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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III. | BOOK III. |
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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
BOOK III.
I. THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE.
The incidents in this, and the other ballad of St. George and the Dragon, are chiefly taken from the old story-book of the Seven Champions of Christendome; which, tho' now the play-thing of children, was once in high repute. Bp. Hall in his satires, published in 1597, ranks
“St. George's sorell, and his cross of blood”among the most popular stories of his time: and an ingenious critic thinks that Spencer himself did not disdain to borrow hints from it ; tho' I much doubt whether this popular romance were written so early as the Faery Queen.
The author of this book of the Seven Champions was one Richard Johnson, who lived in the reigns of Elizabeth
The Seven Champions, tho' written in a wild inflated style, contains some strong Gothic painting; which seems, for the most art, copied from the metrical romances of former ages. At least the story of St. George and the fair Sabra, is taken almost verbatim from the old poetical legend of “Syr Bevis of Hampton.”
This very antique poem was in great fame in Chaucer's time, [see above pag. 100.] and so continued till the introduction of printing, when it ran thro' several editions; two of which are in black letter, 4to, “imprinted by Wyllyam “Copland” without date; containing great variations.
As a specimen of the poetic powers of this very old rhimist, and as a proof how closely the author of the Seven Champions has followed him, take a description of the dragon slain by sir Bevis.
“—Whan the dragon, that foule is,“He cast up a loude cry,
“As it had thondred in the sky;
“He turned his bely towarde the son;
“It was greater than any tonne:
“His scales was bryghter then the glas,
“And harder they were than any bras:
“Betwene his shulder and his tayle,
“Was forty fote withoute fayle.
“He waltred out of his denne,
“And Bevis pricked his stede then,
“And to hym a spere he thraste
“That all to shyvers he it braste:
“The dragon then gan Bevis assayle,
“And smote syr Bevis with his tayle;
“Then downe went horse and man,
“And two rybbes of Bevis brused than.
After a long fight, at length, as the dragon was preparing to fly, sir Bevis
“As he was in his flyenge,
“There he was tender without scale,
“And Bevis thought to be his bale.
“He smote after, as I you saye,
“With his good sword Morglaye.
“Up to the hiltes Morglay yode
“Through harte, lyver, bone, and bloude:
“To the ground fell the dragon,
“Great joye syr Bevis begon.
“Under the scales al on hight
“He smote off his head forth right,
“And put it on a spere: &c.
Sign. K. iv.
Sir Bevis's dragon is evidently the parent of that in the Seven Champions, see Chap. III. viz. “The dragon no sooner had a sight of him [St. George] but he gave such a terrible peal, as though it had thundered in the elements. . . . . Betwixt his shoulders and his tail were fifty feet in distance, his scales glistering as bright as silver, but far more hard than brass; his belly of the colour of gold, but bigger than a tun. Thus weltered he from his den, &c. . . . . The champion . . . gave the dragon such a thrust with his spear, that it shivered in a thousand pieces: whereat the furious dragon so fiercely smote him with his venomous tail, that down fell man and horse; in which fall two of St. Georges ribs were sore bruised, &c.—At length . . . St. George smote the dragon under the wing where it was tender without scale, whereby his good sword Ascalon with an easie passage went to the very hilt through both the dragon's heart, liver, bone and blood—Then St. George—cut off the dragon's head and pitcht it upon the truncheon of a spear, &c.”
The History of the Seven Champions being written just before the decline of books of chivalry was never, I believe, translated into any foreign language: But “Le Roman de Beuves of Hantonne,” was published at Paris in 1502, 4to. Let. Gothique.
The learned Selden tells us that about the time of the Norman invasion was Bevis famous with the title of Earl of Southampton, whose residence was at Dunction in Wiltshire; but observes that the monkish enlargements of his story, have made his very existence doubted. See Notes on Poly-Olbion, Song III.
As for the martial History of St. George, it is given up as entirely apocryphal. The equestrian figure, worn by the knights of the garter, has been understood to be an emblem of the christian warrior, in his spiritual armour, vanquishing the old serpent. But a learned writer has lately shewn that it is neither more nor less, than a charm or amulet borrowed from some eastern heretics; which having been originally worn as a protection from the malignity of the air, at length was considered as a preservative from wounds, and a means to insure victory in battle. For it seems the ancient orientals represented the sun by a man on horseback; the sun's rays by a spear; and any noxious exhalation by a serpent.
It cannot be denied, but that a great part of the following ballad is modern: for which reason it would have been thrown to the end of the volume, had not its subject procured it a place here.
I sing the wonderous birth
Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm
Rid monsters from the earth:
He travell'd many a day;
In honour of the christian faith,
Which shall endure for aye.
A knight of worthy fame,
Lord Albret was his name.
Whose beauty did excell.
This virtuous lady, being with child,
In sudden sadness fell:
Had clos'd her wakeful eyes,
But, lo! a foul and fearful dreame
Her fancy did surprize:
Conceiv'd within her womb;
Whose mortal fangs her body rent
Ere he to life could come.
She nourisht constant woe:
Yet strove to hide it from her lord,
Lest he should sorrow know.
Who watch'd her slightest look,
Discover'd soon her secret paine,
And soon that paine partook.
She weeping did impart,
The anguish of her heart.
Those pearly drops refraine;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll try to ease thy paine.
That causeth all thy woe,
Trust me I'll travel far away
But I'll the meaning knowe.
And shedding many a teare,
To the weïrd lady of the woods
He purpos'd to repaire.
Full long and many a daye,
Thro' lonely shades, and thickets rough
He winds his weary waye.
With dismal yews o'erhung;
Where cypress spred it's mournful boughes,
And pois'nous nightshade sprung.
He hears no chearful sound;
And serpents hiss around.
Ran howling thro' his eare:
A chilling horror froze his heart,
Tho' all unus'd to feare.
And pierce those sickly dewes:
Three times to bear his trembling corse
His knocking knees refuse.
He signs the holy crosse;
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th'unhallow'd mosse.
All vaulted like a grave,
And opening in the solid rocke,
He found the inchanted cave.
All hideous and forlorne;
And, fasten'd by a silver chaine,
Near hung a brazen horne.
Three times he blowes amaine:
Did answer him againe.
“Who, like a dragon bright,
“Shall prove most dreadful to his foes,
“And terrible in fight.
“On banners shall be worne:
“But lo! thy lady's life must passe
“Before he can be borne.”
Long time lord Albret stood;
At length he winds his doubtful waye
Back thro' the dreary wood.
Then fast he travels backe:
But when he reach'd his castle gate,
His gate was hung with blacke.
A sullen silence reigne;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maidens' plaine;
With many a grievous grone:
His lady's life was gone.
Yet half affraid to goe;
With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.
They said, then stopt to weepe:
“Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare
“In death's eternal sleepe.
“So sore that she must dye;
“Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
“Could ease her presentlye.
“Too soon declared hee,
“She, or her babe must lose its life;
“Both saved could not bee.
“My little infant save:
“And O commend me to my lord,
“When I am laid in grave.
“Cost him a tender wife:
“Who died to save his life.
“And praying still for thee;
“Without repining or complaint,
“Her gentle soul did flee.”
The bitter tears he shed,
The bitter pangs that wrung his heart,
To find his lady dead?
And shedding many a teare,
At length he askt to see his son;
The son that cost so deare.
At length they faultering saye;
“Alas! my lord, how shall we tell?
“Thy son is stoln awaye.
“Such was his infant mien:
“And on his little body stampt
“Three wonderous marks were seen:
“A dragon on his breast:
“Was round his leg exprest.
“Our little lord to keepe:
“One gave him sucke, one gave him food,
“And one did lull to sleepe.
“We heard a fearful sound:
“Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook;
“And lightning flasht around.
“But rousing up anon,
“We ran to see our little lord:
“Our little lord was gone!
“For lying on the ground,
“In deep and magic slumbers laid,
“The nurses there we found.”
No more his tongue cou'd say,
When falling in a deadly swoone,
Long time he lifeless lay.
He nourisht endless woe,
No future comfort knowe.
A fair and stately oake,
Whose vigorous arms are torne away,
By some rude thunder-stroke.
He loathes his wonted home;
His native country he forsakes
In foreign lands to roame.
Clad in a palmer's gowne;
Till his brown locks grew white as wool,
His beard as thistle downe.
He laid his reverend head.
Meantime amid the lonely wilds
His little son was bred.
Had borne him far away,
And train'd him up in feates of armes,
And every martial play.
II. ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.
The following ballad is given (with some corrections) from two ancient black-letter copies in the Pepys Collection: one of which is in 12 mo, the other in folio.
