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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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
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.” Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||