want.
Nay, then quoth Sarah, they may well
Consider of your scant.
At Ludlow he doth dwell:
He is a grazier, which in wealth
Doth all the rest excell.
And have no coyn for thee;
I'll rob his house, and murder him.
Why should you not? quoth she:
Would live in poor estate;
On father, friends, and all my kin,
I would my talons grate.
A man is but a beast:
But bringing money, thou shalt be
Always my welcome guest.
With twenty hues and cryes,
And with a warrant searched for
With Argus' hundred eyes,
Such privy ways there be,
That if they sought an hundred years,
They could not find out thee.
Their pleasures to content:
George Barnwell had in little space
His money wholly spent.
He did provide to go,
To rob his wealthy uncle there;
His minion would it so.
His father by the way,
But that he fear'd his master had
Took order for his stay.
He rode with might and main,
Who with a welcome and good cheer
Did Barnwell entertain.
Until it chanced so,
His uncle with his cattle did
Unto a market go.
Where he did see right plain,
Great store of money he had took:
When coming home again,
He struck his uncle down,
And beat his brains out of his head;
So sore he crackt his crown.
To London straight he hyed,
And unto Sarah Millwood all
The cruell fact descryed.
So we the money have
To have good cheer in jolly sort,
And deck us fine and brave.
Until their store was gone:
When means to get them any more,
I wis, poor George had none.
She thrust him out of door:
Which is the just reward of those,
Who spend upon a whore.
In this my need, quoth he.
She call'd him thief and murderer,
With all the spight might be:
To have him apprehended;
And shewed how far, in each degree,
He had the laws offended.
To sea he got straightway;
Where fear and sting of conscience
Continually on him lay.
He did a letter write;
In which his own and Sarah's fault
He did at large recite.
And then to Ludlow sent:
Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd,
For murder incontinent.
Such was her greatest gains:
For murder in Polonia,
Was Barnwell hang'd in chains.
That after harlots haunt;
Who in the spoil of other men,
About the streets do flaunt.
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 Shepherds Resolution, p. 190. In our first Edition only a small Fragment of this Sonnet had been recovered, but we are now able to give it more perfect and intire by the insertion of five additional Stanzas: These are extracted from Wither's Pastoral Poem, The Mistress of Philarete; of which this Song makes a part. There were two or three other Stanzas, but as they appeared to be of inferior merit, were not adopted.
And unclaspe your wanton armes;
Sugred words shall ne'er deceive me,
(Though ‘you’ prove a thousand charmes).
Fie, fie, forbeare;
No common snare
Could ever my affection chaine:
Your painted baits,
And poore deceits,
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
Neither shall a snowy brest,
Wanton eye, or lip of ruby
Ever robb me of my rest:
Goe, goe, display
Your beautie's ray
To some ore-soone enamour'd swaine:
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
Turne away ‘your’ tempting eyes:
Shew not me a naked beautie;
Those impostures I despise:
My spirit lothes
Where gawdy clothes
And fained othes may love obtaine:
I love her so,
Whose looke sweares No;
That all your labours will be vaine.
Which on every brest are worne;
That may plucke the spotlesse roses
From their never-touched thorne?
I can goe rest
On her sweet brest,
Then hold your tongues;
Your mermaid songs
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
Where each peasant mates with him:
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,
Whilst ther's noble hils to climbe?
No, no, though clownes
Are skar'd with frownes,
I know the best can but disdaine;
And those Ile prove:
So shall your love
Be all bestowed on me in vaine.
Where each lustfull lad may wooe:
Give me her, whose sun-like beautie
Buzzards dare not soare unto:
Shee, shee it is
Affoords that blisse
For which I would refuse no paine:
But such as you,
Fond fooles, adieu;
You seeke to captive me in vaine.
Seeke no more to worke my harmes:
Craftie wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proofe against your charmes:
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.
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. 2. p. 89.—The text is given (with some 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,
“Depart from hence, and therein dwell.”
Of those that suffer wrong;
All you, that never shed a tear,
Give heed unto my song.
My tale doth far exceed:
Alas! that so much cruelty
In female hearts should breed!
Who was of high degree;
Whose wayward temper did create
Much woe and misery.
With many a vain surmize,
She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed,
And did her love despise.
Did on this lady wait;
With bravest dames she might compare;
Her beauty was compleat.
Upon this gentle maid;
And taxt her with disloyaltye;
And did her oft upbraid.
Her bitter taunts would bear,
While oft adown her lovely cheek
Would steal the falling tear.
Her fury to disarm;
As well the meekness of the dove
The bloody hawke might charm.