And of the sack of stately Troy,
What griefs fair Helena did bring,
Which was sir Paris' only joy:
And by my pen I will recite
St. George's deeds, an English knight.
Fought he full long and many a day;
Where many gyants he subdu'd,
In honour of the christian way:
And after many adventures past
To Egypt land he came at last.
Within that countrey there did rest
A dreadful dragon fierce and fell,
Whereby they were full sore opprest:
Who by his poisonous breath each day,
Did many of the city slay.
Throughout the limits of the land,
That they their wise-men did intreat
To shew their cunning out of hand;
What way they might this fiend destroy,
That did the countrey thus annoy.
This answer fram'd incontinent;
The dragon none to death might bring
By any means they could invent:
His skin more hard than brass was found,
That sword nor spear could pierce nor wound.
They cryed out most piteouslye,
The dragon's breath infects their blood,
That every day in heaps they dye:
Among them such a plague it bred,
The living scarce could bury the dead.
For to appease the dragon's rage,
But to present some virgin clear,
Whose blood his fury might asswage;
Each day he would a maiden eat,
For to allay his hunger great.
Which truly must observed be;
Wherefore throughout the city round
A virgin pure of good degree
Was by the kings commission still
Taken up to serve the dragon's will.
Untimely crop some virgin flowr,
Till all the maids were worn away,
And none were left him to devour:
Saving the king's fair daughter bright,
Her father's only heart's delight.
That heavy message to declare,
Which did his heart with sorrow sting;
She is, quoth he, my kingdom's heir:
O let us all be poisoned here,
Ere she should die, that is my dear.
And to the king in rage they went;
They said his daughter deare should dye,
The dragon's fury to prevent:
Our daughters all are dead, quoth they,
And have been made the dragons prey:
And thou hast sav'd thy life thereby;
And now in sooth it is but faire,
For us thy daughter so should die.
O save my daughter, said the king;
And let me feel the dragon's sting.
And to her father dear did say,
O father, strive not thus for me,
But let me be the dragon's prey;
It may be, for my sake alone
This plague upon the land was thrown.
Than all your subjects perish quite;
Perhaps the dragon here was laid,
For my offence to work his spite:
And after he hath suckt my gore,
Your land shall feel the grief no more.
For to deserve this heavy scourge?
It is my fault, as may appear,
Which makes the gods our state to purge;
Then ought I die, to stint the strife,
And to preserve thy happy life.
Thy death to us can do no good;
Our safety only doth abide
In making her the dragon's food.
Lo! here I am, I come, quoth she,
Therefore do what you will with me.
And as thou art a virgin bright,
That hast for vertue famous been,
So let me cloath thee all in white;
And crown thy head with flowers sweet,
An ornament for virgins meet.
According to her mother's mind,
Unto the stake then did she go;
To which her tender limbs they bind:
And being bound to stake a thrall
She bade farewell unto them all.
And my sweet mother meek and mild;
Take you no thought nor weep for me,
For you may have another child:
Since for my country's good I dye,
Death I receive most willinglye.
With weeping eyes went then their way,
And let their daughter there remain,
To be the hungry dragon's prey:
But as she did there weeping lye,
Behold St. George came riding by.
So rudely tyed unto a stake,
As well became a valiant knight,
He straight to her his way did take:
Tell me, sweet maiden, then quoth he,
What caitif thus abuseth thee?
Which here is figured on my breast,
I will revenge it on his brow,
And break my lance upon his chest:
And speaking thus whereas he stood,
The dragon issued from the wood.
The dreadful dragon coming so,
Unto St. George aloud did cry,
And willed him away to go;
Here comes that cursed fiend, quoth she,
That soon will make an end of me.
The fiery dragon soon espy'd,
And like a knight of courage stout,
Against him did most fiercely ride;
And with such blows he did him greet,
He fell beneath his horse's feet.
As he came gaping in his face,
In at his mouth he thrust along,
For he could pierce no other place:
And thus within the lady's view
This mighty dragon straight he slew.
Could do this holy knight no harm.
Thus he the lady sav'd from death,
And home he led her by the arm;
Which when king Ptolemy did see,
There was great mirth and melody.
Had slain the dragon in the field,
To court he brought the lady fair
Which to their hearts much joy did yield.
He in the court of Egypt staid
Till he most falsely was betray'd.
He counted her his only joy;
But when their love was brought to light
It turn'd unto their great annoy:
Th'Morocco king was in the court,
Who to the orchard did resort:
For pleasure sake he us'd to walk,
Under a wall he oft did hear
St. George with lady Sabra talk:
Their love he shew'd unto the king,
Which to St. George great woe did bring.
To make the christian knight away,
With letters him in curteous wise
They straightway sent to Persia:
But wrote to th'sophy him to kill,
And treacherously his blood to spill.
With evil, and most subtilly
By much vile meanes they had regard
To work his death most cruelly;
Who, as through Persia land he rode,
With zeal destroy'd each idol god.
Into a dungeon dark and deep;
Where, when he thought his wrongs upon,
He bitterly did wail and weep:
Yet like a knight of courage stout,
At length his way he digged out.
By night this valiant champion slew,
Though he had fasted many a day;
And then away from thence he flew
On the best steed the sophy had;
Which when he knew he was full mad.
But met a gyant by the way,
With whom in combat he did fight
Most valiantly a summer's day:
Who yet, for all his bats of steel,
Was forc'd the sting of death to feel.
Of warlike souldiers soon he past,
Vowing upon those heathen lands
To work revenge; which at the last,
Ere thrice three years were gone and spent,
He wrought unto his heart's content.
For Sabra bright her only sake,
And, ere for her he had regard,
He meant a tryal kind to make:
Mean while the king o'ercome in field
Unto saint George did quickly yield.
And took fair Sabra to his wife,
But meant to try if she were true
Ere with her he would lead his life:
And, tho' he had her in his train,
She did a virgin pure remain.
The brave St. George conducted strait,
An eunuch also with them came,
Who did upon the lady wait;
These three from Egypt went alone.
Now mark St. George's valour shown.
The lady did desire to rest;
Mean while St. George to kill a deer,
For their repast did think it best:
Leaving her with the eunuch there,
Whilst he did go to kill the deer.
Two hungry lyons fierce and fell,
And tore the eunuch on the same
In pieces small, the truth to tell;
Down by the lady then they laid,
Whereby they shew'd, she was a maid.
And did behold this heavy chance,
Then for his lovely virgin's sake
His courage strait he did advance,
And came into the lions sight,
Who ran at him with all their might.
Who, like a stout and valiant knight,
Did both the hungry lyons slay
Within the lady Sabra's sight:
Who all this while sad and demure,
There stood most like a virgin pure.
This lady was a virgin true,
His heart was glad, that erst was woe,
And all his love did soon renew:
He set her on a palfrey steed,
And towards England came with speed.
Unto his native dwelling place;
Therein with his dear love he liv'd,
And fortune did his nuptials grace:
They many years of joy did see,
And led their lives at Coventry.
III. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.
And over the waves;
Under the fountains,
And under the graves;
Over floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
For the glow-worm to lye;
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Lest herself fast she lay;
If love come, he will enter,
And soon find out his way.
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;
But if she, whom love doth honour,
Be conceal'd from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
By having him confin'd;
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may,
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The phenix of the east;
The lioness, ye may move her
To give o'er her prey;
But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
He will find out his way.
IV. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET,
A Scottish Ballad
—seems to be composed (not without improvements) out of two ancient English ones, printed in the former part of this volume. See book I. ballad XV. and book II. ballad IV.—If this had been the original, the authors of these two ballads would hardly have adopted two such different stories: besides, this contains enlargements not to be found in either of the others. It is given with some corrections, from a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland.
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.
Fair Annet took it ill:
A'! I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friends will.
A wife wull neir wed yee.
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee:
A gude rede gie to mee:
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
And let faire Annet bee?
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty fair Annet haes,
O it wull soon be gane!
Now brother rede ye mee;
A' fall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let fair Annet bee?
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast fair Annet bye.
And her kye into the byre;
And I sall hae nothing to my sell,
Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.
Now sister rede ye mee;
O fall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And set fair Annet free?
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh and say, Alace!
What is this we brought hame?
And marrie me owt o' hand;
And I will tak the nut-browne bride;
Fair Annet may leive the land.
Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane into the bower,
Wherein fair Annet lay.
Put on your silken sheene;
Let us gae to St. Maries kirke,
And see that rich weddeen.
And dress to me my hair;
Whair-eir yee laid a plait before,
See yee lay ten times mair.
And dress to me my smock;
The one half is o' the holland fine,
The other o' needle-work.
He amblit like the wind,
Wi' siller he was shod before,
Wi' burning gowd behind.
