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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| II. | BOOK II. |
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| III. |
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| XXI. |
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| XXIV. |
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| III. |
 | Reliques of Ancient English Poetry |  |
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.
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