And innocent the while,
As oft as she came in his way,
Would on the damsell smile.
As thinking her her friend,
He would the maiden's modest grace
And comeliness commend.
She burnt with wrath extreame;
At length the fire that long did glow,
Burst forth into a flame.
When he was gone from home,
The lady all with rage did swell,
And to the damsell come.
And many a grievous fault;
She bade her servants drag her thence,
Into a dismal vault,
A dungeon dark and deep:
Where they were wont, in days of yore,
Offenders great to keep.
Dispers'd the hideous gloom;
But dank and noisome vapours play
Around the wretched room:
As afterwards was known,
Long in this loathsome vault had bin,
And were to monsters grown.
The fair one innocent
Was cast, before her lady's face;
Her malice to content.
But strait, alas! she hears
The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss:
Then grievously she fears.
And fiercely her assail:
Which makes the damsel sorely weep,
And her sad fate bewail.
Her body to defend:
With shrieks and cries she doth complain,
But all is to no end.
Struck with her doleful noise,
Strait ran his lady to implore;
But she'll not hear his voice.
To mark the maiden's groans;
And plainly hears, within the den,
How she herself bemoans.
With all the haste he may:
She into furious passion flies,
And orders him away.
To hear her tender cries;
The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn;
Which fill'd him with surprize.
He listens at the walls;
But finding all was silent quite,
He to his lady calls.
Your cruelty hath sped:
Make hast, for shame, and come and see;
I fear the virgin's dead.
And does with torches run:
But all her haste was now too late,
For death his worst had done.
The virgin stretch'd along:
Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round,
Which her to death had stung.
Had twin'd his fatal wreath:
The other close her neck embrac'd,
And stopt her gentle breath.
Their bellies were so fill'd,
That with excess of blood they burst,
Thus with their prey were kill'd.
With horror strait ran mad;
So raving dy'd as was most right,
Cause she no pity had.
Of jealousy beware:
It causeth many a one to fall,
And is the devil's snare.
IX. JEALOUSY TYRANT OF THE MIND.
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,
Tis all from thee,
O Jealousie!
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
Serve to refine and perfect love:
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,
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
Some sett too near, and some too farre:
Thou art the fire of endless night,
The fire that burns, and gives no light.
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 looking-glass for ladies, or a mirrour for married women. Tune Queen Dido, or Troy town.”
And lords in armour bright were seen;
When many a gallant lost his life
About fair Hellen, beauties queen;
Ulysses, general so free,
Did leave his dear Penelope.
That he would to the warrs of Troy;
For grief she shed full many a tear,
At parting from her only joy;
Her ladies all about her came,
To comfort up this Grecian dame.
Unto her then did mildly say,
The time is come that we must part;
My honour calls me hence away;
Yet in my absence, dearest, be
My constant wife, Penelope.
Then to my lord I true remain;
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.
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:
And rulest in the ocean main,
My loving lord in safety keep
Till he return to me again:
That I his person may behold,
To me more precious far than gold.
Were all convey'd out of her sight:
Her cruel fate she then bewails,
Since she had lost her hearts delight:
Now shall my practice be, quoth she,
True vertue and humility.
My charity I will extend;
Since for my woe there is no cure,
The helpless now I will befriend:
The widow and the fatherless
I will relieve, when in distress.
In doing good to every one;
Her fame was noised every where,
To young and old the same was known;
No company that she would mind,
Who were to vanity inclin'd.
'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.
They did endeavour her to win;
With banquets and the choicest wine,
For to allure her unto sin:
Most persons were of high degree,
Who courted fair Penelope.
Their wanton suits she did denye;
No tempting charms could e'er deface
Her dearest husband's memorye;
But constant she would still remain,
Hopeing to see him once again.
And that she often did peruse;
She seldom looked in her glass;
Powder and paint she ne'er would use,
I wish all ladies were as free
From pride, as was Penelope.
And likewise in her spinning-wheel;
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.
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.
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
His constant, dear, Penelope.
When she her lord again had seen.
Thrice-welcome home, my dear, she said,
A long time absent thou hast been:
The wars shall never more deprive
Me of my lord whilst I'me alive.
And hence a worthy lesson learn,
All youthful follies to forsake,
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.
That from the nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flie.
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.
XII. VALENTINE AND URSINE.
It would be in vain to put off this ballad for ancient, nor yet is it altogether modern. The original is an old MS poem in the Editor's possession; which being in a wretched corrupt state, the subject was thought worthy of some embellishments.
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.
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,
“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.
Part the First.