Wer a' tyed till his mane,
And yae tift o' the norland wind,
They tinkled ane by ane.
Rade by fair Annets side,
And four and twanty fair ladies,
As gin she had bin a bride.
She sat on Maries stean;
The cleading that fair Annet had on
It skinkled in their een.
She shimmer'd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist,
Was a' wi' pearles bedone.
And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
Whan fair Annet she drew.
And he gae it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
Laid it on fair Annets knee.
She spak wi' meikle spite;
And whair gat ye that rose-water,
That does mak yee sae white?
Whair ye wull neir get nane,
For I did get that very rose-water
Into my mithers wame.
Frae out her gay head gear,
And strake fair Annet unto the heart,
That word she nevir spak mair.
And marvelit what mote bee:
But whan he saw her dear hearts blude,
A' wood-wroth wexed hee.
That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave it into the nut-browne bride,
That fell deid at his feit.
Now stay, my dear, he cry'd;
Than strake the dagger untill his heart,
And fell deid by her side.
Fair Annet within the quiere;
And o' the tane thair grew a birk,
The other a bonny briere.
As they was faine be neare;
And by this ye may ken right weil,
They were twa luvers deare.
V. UNFADING BEAUTY.
This little beautiful sonnet is reprinted from a small volume of “Poems by Thomas Carew, Esq; one of the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and fewer in ordinary to his majesty (Charles I). Lond. 1640.” This elegant, and almost-forgotten writer, whose poems deserve to be revived, died in the prime of his age, in 1639.
In the original follows a third stanza, which not being of general application, nor of equal merit, I have ventured to omit.
Or a corall lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seeke
Fuell to maintaine his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
Gentle thoughts, and calme desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd
Kindle never-dying fires:
Where these are not I despise
Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes.
VI. GEORGE BARNWELL.
The subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. This was written by George Lillo a jeweller of London, and first acted about 1730.—As for the ballad, it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century.
It is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of Roman and black letter. It is also collated with another copy in the Ashmole collection at Oxford, which is thus intitled, “An excellent ballad of George Barnwell, an apprentice of London, who . . . thrice robbed his master and murdered his vncle in Ludlow. The tune is “The Merchant.”
This tragical narrative seems to relate a real fact; but when it happened I have not been able to discover.
The First Part.
That dwell both far and near,
Regard my story that I tell,
And to my song give ear.
A merchant's prentice bound;
My name George Barnwell; that did spend
My master many a pound.
And their enticing trains;
For by that means I have been brought
To hang alive in chains.
Was walking through the street
About my master's business,
A wanton I did meet.
And sumptuous in attire;
With smiling look she greeted me,
And did my name require.
She gave me then a kiss,
And said, if I would come to her,
I should have more than this.
If I the place may know,
This evening I will be with you,
For I abroad must go
That are my master's due:
And ere that I do home return,
I'll come and visit you.
Do thou to Shoreditch come,
And ask for Mrs. Millwood's house,
Next door unto the Gun.
If thou keep touch with me,
My dearest friend, as my own heart
Thou shalt right welcome be.
And home I passed right;
Then went abroad, and gathered in,
By six o'clock at night,
With bag under my arm
I went to Mrs. Millwood's house,
And thought on little harm;
Straightway herself came down;
Rustling in most brave attire,
With hood and silken gown.
So gloriously did shine,
That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes,
She seemed so divine.
And with a modest grace,
Welcome, sweet Barnwell, then quoth she,
Unto this homely place.
As good as thy word to be;
A homely supper, ere we part,
Thou shalt take here with me.
Fair mistress, I you pray;
For why, out of my master's house,
So long I dare not stay.
Are you so strictly ty'd,
You may not with your dearest friend
One hour or two abide?
If it be so, quoth she;
I would I were a prentice bound,
To live along with thee:
List well what I shall say,
And do not blame a woman much,
Her fancy to bewray.
Be counted lewd desire,
Nor think it not immodesty,
I should thy love require.
And with a blushing red,
A mournful motion she bewray'd
By hanging down her head.
All wrought with silk and gold:
Which she to stay her trickling tears
Before her eyes did hold.
Was wondrous rare and strange;
And in my soul and inward thought,
It wrought a sudden change:
To take her by the hand:
Saying, Sweet mistress, why do you
So dull and pensive stand?
But Sarah, thy true friend,
Thy servant, Millwood, honouring thee,
Until her life hath end.
Thou art in years a boy;
So was Adonis, yet was he
Fair Venus' only joy.
Of woman found such grace,
But seeing now so fair a dame
Give me a kind embrace,
With joys that did abound;
And for the same paid presently,
In money twice three pound.
For my farewel she gave;
Crying, Sweet Barnwell, when shall I
Again thy company have?
Sweet George, have me in mind.
Her words bewitcht my childishness,
She uttered them so kind:
Next Sunday without fail,
With my sweet Sarah once again,
To tell some pleasant tale.
The tears fell from her eye;
O George, quoth she, if thou dost fail,
Thy Sarah sure will dye.
The appointed day was come,
That I must with my Sarah meet;
Having a mighty sum
Unto her house went I,
Whereas my love upon her bed
In saddest sort did lye.
My Sarah dear? quoth I;
Let not my love lament and grieve,
Nor sighing pine, and die.
What may thy woes amend,
And thou shalt lack no means of help,
Though forty pound I spend.
And sickly thus did say,
Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great,
Ten pound I have to pay
And God he knows, quoth she,
I have it not. Tush, rise, I said,
And take it here of me.
Shall make my love decay.
Then from my bag into her lap,
I cast ten pound straightway.
To banqueting we go;
She proffered me to lye with her,
And said it should be so.
I gave her store of coyn,
Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once;
All which I did purloyn.
Until my master then
Did call to have his reckoning in
Cast up among his men.
I knew not what to say:
For well I knew that I was out
Two hundred pound that day.
I ran in secret sort;
And unto Sarah Millwood there
My case I did report.
In this his care and woe,
And all a strumpet's wiley ways,
The second part may showe.
The Second Part.
Sweet Sarah, my delight;
I am undone unless thou stand
My faithful friend this night.
Hath just occasion found;
And I am caught behind the hand,
Above two hundred pound:
My love, I fly to thee,
Hoping some time I may remaine
In safety here with thee.
And looking all aquoy,
Quoth she, What should I have to do
With any prentice boy?
Your master's goods away,
The case is bad, and therefore here
You shall no longer stay.
How all which I could get,
I gave it, and did spend it all
Upon thee every whit.
To charge me in this sort,
Being a woman of credit fair,
And known of good report.
Be packing with good speed,
I do defie thee from my heart,
And scorn thy filthy deed.
You did to me protest?
Is this the great affection which
You so to me exprest?
The best is, I may speed
To get a lodging any where
For money in my need.
Whilst twenty pound doth last,
My anchor in some other haven
With freedom I will cast.
I had store of money there:
Stay, George, quoth she, thou art too quick:
Why, man, I did but jeer:
That I would let thee go?
Faith no, said she, my love to thee
I wiss is more than so.
I heard you just now swear,
Wherefore I will not trouble you.—
—Nay, George, hark in thine ear;
What chance soe're befall:
But man we'll have a bed for thee,
Or else the devil take all.
And snar'd with fancy still,
Had then no power to ‘get’ away,
Or to withstand her will.
And cheer upon good cheer;
And nothing in the world I thought
For Sarah's love too dear.
I had such merriment;
All, all too little I did think,
That I upon her spent.
When all my gold is gone,
In faith, my girl, we will have more,
Whoever I light upon.
Should I want store of gold?
Nay with a father sure, quoth she,
A son may well make bold.
I'll rob her ere I'll want.
Nay, then quoth Sarah, they may well
Consider of your scant.
At Ludlow he doth dwell:
He is a grazier, which in wealth
Doth all the rest excell.
And have no coyn for thee;
I'll rob his house, and murder him.
Why should you not? quoth she:
Would live in poor estate;
On father, friends, and all my kin,
I would my talons grate.
A man is but a beast:
But bringing money, thou shalt be
Always my welcome guest.
With twenty hues and cryes,
And with a warrant searched for
With Argus' hundred eyes,
Such privy ways there be,
That if they sought an hundred years,
They could not find out thee.
Their pleasures to content:
George Barnwell had in little space
His money wholly spent.
He did provide to go,
To rob his wealthy uncle there;
His minion would it so.
His father by the way,
But that he fear'd his master had
Took order for his stay.
He rode with might and main,
Who with a welcome and good cheer
Did Barnwell entertain.
Until it chanced so,
His uncle with his cattle did
Unto a market go.
Where he did see right plain,
Great store of money he had took:
When coming home again,
He struck his uncle down,
And beat his brains out of his head;
So sore he crackt his crown.
To London straight he hyed,
And unto Sarah Millwood all
The cruell fact descryed.
So we the money have
To have good cheer in jolly sort,
And deck us fine and brave.
Until their store was gone:
When means to get them any more,
I wis, poor George had none.
She thrust him out of door:
Which is the just reward of those,
Who spend upon a whore.
In this my need, quoth he.
She call'd him thief and murderer,
With all the spight might be:
To have him apprehended;
And shewed how far, in each degree,
He had the laws offended.
To sea he got straightway;
Where fear and sting of conscience
Continually on him lay.
He did a letter write;
In which his own and Sarah's fault
He did at large recite.
And then to Ludlow sent:
Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd,
For murder incontinent.
Such was her greatest gains:
For murder in Polonia,
Was Barnwell hang'd in chains.
That after harlots haunt;
Who in the spoil of other men,
About the streets do flaunt.
VII. THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD.
These beautiful Stanzas were written by George Wither, of whom some account was given in the former part of this Volume; see the song intitled, The Shepherds Resolution, p. 190. In our first Edition only a small Fragment of this Sonnet had been recovered, but we are now able to give it more perfect and intire by the insertion of five additional Stanzas: These are extracted from Wither's Pastoral Poem, The Mistress of Philarete; of which this Song makes a part. There were two or three other Stanzas, but as they appeared to be of inferior merit, were not adopted.
And unclaspe your wanton armes;
Sugred words shall ne'er deceive me,
(Though ‘you’ prove a thousand charmes).
Fie, fie, forbeare;
No common snare
Could ever my affection chaine:
Your painted baits,
And poore deceits,
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
Neither shall a snowy brest,
Wanton eye, or lip of ruby
Ever robb me of my rest:
Goe, goe, display
Your beautie's ray
To some ore-soone enamour'd swaine:
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
Turne away ‘your’ tempting eyes:
Shew not me a naked beautie;
Those impostures I despise:
My spirit lothes
Where gawdy clothes
And fained othes may love obtaine:
I love her so,
Whose looke sweares No;
That all your labours will be vaine.
Which on every brest are worne;
That may plucke the spotlesse roses
From their never-touched thorne?
I can goe rest
On her sweet brest,
Then hold your tongues;
Your mermaid songs
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.
Where each peasant mates with him:
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,
Whilst ther's noble hils to climbe?
No, no, though clownes
Are skar'd with frownes,
I know the best can but disdaine;
And those Ile prove:
So shall your love
Be all bestowed on me in vaine.
Where each lustfull lad may wooe:
Give me her, whose sun-like beautie
Buzzards dare not soare unto:
Shee, shee it is
Affoords that blisse
For which I would refuse no paine:
But such as you,
Fond fooles, adieu;
You seeke to captive me in vaine.
Seeke no more to worke my harmes:
Craftie wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proofe against your charmes:
To lead astray
The heart, that constant shall remaine:
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vaine.
VIII. THE SPANISH VIRGIN, OR EFFECTS OF JEALOUSY.
The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, intitled “The theatre of God's judgments, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor, 1642. Pt. 2. p. 89.—The text is given (with some corrections) from two copies; one of them in black letter in the Pepys collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden,
“Depart from hence, and therein dwell.”
Of those that suffer wrong;
All you, that never shed a tear,
Give heed unto my song.
My tale doth far exceed:
Alas! that so much cruelty
In female hearts should breed!
Who was of high degree;
Whose wayward temper did create
Much woe and misery.
With many a vain surmize,
She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed,
And did her love despise.
Did on this lady wait;
With bravest dames she might compare;
Her beauty was compleat.
Upon this gentle maid;
And taxt her with disloyaltye;
And did her oft upbraid.
Her bitter taunts would bear,
While oft adown her lovely cheek
Would steal the falling tear.
Her fury to disarm;
As well the meekness of the dove
The bloody hawke might charm.
And innocent the while,
As oft as she came in his way,
Would on the damsell smile.
As thinking her her friend,
He would the maiden's modest grace
And comeliness commend.
She burnt with wrath extreame;
At length the fire that long did glow,
Burst forth into a flame.
When he was gone from home,
The lady all with rage did swell,
And to the damsell come.
And many a grievous fault;
She bade her servants drag her thence,
Into a dismal vault,
A dungeon dark and deep:
Where they were wont, in days of yore,
Offenders great to keep.
Dispers'd the hideous gloom;
But dank and noisome vapours play
Around the wretched room:
As afterwards was known,
Long in this loathsome vault had bin,
And were to monsters grown.
The fair one innocent
Was cast, before her lady's face;
Her malice to content.
But strait, alas! she hears
The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss:
Then grievously she fears.
And fiercely her assail:
Which makes the damsel sorely weep,
And her sad fate bewail.
Her body to defend:
With shrieks and cries she doth complain,
But all is to no end.
Struck with her doleful noise,
Strait ran his lady to implore;
But she'll not hear his voice.
To mark the maiden's groans;
And plainly hears, within the den,
How she herself bemoans.
With all the haste he may:
She into furious passion flies,
And orders him away.
To hear her tender cries;
The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn;
Which fill'd him with surprize.
He listens at the walls;
But finding all was silent quite,
He to his lady calls.
Your cruelty hath sped:
Make hast, for shame, and come and see;
I fear the virgin's dead.
And does with torches run:
But all her haste was now too late,
For death his worst had done.
The virgin stretch'd along:
Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round,
Which her to death had stung.
Had twin'd his fatal wreath:
The other close her neck embrac'd,
And stopt her gentle breath.
Their bellies were so fill'd,
That with excess of blood they burst,
Thus with their prey were kill'd.
With horror strait ran mad;
So raving dy'd as was most right,
Cause she no pity had.
Of jealousy beware:
It causeth many a one to fall,
And is the devil's snare.
IX. JEALOUSY TYRANT OF THE MIND.
As love that warms the gentle brest?
Two souls in one; the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require:
If in this heaven a hell we find,
Tis all from thee,
O Jealousie!
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
Serve to refine and perfect love:
In absence, or unkind disdaine,
Sweet hope relieves the lovers paine:
But, oh, no cure but death we find
To sett us free
From jealousie,
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
Some sett too near, and some too farre:
Thou art the fire of endless night,
The fire that burns, and gives no light.
In only thee,
O Jealousie;
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.
X. CONSTANT PENELOPE.
The ladies are indebted for the following notable documents to the Pepys collection, where the original is preserved in black-letter, and is intitled, “A looking-glass for ladies, or a mirrour for married women. Tune Queen Dido, or Troy town.”
And lords in armour bright were seen;
When many a gallant lost his life
About fair Hellen, beauties queen;
Ulysses, general so free,
Did leave his dear Penelope.
That he would to the warrs of Troy;
For grief she shed full many a tear,
At parting from her only joy;
Her ladies all about her came,
To comfort up this Grecian dame.
Unto her then did mildly say,
The time is come that we must part;
My honour calls me hence away;
Yet in my absence, dearest, be
My constant wife, Penelope.
Then to my lord I true remain;
My honour shall not be betray'd
Until I see my love again;
For I will ever constant prove,
As is the loyal turtle-dove.
And to the ships his way he took;
Her tender eyes dropt many a tear;
Still casting many a longing look:
She saw him on the surges glide,
And unto Neptune thus she cry'd:
And rulest in the ocean main,
My loving lord in safety keep
Till he return to me again:
That I his person may behold,
To me more precious far than gold.
Were all convey'd out of her sight:
Her cruel fate she then bewails,
Since she had lost her hearts delight:
Now shall my practice be, quoth she,
True vertue and humility.
My charity I will extend;
Since for my woe there is no cure,
The helpless now I will befriend:
The widow and the fatherless
I will relieve, when in distress.
In doing good to every one;
Her fame was noised every where,
To young and old the same was known;
No company that she would mind,
Who were to vanity inclin'd.
'Mongst Trojans hazarding his life:
Young gallants, hearing of her name,
Came flocking for to tempt his wife:
For she was lovely, young, and fair,
No lady might with her compare.
They did endeavour her to win;
With banquets and the choicest wine,
For to allure her unto sin:
Most persons were of high degree,
Who courted fair Penelope.
Their wanton suits she did denye;
No tempting charms could e'er deface
Her dearest husband's memorye;
But constant she would still remain,
Hopeing to see him once again.
And that she often did peruse;
She seldom looked in her glass;
Powder and paint she ne'er would use,
I wish all ladies were as free
From pride, as was Penelope.