With colours fresh and fine,
Then holy clerkes their mattins sing
To good Saint Valentine!
He would a hunting ride:
To Artois forest prancing forth
In all his princely pride.
Of gallant peers attend;
And with their loud and cheerful cryes
The hills and valleys rend.
Through woods and thickets wild;
When down within a lonely dell
They found a new-born child:
Of silk so fine and thin:
A golden mantle wrapt him round
Pinn'd with a silver pin.
The courtiers gather'd round;
They look, they call, the mother seek;
No mother could be found.
And as he gazing stands,
The pretty babe look'd up and smil'd,
And stretch'd his little hands.
This child is passing fair:
I wot he is of gentle blood;
Perhaps some prince's heir.
With all the care ye may:
Let him be christen'd Valentine,
In honour of this day:
Well nurtur'd let him bee;
Nor ought be wanting that becomes
A bairn of high degree.
And nurtur'd well was hee;
Nor ought was wanting that became
A bairn of high degree.
Belov'd of king and peers;
And shew'd in all he spake or did
A wit beyond his years.
He did himself advance,
That ere he grewe to man's estate
He had no peere in France.
To shade his youthful chin;
When Valentine was dubb'd a knight,
That he might glory win.
I beg a boon of thee!
The first adventure, that befalls,
May be reserv'd for mee.
The king did smiling say.
Nor many days, when lo! there came
Three palmers clad in graye.
And knelt as it was meet:
From Artoys forest we be come,
With weak and wearye feet.
There wends a savage boy;
Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield
Thy subjects dire annoy.
He lurks within their den:
With beares he lives; with beares he feeds,
And drinks the blood of men.
A more than human skill:
For arms, ne cunning may suffice
His cruel rage to still.
And claim'd that arduous deed.
Go forth and conquer, say'd the king,
And great shall be thy meed.
His armour white as snow;
As well beseem'd a virgin knight,
Who ne'er had fought a foe:
With all the haste he may;
And soon he spies the savage youth
A rending of his prey.
His shaggy shoulders round:
His eager eye all fiery glow'd:
His face with fury frown'd.
His limbs were thick and strong;
And dreadful was the knotted oak
He bare with him along.
He starts with sudden spring;
And yelling forth a hideous howl,
He made the forests ring.
Hath spyed a passing roe,
And leaps at once upon his throat;
So sprung the savage foe;
The gentle knight to seize:
But met his tall uplifted spear,
Which sunk him on his knees.
Had laid the savage low;
But springing up, he rais'd his club,
And aim'd a dreadful blow.
And shun'd the coming stroke;
Upon his taper spear it fell,
And all to shivers broke.
He drew his burnisht brand:
The savage quick as lightning flew
To wrest it from his hand.
Three times he felt the blade;
Three times it fell with furious force;
Three ghastly wounds it made.
His eye-ball flash'd with fire;
Each hairy limb with fury shook;
And all his heart was ire.
He clasp'd the champion round,
And with a strong and sudden twist
He laid him on the ground.
O'erturn'd his hairy foe:
And now between their sturdy fists
Past many a bruising blow.
And there they struggled long:
Skilful and active was the knight;
The savage he was strong.
To art and skill must yield:
Sir Valentine at length prevail'd,
And won the well-fought field.
Fast with an iron chain,
He tyes him to his horse's tail,
And leads him o'er the plain.
Sir Valentine doth bring;
And kneeling downe upon his knee,
Presents him to the king.
The savage tamer grew;
And to sir Valentine became
A servant try'd and true.
Ursine they call his name;
A name which unto future times
The Muses shall proclame.
Part the Second.
Now liv'd sir Valentine:
His high renown with prince and peere
Made envious hearts repine.
Prepar'd a sumptuous feast;
And there came lords, and dainty dames,
And many a noble guest.
Their revelry, and mirth;
A youthful knight tax'd Valentine
Of base and doubtful birth.
His generous heart did wound:
And strait he vow'd he ne'er would rest
Till he his parents found.
Early one summer's day,
With faithful Ursine by his side,
From court he takes his way.
For many a day they pass;
At length upon a moated lake,
They found a bridge of brass.
Y-built of marble stone:
The battlements were gilt with gold,
And glittred in the sun.
A hundred bells were hung;
That man, nor beast, might pass thereon,
But strait their larum rung.
Who boldly crossing o'er,
The jangling sound bedeast their ears,
And rung from shore to shore.
Unlock'd and opened wide,
And strait a gyant huge and grim
Stalk'd forth with stately stride.
He cried with hideous roar;
Or else the wolves shall eat your flesh,
And ravens drink your gore.
I scorn thy threats and thee:
I trust to force thy brazen gates,
And set thy captives free.
He aim'd a dreadful thrust:
The spear against the gyant glanc'd,
And caus'd the blood to burst.
He whirl'd his mace of steel:
The very wind of such a blow
Had made the champion reel.
His glittering sword display'd,
And riding round with whirlwind speed
Oft made him feel the blade.
Unceasing axes hew:
So fast around the gyant's limbs
The blows quick-darting flew.
Some hapless woodman crush:
With such a force the enormous foe
Did on the champion rush.
Both horse and knight it took,
And laid them senseless in the dust;
So fatal was the stroke.
The gyant strides in haste,
And, stooping, aims a second stroke:
“Now caytiff breathe thy last!”
Upon his scull descend:
From Ursine's knotty club they came,
Who ran to save his friend.
And rolling his grim eyes:
The hairy youth repeats his blows:
He gasps, he groans, he dies.
With Ursine's timely care:
And now to search the castle walls
The venturous youths repair.
They found where'er they came:
At length within a lonely cell
They saw a mournful dame.
Her cheeks were pale with woe:
And long sir Valentine besought
Her doleful tale to know.
“Condole my wretched fate:
“A childless mother here you see;
“A wife without a mate.
“I've drawn my hated breath;
“Sole witness of a monster's crimes,
“And wishing aye for death.
“And in my early years
“Was married to a mighty prince,
“The fairest of his peers.
“A twelvemonth and a day:
“When, lo! a foul and treacherous priest
“Y-wrought our loves' decay.
“He had his master's ear:
“And long to me and all the world
“He did a saint appear.
“He proffer'd odious love:
“The wretch with horrour I repuls'd,
“And from my presence drove.
“His crime I'd not reveal:
“Which, for his seeming penitence,
“I promis'd to conceal.
“My goodness he repay'd:
“With jealous doubts he fill'd my lord,
“And me to woe betray'd.
“Then rais'd a bitter cry:
“My lord, possest with rage, condemn'd
“Me, all unheard, to dye.
“At length my life he spar'd:
“But bade me instant quit the realme,
“One trusty knight my guard.
“Opprest with grief and woe;
“And tow'rds my brother's distant court,
“With breaking heart, I goe.
“We slowly pace along:
“At length within a forest wild
“I fell in labour strong:
“And left me there forlorn,
“My childbed pains so fast increast
“Two lovely boys were born.
“That tips the mountain hoar:
“The younger's little body rough
“With hairs was cover'd o'er.
“While tender care I took
“To shield my eldest from the cold,
“And wrap him in my cloak;
“And seiz'd my younger son:
“Affection lent my weakness wings,
“And after them I run.
“I quickly swoon'd away;
“And there beneath the greenwood shade
“Longtime I lifeless lay.
“And rais'd me from the ground:
“But neither of my pretty babes
“Could ever more be found.
“We met that gyant grim;
“Who ruthless slew my trusty knight,
“And bare me off with him.
“He offer'd me no wrong;
“Save that within these lonely walls
“I've been immur'd so long.”
Ye are lady Bellisance,
Wife to the Grecian emperor:
Your brother's king of France.
Myself my breeding had;
Where oft the story of your woes
Hath made my bosom sad.
And dying own'd his crime;
And long your lord hath sought you out
Thro' every foreign clime.
Of his much-wronged wife,
He vow'd thenceforth within his court
To lead a hermit's life.
And dropt a joyful tear:
Shall I once more behold my lord?
That lord I love so dear?
And knelt upon his knee;
Know you the cloak that wrapt your babe,
If you the same should see?
In which himself was found;
The lady gave a sudden shriek,
And fainted on the ground.
His tale she heard anon;
And soon by other tokens found,
He was indeed her son.
He much resembles thee:
The bear devour'd my younger son,
Or sure that son were he.
And rear'd within their den.
But recollect ye any mark
To know your son agen?
Was stampt a bloody rose.
Here, lady, see the crimson mark
Upon his body grows!
She bath'd their cheeks with tears;
And soon towards her brother's court
Her joyful course she steers.
His sister thus restor'd!
And soon a messenger was sent
To chear her drooping lord:
To fetch her home to Greece;
Where many happy years they reign'd
In perfect love and peace.
And long the scepter bare.
Sir Valentine he stay'd in France,
And was his uncle's heir.
XIII. THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY.
This humorous song (as a former Editor 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 seems local and peculiar; so that many of the finest strokes of humour are lost for want of our knowing the particular facts
In handling this subject the Author has brought in most of the common incidents which occur in Romance. The description of the dragon —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:
And Bevis stumbled ryght therein.