And likewise in her spinning-wheel;
Her maids about her every night
Did use the distaff, and the reel:
The spiders, that on rafters twine,
Scarce spin a thread more soft and fine.
And absence of her dearest love:
Sometimes she thought the seas to cross,
Her fortune on the waves to prove:
I fear my lord is slain, quoth she,
He stays so from Penelope.
Did end; in flames the city burn'd;
And to the Grecians was great joy,
To see the towers to ashes turn'd:
Then came Ulysses home to see
His constant, dear, Penelope.
When she her lord again had seen.
Thrice-welcome home, my dear, she said,
A long time absent thou hast been:
The wars shall never more deprive
Me of my lord whilst I'me alive.
And hence a worthy lesson learn,
All youthful follies to forsake,
And vice from virtue to discern:
And let all women strive to be,
As constant as Penelope.
XI. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.
By Col. Richard Lovelace: from the volume of his poems intitled, “Lucasta, Lond. 1649.” 12mo. The elegance of this writer's manner would be more admired, if it had somewhat more of simplicity.
That from the nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flie.
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.
XII. VALENTINE AND URSINE.
It would be in vain to put off this ballad for ancient, nor yet is it altogether modern. The original is an old MS poem in the Editor's possession; which being in a wretched corrupt state, the subject was thought worthy of some embellishments.
The old story-book of Valentine and Orson (which suggested the plan of this tale, but it is not strictly followed in it) was originally a translation from the French, being one of their earliest attempts at romance.
The circumstance of the bridge of bells is taken from the old metrical legend of Sir Bevis, and has also been copied in the Seven Champions. The original lines are,
“That man and beest might passe away:
“Under the brydge were sixty belles;
“Right as the Romans telles;
“That there might no man passe in,
“But all they rang with a gyn.”
Sign. E. iv.
Part the First.
With colours fresh and fine,
Then holy clerkes their mattins sing
To good Saint Valentine!
He would a hunting ride:
To Artois forest prancing forth
In all his princely pride.
Of gallant peers attend;
And with their loud and cheerful cryes
The hills and valleys rend.
Through woods and thickets wild;
When down within a lonely dell
They found a new-born child:
Of silk so fine and thin:
A golden mantle wrapt him round
Pinn'd with a silver pin.
The courtiers gather'd round;
They look, they call, the mother seek;
No mother could be found.
And as he gazing stands,
The pretty babe look'd up and smil'd,
And stretch'd his little hands.
This child is passing fair:
I wot he is of gentle blood;
Perhaps some prince's heir.
With all the care ye may:
Let him be christen'd Valentine,
In honour of this day:
Well nurtur'd let him bee;
Nor ought be wanting that becomes
A bairn of high degree.
And nurtur'd well was hee;
Nor ought was wanting that became
A bairn of high degree.
Belov'd of king and peers;
And shew'd in all he spake or did
A wit beyond his years.
He did himself advance,
That ere he grewe to man's estate
He had no peere in France.
To shade his youthful chin;
When Valentine was dubb'd a knight,
That he might glory win.
I beg a boon of thee!
The first adventure, that befalls,
May be reserv'd for mee.
The king did smiling say.
Nor many days, when lo! there came
Three palmers clad in graye.
And knelt as it was meet:
From Artoys forest we be come,
With weak and wearye feet.
There wends a savage boy;
Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield
Thy subjects dire annoy.
He lurks within their den:
With beares he lives; with beares he feeds,
And drinks the blood of men.
A more than human skill:
For arms, ne cunning may suffice
His cruel rage to still.
And claim'd that arduous deed.
Go forth and conquer, say'd the king,
And great shall be thy meed.
His armour white as snow;
As well beseem'd a virgin knight,
Who ne'er had fought a foe:
With all the haste he may;
And soon he spies the savage youth
A rending of his prey.
His shaggy shoulders round:
His eager eye all fiery glow'd:
His face with fury frown'd.
His limbs were thick and strong;
And dreadful was the knotted oak
He bare with him along.
He starts with sudden spring;
And yelling forth a hideous howl,
He made the forests ring.
Hath spyed a passing roe,
And leaps at once upon his throat;
So sprung the savage foe;
The gentle knight to seize:
But met his tall uplifted spear,
Which sunk him on his knees.
Had laid the savage low;
But springing up, he rais'd his club,
And aim'd a dreadful blow.
And shun'd the coming stroke;
Upon his taper spear it fell,
And all to shivers broke.
He drew his burnisht brand:
The savage quick as lightning flew
To wrest it from his hand.
Three times he felt the blade;
Three times it fell with furious force;
Three ghastly wounds it made.
His eye-ball flash'd with fire;
Each hairy limb with fury shook;
And all his heart was ire.
He clasp'd the champion round,
And with a strong and sudden twist
He laid him on the ground.
O'erturn'd his hairy foe:
And now between their sturdy fists
Past many a bruising blow.
And there they struggled long:
Skilful and active was the knight;
The savage he was strong.
To art and skill must yield:
Sir Valentine at length prevail'd,
And won the well-fought field.
Fast with an iron chain,
He tyes him to his horse's tail,
And leads him o'er the plain.
Sir Valentine doth bring;
And kneeling downe upon his knee,
Presents him to the king.
The savage tamer grew;
And to sir Valentine became
A servant try'd and true.
Ursine they call his name;
A name which unto future times
The Muses shall proclame.
Part the Second.
Now liv'd sir Valentine:
His high renown with prince and peere
Made envious hearts repine.
Prepar'd a sumptuous feast;
And there came lords, and dainty dames,
And many a noble guest.
Their revelry, and mirth;
A youthful knight tax'd Valentine
Of base and doubtful birth.
His generous heart did wound:
And strait he vow'd he ne'er would rest
Till he his parents found.
Early one summer's day,
With faithful Ursine by his side,
From court he takes his way.
For many a day they pass;
At length upon a moated lake,
They found a bridge of brass.
Y-built of marble stone:
The battlements were gilt with gold,
And glittred in the sun.
A hundred bells were hung;
That man, nor beast, might pass thereon,
But strait their larum rung.
Who boldly crossing o'er,
The jangling sound bedeast their ears,
And rung from shore to shore.
Unlock'd and opened wide,
And strait a gyant huge and grim
Stalk'd forth with stately stride.
He cried with hideous roar;
Or else the wolves shall eat your flesh,
And ravens drink your gore.
I scorn thy threats and thee:
I trust to force thy brazen gates,
And set thy captives free.
He aim'd a dreadful thrust:
The spear against the gyant glanc'd,
And caus'd the blood to burst.
He whirl'd his mace of steel:
The very wind of such a blow
Had made the champion reel.
His glittering sword display'd,
And riding round with whirlwind speed
Oft made him feel the blade.
Unceasing axes hew:
So fast around the gyant's limbs
The blows quick-darting flew.
Some hapless woodman crush:
With such a force the enormous foe
Did on the champion rush.
Both horse and knight it took,
And laid them senseless in the dust;
So fatal was the stroke.
The gyant strides in haste,
And, stooping, aims a second stroke:
“Now caytiff breathe thy last!”
Upon his scull descend:
From Ursine's knotty club they came,
Who ran to save his friend.
And rolling his grim eyes:
The hairy youth repeats his blows:
He gasps, he groans, he dies.
With Ursine's timely care:
And now to search the castle walls
The venturous youths repair.
They found where'er they came:
At length within a lonely cell
They saw a mournful dame.
Her cheeks were pale with woe:
And long sir Valentine besought
Her doleful tale to know.
“Condole my wretched fate:
“A childless mother here you see;
“A wife without a mate.
“I've drawn my hated breath;
“Sole witness of a monster's crimes,
“And wishing aye for death.
“And in my early years
“Was married to a mighty prince,
“The fairest of his peers.
“A twelvemonth and a day:
“When, lo! a foul and treacherous priest
“Y-wrought our loves' decay.
“He had his master's ear:
“And long to me and all the world
“He did a saint appear.
“He proffer'd odious love:
“The wretch with horrour I repuls'd,
“And from my presence drove.
“His crime I'd not reveal:
“Which, for his seeming penitence,
“I promis'd to conceal.
“My goodness he repay'd:
“With jealous doubts he fill'd my lord,
“And me to woe betray'd.
“Then rais'd a bitter cry:
“My lord, possest with rage, condemn'd
“Me, all unheard, to dye.
“At length my life he spar'd:
“But bade me instant quit the realme,
“One trusty knight my guard.
“Opprest with grief and woe;
“And tow'rds my brother's distant court,
“With breaking heart, I goe.
“We slowly pace along:
“At length within a forest wild
“I fell in labour strong:
“And left me there forlorn,
“My childbed pains so fast increast
“Two lovely boys were born.