[OMITTED] Than was he glad without fayle,
And rested a whyle for his avayle;
And dranke of that water his fyll;
And than 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,
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 1. 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.
The following ballad appears to have been written late in the last century; at least we have met with none but modern copies: the text is given from one in Roman letter in the Pepys collection, collated with two or three others.
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,
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.
Each one upon each shoulder;
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,
Which did him round environ.
Held seventy men in his belly?
This dragon was not quite so big,
But very near, I'll tell ye.
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.
Some say he did eat up trees,
And that the forests sure he would
Devour up by degrees:
For houses and churches, were to him geese and turkies;
He eat all, and left none behind,
But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack,
Which on the hills you will find.
The place I know it well;
Some two or three miles, or thereabouts,
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.
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,
In a well that he did stand by;
Which made it look, just like a brook
Running with burning brandy.
Of whom all towns did ring;
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
Eat him all up but his head.
Men, women, girls and boys,
Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging,
And made a hideous noise:
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.
But I want, I want in sooth,
A fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk, ‘and keen,’
And smiles about the mouth;
Hair black as sloe, skin white as snow,
With blushes her cheeks adorning;
To anoynt me o'er night, ere I go to fight,
And to dress me in the morning.
To hew the dragon down;
But first he went, new armour to
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.
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,
Each cow, each horse, and each hog:
For fear they did flee, for they took him to be
Some strange outlandish hedge-hog.
Got up on trees and houses,
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,
And a quart of aqua-vitæ.
For wit doth strength excell;
Which made our cunning champion
Creep down into a well;
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.
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;
Thou son of a whore, thou stink'st so sore,
Sure thy diet is unwholsome.
Crept out upon the brink,
And gave the dragon such a douse,
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!
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
Our champion on the ground;
Tho' their strength it was great, their skill it was neat,
They never had one wound.
The dragon gave him a knock,
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,
And hit him a kick on the a***
And turn'd six times together,
Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing
Out of his throat of leather;
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.
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;
First on one knee, then on back tumbled he,
So groan'd, kickt, s***, and dy'd.
Since the first Edition was printed off, the Editor has been favoured with some curious particulars relating to the foregoing Song, which are here given in the words of the Relater.
“In Yorkshire, six 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, called Warncliff Lodge, but vulgarly called Wantley: here lies the scene of the Song. I was there above 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.”
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 accumulation 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.
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.
Onely with his household, what conquest there he got:
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.
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:
And 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.
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 order of the red scarffes and bandrolles in did bring :
For he had a troope of mighty knightes, when first he did begin,
Which sought adventures farre and neare, that conquest they might win:
The rankes 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.
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.
Alfride and Henry they were brave knightes and good:
The four sons of Aymon, that follow'd Charlemaine:
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.
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 infidels and pagans stoutly did defie;
He slew the giant Brandimore, and after was the death
Of that most gastly 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.
He the lion gored with his naked hand :
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.
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. 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.
This probably alludes to “An Ancient Order of Knighthood, called the Order of the Band, instituted by Don Alphonsus, king of Spain, . . to wear a red riband of three fingers breadth.” See Ames Typog. p. 327.
Alluding to the fabulous Exploits attributed to this King in the Old Romances. See the Dissertation prefixed to this Volume.
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. Old Grubb of Christ Church solicited strongly to be admitted; but his name being unfortunately John, this disqualification was not without great difficulty dispensed with; and at last 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.
All that we can learn further concerning this facetious writer is contained in a few extracts from the university Register; by which it appears that he was matriculated in 1667, aged 20 years, being the son of John Grubb “de Acton Burnel in Comitatu Salop. pauperis.” He took his degree of Batchelor of Arts, June 7, 1671; and became Master of Arts, June 28, 1675. He was still living in Oxford, when the following humorous Distich was written,
Bub, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trapp, 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 Poet, Walter Carey, Thomas Tickel, Esq; and Dr. Evans the Epigrammatist.
The Editor has never met with any two copies of the following ballad in which the stanzas were ranged alike, he has therefore thrown them into what seemed to him the most natural order. The verses were originally written in long lines as Alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it necessary to subdivide them.
In this second Edition the Reader will find many improvements, which the Editor received from an ingenious friend.
Is very memorable.
The number of his valiant knights,
And roundness of his table:
The knights around his table in
A circle sate, d'ye see:
And altogether made up one
Large hoop of chivalry.
He had a sword, both broad and sharp,
Y-cleped Caliburn,
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,
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.
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,
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Was fed with milk of goat;
And in return a shield made of
His shaggy nurse's coat:
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,
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,
His postern puff of wind was a
Sulphureous exhalation.
But was for adverse drubbing,
And never turn'd his back for aught,
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.
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.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Challeng'd a gyant savage;
And streight came out the unweildy lout
Brim-full of wrath and cabbage:
He had a phiz of latitude,
And was full thick i'th' middle;
The cheeks of puffed trumpeter,
And paunch of squire Beadle .
But the knight fell'd him, like an oak,
And did upon his back tread;
The valiant knight his weazon cut,
And Atropos his packthread.
As say the poets witty,
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,
As bull-dogs did her father:
Grasiers, nor butchers this fell beast,
E'er of her frolick hindred;
John Dorset she'd knock down as flat,
As John knocks down her kindred:
Her heels would lay ye all along,
And kick into a swoon;
Frewin's cow-heels keep up your corpse,
But hers would beat you down.
She vanquisht many a sturdy wight,
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;
Who wav'd his whinyard o'er sir-loyn,
As if he'd gone to knight him:
He let her blood, her frenzy to cure,
And eke he did her gall rip;
His trenchant blade, like cook's long spit,
Ran thro' the monster's bald-rib:
Instead of arch triumphal.
But George hit th'dragon such a pelt,
As made him on his bum fall.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The Turkish squadrons slew;
And fetch'd the pagan crescent down,
With half-moon made of yew:
His trusty bow proud Turks did gall,
With showers of arrows thick,
And bow-strings, without throtling, sent
Grand-Visiers to old Nick:
Much turbants, and much Pagan pates
He made to humble in dust,
And heads of Saracens he fixt
On spears, as on a sign-post:
He coop'd in cage grim Bajazet,
Prop of Mahound's religion,
As if he had been the whispering bird,
That prompted him; the pigeon.
In Turkey-leather scabbard, he
Did sheath his blade so trenchant.
But George he swing'd 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.
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;
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,
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:
With beauty, and that lapland-charm ,
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
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.
Great Jove, and fair Alcmene:
One part of him celestial was,
The other part terrene.
To scale the hero's cradle walls
Two fiery snakes combin'd,
And, curling into swadling cloaths,
About the infant twin'd:
But he put out these dragons' fires,
And did their hissing stop;
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,
As Tom Wrench does cucumbers.
He made a river help him through;
Alpheus was under groom;
The stream, grumbling at office mean,
Ran murmuring thro' the room:
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
As spinster, could take pains;
His club would sometimes spin ye flax,
And sometimes knock out brains:
By Juno's wrath and hér-spite;
Fair Omphale whipt him to his wheel,
As cooks whip barking turn-spit.
From man, or churn he well knew how
To get him lasting fame:
He'd pound a giant, till the blood,
And milk till butter came.
Often he fought with huge battoon,
And oftentimes he boxed;
Tapt a fresh monster once a month,
As Hervey doth fresh hogshead.
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.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Were put into a cradle:
Their brains with knocks and bottled ale,
Were often-times full addle:
And, scarcely hatch'd, these sons of him,
That hurls the bolt trisulcate,
With helmet-shell on tender head,
Did bustle with red-ey'd pole-cat.
A boxer was, I wist:
The one was fam'd for iron heel;
Th'other for leaden fist.
Pollux to shew he was a god,
When he was in a passion,
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 was fam'd
For breaking down of bridges.
Castor the flame of fiery steed,
With well-spur'd boot took down;
As men, with leathern buckets, do
Quench fire in country town.
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
Employ'd their brisk artillery:
Flew naturally at rogues, as eggs
At Dan De Foe in pillory.
Much sweat they spent in furious fight,
Much blood they did effund:
Their whites they vented thro' the pore;
Their yolks thro' gaping wound:
To make a heavenly sign;
The lads were, like their armour, scowr'd,
And then hung up to shine;
Such were the heavenly double-Dicks,
The sons of Jove and Tindar.
But George he cut the dragon up,
As 't had bin duck or windar.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
For knot upon her shoulder:
She kemb'd her hissing periwig,
And curling snakes did powder.
These snakes they made stiff changelings
Of all the folks they hist on;
They turned barbers into hones,
And masons into free-stone:
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,
And kept the army from-town,
And chang'd the bullies into rocks,
That came t'invade Long-compton .
And Pyrrha's work unravels;
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;
And gave him a bloody flix.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Acquir'd a lasting name,
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
Heroic guts and garbadge.