“That tips the mountain hoar:
“The younger's little body rough
“With hairs was cover'd o'er.
“While tender care I took
“To shield my eldest from the cold,
“And wrap him in my cloak;
“And seiz'd my younger son:
“Affection lent my weakness wings,
“And after them I run.
“I quickly swoon'd away;
“And there beneath the greenwood shade
“Longtime I lifeless lay.
“And rais'd me from the ground:
“But neither of my pretty babes
“Could ever more be found.
“We met that gyant grim;
“Who ruthless slew my trusty knight,
“And bare me off with him.
“He offer'd me no wrong;
“Save that within these lonely walls
“I've been immur'd so long.”
Ye are lady Bellisance,
Wife to the Grecian emperor:
Your brother's king of France.
Myself my breeding had;
Where oft the story of your woes
Hath made my bosom sad.
And dying own'd his crime;
And long your lord hath sought you out
Thro' every foreign clime.
Of his much-wronged wife,
He vow'd thenceforth within his court
To lead a hermit's life.
And dropt a joyful tear:
Shall I once more behold my lord?
That lord I love so dear?
And knelt upon his knee;
Know you the cloak that wrapt your babe,
If you the same should see?
In which himself was found;
The lady gave a sudden shriek,
And fainted on the ground.
His tale she heard anon;
And soon by other tokens found,
He was indeed her son.
He much resembles thee:
The bear devour'd my younger son,
Or sure that son were he.
And rear'd within their den.
But recollect ye any mark
To know your son agen?
Was stampt a bloody rose.
Here, lady, see the crimson mark
Upon his body grows!
She bath'd their cheeks with tears;
And soon towards her brother's court
Her joyful course she steers.
His sister thus restor'd!
And soon a messenger was sent
To chear her drooping lord:
To fetch her home to Greece;
Where many happy years they reign'd
In perfect love and peace.
And long the scepter bare.
Sir Valentine he stay'd in France,
And was his uncle's heir.
XIII. THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY.
This humorous song (as a former Editor has well observed) is to old metrical romances and ballads of chivalry, what Don Quixote is to prose narratives of that kind:—a lively satire on their extravagant fictions. But altho' the satire is thus general; the subject of this ballad seems local and peculiar; so that many of the finest strokes of humour are lost for want of our knowing the particular facts
In handling this subject the Author has brought in most of the common incidents which occur in Romance. The description of the dragon —his outrages—the people flying to the knight for succour—his care in chusing his armour—his being drest for fight by a young damsel—and most of the circumstances of the battle and victory (allowing for the burlesque turn given to them) are what occur in every book of chivalry whether in prose or verse.
If any one piece, more than other, is more particularly levelled at, it seems to be the old rhiming legend of sir Bevis. There a Dragon is attacked from a Well in a manner not very remote from this of the ballad:
And Bevis stumbled ryght therein.
[OMITTED] Than was he glad without fayle,
And rested a whyle for his avayle;
And dranke of that water his fyll;
And than he lepte out, with good wyll,
And with Morglay his brande,
He assayled the dragon, I understande:
On the dragon he smote so faste,
Where that he hit the scales braste:
The dragon then faynted sore,
And cast a galon and more
Out of his mouthe of venim strong,
And on syr Bevis he it flong:
It was venymous y-wis.
This seems to be meant by the Dragon of Wantley's stink, ver. 110. As the politick knight's creeping out, and attacking the dragon, &c. seems evidently to allude to the following,
And lepte out with haste full good;
And Bevis unto the dragon gone is;
And the dragon also to Bevis.
Longe, and harde was that fyght
Betwene the dragon, and that knyght:
But ever whan syr Bevis was hurt sore,
He went to the well, and washed him thore;
He was as hole as any man,
Ever freshe as whan he began:
The dragon sawe it might not avayle
Besyde the well to hold batayle;
He thought he would, wyth some wyle,
Out of that place Bevis begyle;
He woulde have flowen then awaye,
But Bevis lepte after with good Morglaye,
And hyt him under the wynge,
As he was in his flyenge, &c.
Sign. M. jv. L. j. &c.
After all, perhaps the writer of this ballad was acquainted with the above incidents only thro' the medium of Spenser, who has assumed most of them in his Faery Queen. At least some particulars in the description of the Dragon, &c. seem evidently borrowed from the latter, See Book 1. Canto 11. where the Dragon's “two wynges like sayls—huge long tayl—with stings—his cruel-rending clawes—and yron teeth—his breath of smothering smoke and sulphur”—and the duration of the fight for upwards of two days, bear a great resemblance to passages in the following ballad; though it must be confessed that these particulars are common to all old writers of Romance.
The following ballad appears to have been written late in the last century; at least we have met with none but modern copies: the text is given from one in Roman letter in the Pepys collection, collated with two or three others.
A dragon slew at Lerna,
With seven heads, and fourteen eyes,
To see and well discern-a:
But he had a club, this dragon to drub,
Or he had ne'er done it, I warrant ye:
But More of More-Hall, with nothing at all,
He slew the dragon of Wantley.
Each one upon each shoulder;
With a sting in his tayl, as long as a flayl,
Which made him bolder and bolder.
He had long claws, and in his jaws
Four and forty teeth of iron;
With a hide as tough, as any buff,
Which did him round environ.
Held seventy men in his belly?
This dragon was not quite so big,
But very near, I'll tell ye.
Devoured he poor children three,
That could not with him grapple;
And at one sup, he eat them up,
As one would eat an apple.
Some say he did eat up trees,
And that the forests sure he would
Devour up by degrees:
For houses and churches, were to him geese and turkies;
He eat all, and left none behind,
But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack,
Which on the hills you will find.
The place I know it well;
Some two or three miles, or thereabouts,
I vow I cannot tell;
But there is a hedge, just on the hill edge,
And Matthew's house hard by it;
O there and then, was this dragon's den,
You could not chuse but spy it.
Some say, he was a devil,
For from his nose a smoke arose,
And with it burning snivel;
Which he cast off, when he did cough,
In a well that he did stand by;
Which made it look, just like a brook
Running with burning brandy.
Of whom all towns did ring;
For he could wrestle, play at quarter-staff, kick, cuff and huff,
Call son of a whore, do any kind of thing:
By the tail and the main, with his hands twain
He swung a horse till he was dead;
And that which is stranger, he for very anger
Eat him all up but his head.
Men, women, girls and boys,
Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging,
And made a hideous noise:
O save us all, More of More-Hall,
Thou peerless knight of these woods;
Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on,
We'll give thee all our goods.
But I want, I want in sooth,
A fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk, ‘and keen,’
And smiles about the mouth;
Hair black as sloe, skin white as snow,
With blushes her cheeks adorning;
To anoynt me o'er night, ere I go to fight,
And to dress me in the morning.
To hew the dragon down;
But first he went, new armour to
Bespeak at Sheffield town;
With spikes all about, not within but without,
Of steel so sharp and strong;
Both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er
Some five or six inches long.
How fierce he look'd and how big,
You would have thought him for to be
Some Egyptian porcupig:
He frighted all, cats, dogs, and all,
Each cow, each horse, and each hog:
For fear they did flee, for they took him to be
Some strange outlandish hedge-hog.
Got up on trees and houses,
On churches some, and chimneys too;
But these put on their trowses,
Not to spoil their hose. As soon as he rose,
To make him strong and mighty,
He drank by the tale, six pots of ale,
And a quart of aqua-vitæ.
For wit doth strength excell;
Which made our cunning champion
Creep down into a well;
Where he did think, this dragon would drink,
And so he did in truth;
And as he stoop'd low, he rose up and cry'd, boh!
And hit him in the mouth.
Thou disturb'st me in my drink:
And then he turn'd, and s*** at him;
Good lack how he did stink!
Beshrew thy soul, thy body's foul,
Thy dung smells not like balsam;
Thou son of a whore, thou stink'st so sore,
Sure thy diet is unwholsome.
Crept out upon the brink,
And gave the dragon such a douse,
He knew not what to think:
By cock, quoth he, say you so: do you see?
And then at him he let fly
With hand and with foot, and so they went to't;
And the word it was, hey boys, hey!
Then to it they fell at all,
Like two wild boars so fierce, if I may
Compare great things with small.
Two days and a night, with this dragon did fight
Our champion on the ground;
Tho' their strength it was great, their skill it was neat,
They never had one wound.
The dragon gave him a knock,
Which made him to reel, and straitway he thought,
To lift him as high as a rock,
And thence let him fall. But More of More-Hall,
Like a valiant son of Mars,
As he came like a lout, so he turn'd him about,
And hit him a kick on the a***
And turn'd six times together,
Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing
Out of his throat of leather;
More of More-Hall! O thou rascàl!