Legs were secur'd by iron bolts
No more, than peas by peascods:
Brass helmets, with inclosed sculls,
Wou'd crackle in's mouth like chesnuts.
His tawny hairs erected were
By rage, that was resistless;
And wrath, instead of cobler's wax,
Did stiffen his rising bristles.
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,
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,
A coller 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.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The great horse for to ride;
H' was taught by th'Centaur's rational part,
The hinnible to bestride.
Bright silver feet, and shining face
Had this stout hero's mother;
As rapier's silver'd at one end,
And wounds us at the other.
As hawk pursuing sparrow:
Her's had the metal, his the speed
Of Barfoot's silver arrow.
Thetis to double pedagogue
Commits her dearest boy;
Who bred him from a slender twig
To be the scourge of Troy:
But ere he lasht the Trojans, h' was
In Stygian waters steept;
As birch is soaked first in piss,
When boys are to be whipt.
With skin exceeding hard, he rose
From lake, as black and muddy,
As lobsters from the ocean rise,
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.
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,
And sent him down bare-breech'd
To pedant Radamanthus, in
A posture to be switch'd.
As if he had been bewitch'd.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The Carthaginian Hanni-
bal; him I mean, who gave to them
A devilish thump at Cannæ:
Moors thick, as goats on Penmenmure,
Stood on the Alpes's front:
Their one-eyed guide , like blinking mole,
Bor'd thro' the hindring mount:
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
Cast atoms of ill savour
To blinking Hyatt , when on vile crowd
He merriment does endeavour,
And saws from suffering timber out
Some wretched tune to quiver:
So Romans stunk and squeak'd at sight
Of Affrican carnivor:
Did serve instead of vizzard:
But George he made the dragon have
A grumbling in his gizzard.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
It must not be forgotten;
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,
And swarms of volunteers:
The warlike wasp encourag'd 'em,
With animating hum;
And the loud brazen hornet next,
He was their kettle-drum:
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,
As thro' key hole a witch,
And stabb'd him with her little tuck
Drawn out of scabbard breech:
An arm so big and brawny,
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,
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 was his razor.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
XVI. LUCY AND COLIN
—was written by Thomas Tickel, 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. He acquired Mr. Addison's patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond written while he was at the University.
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so fair a face.
Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lip, and damask cheek,
And eyes of glossy blue.
When beating rains descend?
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid;
Her life now near its end.
Take heed, ye easy fair:
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains, beware.
A bell was heard to ring;
And at her window, shrieking thrice,
The raven flap'd his wing.
The solemn boding sound;
And thus, in dying words, bespoke
The virgins weeping round.
“Which says, I must not stay:
“I see a hand, you cannot see,
“Which beckons me away.
“In early youth I die.
“Am I to blame, because his bride
“Is thrice as rich as I?
“Vows due to me alone:
“Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
“Nor think him all thy own.
“Impatient, both prepare;
“But know, fond maid, and know, false man,
“That Lucy will be there.
“The bridegroom blithe to meet;
“He in his wedding-trim so gay,
“I in my winding-sheet.”
The bridegroom blithe to meet;
He in his wedding-trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.
How were those nuptials kept?
The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
At once his bosom swell:
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.
Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod
For ever now remains.
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots
They deck the sacred green.
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.
XVII. 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 pag. 119, 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.
“And all were fast asleep, &c.
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shrowd.
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.
Consum'd her early prime:
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy'd before her time.
“Come from her midnight grave;
“Now let thy pity hear the maid,
“Thy love refus'd to save.
“When injur'd ghosts complain;
“Now yawning graves give up their dead,
“To haunt the faithless swain.
“Thy pledge, and broken oath:
“And give me back my maiden vow,
“And give me back my troth.
“And not that promise keep?
“Why did you swear mine eyes were bright,
“Yet leave those eyes to weep?
“And yet that face forsake?
“How could you win my virgin heart,
“Yet leave that heart to break?
“And made the scarlet pale?
“And why did I, young witless maid,
“Believe the flattering tale?
“These lips no longer red:
“Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
“And every charm is fled.
“This winding-sheet I wear:
“And cold and weary lasts our night,
“Till that last morn appear.
“A long and last adieu!
“Come see, false man, how low she lies,
“Who dy'd for love of you.”
With beams of rosy red:
Pale William shook in ev'ry limb,
And raving left his bed.
Where Margaret's body lay;
And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf,
That wrapt her breathless clay:
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more.
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 “Memoires 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 Memoires) 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 Memoires de l' Acad. des Inscrip. tom. xx. p. 352.
A prince of passing might;
And there maintain'd his table round,
Beset with many a knight.
With mirth and princely cheare,
When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
Before him did appeare.
This boy had him upon,
With brooches, rings, and owches
Full daintily bedone.
About his middle meet;
And thus, with seemely courtesy,
He did king Arthur greet.
“Thus feasting in thy bowre.
“And Guenever thy goodly queen,
“That fair and peerlesse flowre.
“I wish you all take heed,
“Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose
“Should prove a cankred weed.”
A little wand he drew;
And with it eke a mantle
Of wondrous shape, and hew.
“Have thou here of mee,
“And give unto thy comely queen,
“All-shapen as you see.
“That once hath been to blame.”
Then every knight in Arthur's court
Slye glaunced at his dame.
The mantle she must trye.
This dame, she was new-fangled,
And of a roving eye.
And all was with it cladde,
From top to toe it shiver'd down,
As tho' with sheers beshradde.
Another while too short,
And wrinkled on her shoulders
In most unseemly sort.
Then all of sable hue.
“Beshrew me, quoth king Arthur,
“I think thou beest not true.”
Ne longer would not stay;
But storming like a fury,
To her chamber flung away.
That had the mantle wrought:
And doubly curst the froward impe,
Who thither had it brought.
“Beneath the green-wood tree:
“Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
“The sport of them and thee.”
And bade her to come near:
“Yet dame, if thou be guilty,
“I pray thee now forbear.”
With forward step came on,
And boldly to the little boy
With fearless face is gone.
With purpose for to wear:
It shrunk up to her shoulder,
And left her b**side bare.
That was in Arthur's court,
Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
To see that pleasant sport.
No longer bold or gay,
But with a face all pale and wan,
To her chamber slunk away.
A pattering o'er his creed;
And proffer'd to the little boy
Five nobles to his meed:
“Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
“If thou wilt let my lady fair
“Within the mantle shine.”
With step demure, and slow,
And gravely to the mantle
With mincing pace does goe.
That was so fine and thin,
It shrivell'd all about her,
And show'd her dainty skin.
Or his long prayers bestead;
She had no more hung on her,
Than a tassel and a thread.
With terror and dismay,
And, with a face of scarlet,
To her chamber hied away.
And bade her to come neare:
“Come win this mantle, lady,
“And do me credit here.
“For now it shall be thine,
“If thou hast never done amiss,
“Sith first I made thee mine.”
With modest grace came on,
And now to trye the wondrous charm
Courageously is gone.
And put it on her backe,
About the hem it seemed
To wrinkle and to cracke.
“And shame me not for nought,
“I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
“Or blameful I have wrought.
“Beneathe the green-wood tree:
“Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
“Before he married mee.”
And her worst fault had told,
The mantle soon became her
Right comely as it shold.
Like gold it glittering shone:
And much the knights in Arthur's court
Admir'd her every one.
The boy he turn'd his eye:
Where stood a boar's-head garnished
With bayes and rosemarye.
His little wand had drawne,
Quoth he, “There's never a cuckold's knife,
“Can carve this head of brawne.”
On whetstone, and on hone:
Some threwe them under the table,
And swore that they had none.
Of steel and iron made;
And in an instant thro' the skull
He thrust the shining blade.
Full easily and fast:
And every knight in Arthurs court
A morsel had to taste.
All golden was the rim:
Said he, “No cuckolde ever can
“Set mouth unto the brim.
“Lift fairly to his head:
“But or on this, or that side,
“He shall the liquor shed.”
Some shed it on their thigh;
And hee that could not hit his mouth,
Was sure to hit his eye.
Was known of every man:
But Cradock lifted easily,
And wan the golden can.
Were this fair couple's meed:
And all such constant lovers,
God send them well to speed.
And thus could spightful say,
“Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
“Hath borne the price away.
“That makes herselfe so clean:
“Yet from her pillow taken
“Thrice five gallants have been.
“Have her lewd pillow prest:
“Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth
“Must beare from all the rest.”
Who had the same in hold:
“Chastize thy wife, king Arthur,
“Of speech she is too bold:
“Of carriage all too free;
“Sir king, she hath within thy hall
“A cuckold made of thee.
“She hath her carriage borne:
“And given thee for a kingly crown
“To wear a cuckold's horne.”
The learned editor of the Specimens of Welch Poetry, 4to. informs me that the story of 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: Thus Tearne-Wadling (vid. p. 12. note.) is the name of a Lake near Hesketh in Cumberland, on the road from Penrith to Carlisle. A Tradition still prevails in the neighbourhood, that an old Castle once stood at Tearne-Wadling, the remains of which are either now, or were not long since to be seen.
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