Would I had seen thee never;
With the thing at thy foot, thou hast prick'd my a*** gut,
And I'm quite undone for ever.
Alack, alack, for grief;
Had you but mist that place, you could
Have done me no mischief.
Then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked,
And down he laid and cry'd;
First on one knee, then on back tumbled he,
So groan'd, kickt, s***, and dy'd.
Since the first Edition was printed off, the Editor has been favoured with some curious particulars relating to the foregoing Song, which are here given in the words of the Relater.
“In Yorkshire, six miles from Rotherham, is a village, called Wortley, the seat of the late Wortley Montague, Esq; About a mile from this village is a lodge, called Warncliff Lodge, but vulgarly called Wantley: here lies the scene of the Song. I was there above forty years ago; and it being a woody, rocky place, my friend made me clamber over rocks and stones, not telling me to what end, till I came to a sort of a cave; then asked my opinion of the place, and pointing to one end, says, Here lay the Dragon killed by Moor of Moor-hall: here lay his head; here lay his tail; and the stones we came over on the hill, are those he could not crack; and yon white house you see half a mile off, is Moor-hall. I had dined at the lodge, and knew the man's name was Matthew, who was a keeper to Mr. Wortley, and, as he endeavoured to persuade me, was the same Matthew mentioned in the Song: In the house is the picture of the Dragon and Moor of Moor-hall, and near it a Well, which, says he, is the Well described in the Ballad.”
XIV. ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND.
The First Part.
As the former song is in ridicule of the extravagant incidents in old ballads and metrical romances; so this is a burlesque of their style; particularly of the rambling transitions and wild accumulation of unconnected parts, so frequent in many of them.
This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, “imprinted at London, 1612.” It is more ancient than many of the preceding; but we place it here for the sake of connecting it with the Second Part.
Knowing ‘well’ how many men have endured fightes?
For besides king Arthur, and Lancelot du lake,
Or sir Tristram de Lionel, that fought for ladies sake;
Read in old histories, and there you shall see
How St. George, St. George the dragon made to flee.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Onely with his household, what conquest there he got:
He slew the great Goliah, with a stone within a sling:
Yet these were not knightes of the table round;
Nor St. George, St. George, who the dragon did confound.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
They conquered the Amorites, and put them all to flight:
Hercules his labours ‘were’ on the plaines of Basse;
And Sampson slew a thousand with the jawbone of an asse,
And eke he threw a temple downe, and did a mighty spoyle:
And St. George, St. George he did the dragon foyle.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
And likewise of the Romans, how farre they did excell;
Hannyball and Scipio in many a fielde did fighte:
Orlando Furioso he was a worthy knighte:
Remus and Romulus, were they that Rome did builde:
But St. George, St. George the dragon made to yielde.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The order of the red scarffes and bandrolles in did bring :
For he had a troope of mighty knightes, when first he did begin,
Which sought adventures farre and neare, that conquest they might win:
The rankes of the Pagans he often put to flight.
But St. George, St. George did with the dragon fight.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Cutlax the Dane, great warres he did maintaine:
Rowland of Beame, and good ‘sir’ Olivere
In the forest of Acon slew both woolfe and beare:
Besides that noble Hollander, ‘sir’ Goward with the bill.
But St. George, St. George the dragon's blood did spill.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Alfride and Henry they were brave knightes and good:
The four sons of Aymon, that follow'd Charlemaine:
These were all French knightes that lived in that age.
But St. George, St. George the dragon did assuage.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
And then he crost beyond the seas to combat with the Moore:
Sir Isenbras, and Eglamore they were knightes most bold;
And good Sir John Mandeville of travel much hath told:
There were many English knights that Pagans did convert.
But St. George, St. George pluckt out the dragon's heart.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The infidels and pagans stoutly did defie;
He slew the giant Brandimore, and after was the death
Of that most gastly dun cowe, the divell of Dunsmore heath:
Besides his noble deeds all done beyond the seas.
But St. George, St. George the dragon did appease.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
He the lion gored with his naked hand :
The false duke of Austria nothing did he feare;
But his son he killed with a boxe on the eare:
Besides his famous actes done in the holy lande.
But St. George, St. George the dragon did withstande.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
And quartered their arms, his honour to advance:
He their cities razed, and threw their castles downe,
And his head he honoured with a double crowne:
He thumped the French-men, and after home he came.
But St. George, St. George he did the dragon tame.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
St. Jaques of Spaine, that never yet broke lance:
St. Patricke of Ireland, which was St. Georges boy,
Seven yeares he kept his horse, and then stole him away:
For which knavish act, as slaves they doe remaine.
But St. George, St. George the dragon he hath slaine.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
This probably alludes to “An Ancient Order of Knighthood, called the Order of the Band, instituted by Don Alphonsus, king of Spain, . . to wear a red riband of three fingers breadth.” See Ames Typog. p. 327.
Alluding to the fabulous Exploits attributed to this King in the Old Romances. See the Dissertation prefixed to this Volume.
XV. ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND,
The Second Part.
—was written by John Grubb, M. A. of Christ Church, Oxford. The occasion of its being composed is said to have been as follows. A set of gentlemen of the university had formed themselves into a Club, all the members of which were to be of the name of George: Their anniversary feast was to be held on St. George's day. Old Grubb of Christ Church solicited strongly to be admitted; but his name being unfortunately John, this disqualification was not without great difficulty dispensed with; and at last only upon this condition, that he would compose a song in honour of their Patron Saint, and would every year produce one or more new stanzas, to be sung on their annual festival. This gave birth to the following humorous performance, the several stanzas of which were the produce of many successive anniversaries.
All that we can learn further concerning this facetious writer is contained in a few extracts from the university Register; by which it appears that he was matriculated in 1667, aged 20 years, being the son of John Grubb “de Acton Burnel in Comitatu Salop. pauperis.” He took his degree of Batchelor of Arts, June 7, 1671; and became Master of Arts, June 28, 1675. He was still living in Oxford, when the following humorous Distich was written,
Bub, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trapp, Young, Carey,
Tickel, Evans.
These were Bub Dodington (the late Lord Melcombe,) Dr. Stubbes, our Poet Grubb, Mr. Crabb, Dr. Trapp the Poetry Professor, Dr. Edw. Young the Poet, Walter Carey, Thomas Tickel, Esq; and Dr. Evans the Epigrammatist.
The Editor has never met with any two copies of the following ballad in which the stanzas were ranged alike, he has therefore thrown them into what seemed to him the most natural order. The verses were originally written in long lines as Alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it necessary to subdivide them.
In this second Edition the Reader will find many improvements, which the Editor received from an ingenious friend.
Is very memorable.
The number of his valiant knights,
And roundness of his table:
The knights around his table in
A circle sate, d'ye see:
And altogether made up one
Large hoop of chivalry.
He had a sword, both broad and sharp,
Y-cleped Caliburn,
Would cut a flint more easily,
Than pen-knife cuts a corn;
As case-knife does a capon carve,
So would it carve a rock,
From noddle down to nock.
As Roman Augur's steel of yore
Dissected Tarquin's riddle,
So this would cut both conjurer
And whetstone thro' the middle.
He was the cream of Brecknock,
And flower of all the Welsh:
But George he did the dragon fell,
And gave him a plaguy squelsh,
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Was fed with milk of goat;
And in return a shield made of
His shaggy nurse's coat:
On top of burnisht helmet he
Did wear a crest of leeks;
And onions' heads, whose dreadful nod
Drew tears down hostile cheeks.
Itch, and Welsh blood did make him hot,
And very prone to ire;
H' was ting'd with brimstone, like a match,
And would as soon take fire:
As brimstone he took inwardly
When scurf gave him occasion,
His postern puff of wind was a
Sulphureous exhalation.
But was for adverse drubbing,
And never turn'd his back for aught,
But to a post for scrubbing.
His sword would serve for battle, or
For dinner, if you please;
When it had slain a Cheshire man,
'Twould toast a Cheshire cheese.
He wounded, and, in their own blood,
Did anabaptize Pagans.
But George he made the dragon an
Example to all dragons.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Challeng'd a gyant savage;
And streight came out the unweildy lout
Brim-full of wrath and cabbage:
He had a phiz of latitude,
And was full thick i'th' middle;
The cheeks of puffed trumpeter,
And paunch of squire Beadle .
But the knight fell'd him, like an oak,
And did upon his back tread;
The valiant knight his weazon cut,
And Atropos his packthread.
As say the poets witty,
A dreadful dun, and horned too,
Like dun of Oxford city:
The fervent dog-days made her mad,
By causing heat of weather,
Syrius and Procyon baited her,
As bull-dogs did her father:
Grasiers, nor butchers this fell beast,
E'er of her frolick hindred;
John Dorset she'd knock down as flat,
As John knocks down her kindred:
Her heels would lay ye all along,
And kick into a swoon;
Frewin's cow-heels keep up your corpse,
But hers would beat you down.
She vanquisht many a sturdy wight,
And proud was of the honour;
Was pufft by mauling butchers so,
As if themselves had blown her.
At once she kickt, and pusht at Guy,
But all that would not fright him;
Who wav'd his whinyard o'er sir-loyn,
As if he'd gone to knight him:
He let her blood, her frenzy to cure,
And eke he did her gall rip;
His trenchant blade, like cook's long spit,
Ran thro' the monster's bald-rib:
Instead of arch triumphal.
But George hit th'dragon such a pelt,
As made him on his bum fall.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The Turkish squadrons slew;
And fetch'd the pagan crescent down,
With half-moon made of yew:
His trusty bow proud Turks did gall,
With showers of arrows thick,
And bow-strings, without throtling, sent
Grand-Visiers to old Nick:
Much turbants, and much Pagan pates
He made to humble in dust,
And heads of Saracens he fixt
On spears, as on a sign-post:
He coop'd in cage grim Bajazet,
Prop of Mahound's religion,
As if he had been the whispering bird,
That prompted him; the pigeon.
In Turkey-leather scabbard, he
Did sheath his blade so trenchant.
But George he swing'd the dragon's tail,
And cut off every inch on't.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Both beautiful, and bold;
She sear'd her breasts with iron hot,
And bang'd her foes with cold.
Her hand was like the tool, wherewith
Jove keeps proud mortals under;
It shone just like his lightning,
And batter'd like his thunder:
Her eye darts lightning, that would blast
The proudest he that swagger'd,
And melt the rapier of his soul,
In its corporeal scabbard.
Her beauty, and her drum to foes
Did cause amazement double;
As timorous larks amazed are
With light, and with a low-bell:
With beauty, and that lapland-charm ,
Poor men she did bewitch-all;
Still a blind whining lover had,
As Pallas had her scrich-owl.
She kept the chastness of a nun
In armour, as in cloyster.
But George undid the dragon just
As you'd undo an oister.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Great Jove, and fair Alcmene:
One part of him celestial was,
The other part terrene.
To scale the hero's cradle walls
Two fiery snakes combin'd,
And, curling into swadling cloaths,
About the infant twin'd:
But he put out these dragons' fires,
And did their hissing stop;
As red-hot iron with hissing noise
Is quencht in blacksmith's shop.
He cleans'd a stable, and rubb'd down
The horses of new-comers;
And out of horse-dung he rais'd fame,
As Tom Wrench does cucumbers.
He made a river help him through;
Alpheus was under groom;
The stream, grumbling at office mean,
Ran murmuring thro' the room:
This liquid ostler to prevent
Being tired with that long work,
His father Neptune's trident took,
Instead of three-tooth'd dung-fork.
This Hercules, as soldier, and
As spinster, could take pains;
His club would sometimes spin ye flax,
And sometimes knock out brains:
By Juno's wrath and hér-spite;
Fair Omphale whipt him to his wheel,
As cooks whip barking turn-spit.
From man, or churn he well knew how
To get him lasting fame:
He'd pound a giant, till the blood,
And milk till butter came.
Often he fought with huge battoon,
And oftentimes he boxed;
Tapt a fresh monster once a month,
As Hervey doth fresh hogshead.
He gave Anteus such a hug,
As wrestlers give in Cornwall.
But George he did the dragon kill,
As dead as any door-nail.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Were put into a cradle:
Their brains with knocks and bottled ale,
Were often-times full addle:
And, scarcely hatch'd, these sons of him,
That hurls the bolt trisulcate,
With helmet-shell on tender head,
Did bustle with red-ey'd pole-cat.
A boxer was, I wist:
The one was fam'd for iron heel;
Th'other for leaden fist.
Pollux to shew he was a god,
When he was in a passion,
With fist made noses fall down flat,
By way of adoration:
This fist, as sure as French disease,
Demolish'd noses' ridges:
He like a certain lord was fam'd
For breaking down of bridges.
Castor the flame of fiery steed,
With well-spur'd boot took down;
As men, with leathern buckets, do
Quench fire in country town.
His famous horse, that liv'd on oats,
Is sung on oaten quill;
By bards' immortal provender
The nag surviveth still.
This shelly brood on none but knaves
Employ'd their brisk artillery:
Flew naturally at rogues, as eggs
At Dan De Foe in pillory.
Much sweat they spent in furious fight,
Much blood they did effund:
Their whites they vented thro' the pore;
Their yolks thro' gaping wound:
To make a heavenly sign;
The lads were, like their armour, scowr'd,
And then hung up to shine;
Such were the heavenly double-Dicks,
The sons of Jove and Tindar.
But George he cut the dragon up,
As 't had bin duck or windar.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
For knot upon her shoulder:
She kemb'd her hissing periwig,
And curling snakes did powder.
These snakes they made stiff changelings
Of all the folks they hist on;
They turned barbers into hones,
And masons into free-stone:
Sworded magnetic Amazon
Her shield to load-stone changes;
Then amorous sword by magic belt
Clung fast unto her haunches.
This shield long village did protect,
And kept the army from-town,
And chang'd the bullies into rocks,
That came t'invade Long-compton .
And Pyrrha's work unravels;
And stares Deucalion's hardy boys
Into their primitive pebbles.
Red noses she to rubies turns,
And noddles into bricks.
But George made dragon laxative;
And gave him a bloody flix.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Acquir'd a lasting name,
And out of haunch of basted swine,
He hew'd eternal fame.
This beast each hero's trouzers ript,
And rudely shew'd his bare-breech,
Prickt but the wem, and out there came
Heroic guts and garbadge.
Legs were secur'd by iron bolts
No more, than peas by peascods:
Brass helmets, with inclosed sculls,
Wou'd crackle in's mouth like chesnuts.
His tawny hairs erected were
By rage, that was resistless;
And wrath, instead of cobler's wax,
Did stiffen his rising bristles.
Nor horn, nor whip cou'd wake 'um:
It made them vent both their last blood,
And their last album-grecum.
But the knight gor'd him with his spear,
To make of him a tame one,
And arrows thick, instead of cloves,
He stuck in monster's gammon.
For monumental pillar, that
His victory might be known,
He rais'd up, in cylindric form,
A coller of the brawn.
He sent his shade to shades below,
In Stygian mud to wallow:
And eke the stout St. George eftsoon,
He made the dragon follow.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The great horse for to ride;
H' was taught by th'Centaur's rational part,
The hinnible to bestride.
Bright silver feet, and shining face
Had this stout hero's mother;
As rapier's silver'd at one end,
And wounds us at the other.
As hawk pursuing sparrow:
Her's had the metal, his the speed
Of Barfoot's silver arrow.
Thetis to double pedagogue
Commits her dearest boy;
Who bred him from a slender twig
To be the scourge of Troy:
But ere he lasht the Trojans, h' was
In Stygian waters steept;
As birch is soaked first in piss,
When boys are to be whipt.
With skin exceeding hard, he rose
From lake, as black and muddy,
As lobsters from the ocean rise,
With shell about their body:
And, as from lobster's broken claw,
Pick out the fish you might:
So might you from one unshell'd heel
Dig pieces of the knight.
His myrmidons robb'd Priam's barns
And hen-roosts, says the song;
Carried away both corn and eggs,
Like ants from whence they sprung.
Himself tore Hector's pantaloons,
And sent him down bare-breech'd
To pedant Radamanthus, in
A posture to be switch'd.
As if he had been bewitch'd.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The Carthaginian Hanni-
bal; him I mean, who gave to them
A devilish thump at Cannæ:
Moors thick, as goats on Penmenmure,
Stood on the Alpes's front:
Their one-eyed guide , like blinking mole,
Bor'd thro' the hindring mount:
Who, baffled by the massy rock,
Took vinegar for relief;
Like plowmen, when they hew their way
Thro' stubborn rump of beef.
As dancing louts from humid toes
Cast atoms of ill savour
To blinking Hyatt , when on vile crowd
He merriment does endeavour,
And saws from suffering timber out
Some wretched tune to quiver:
So Romans stunk and squeak'd at sight
Of Affrican carnivor:
Did serve instead of vizzard:
But George he made the dragon have
A grumbling in his gizzard.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
It must not be forgotten;
Who from the jaws of worm-blowing flies,
Protected veal and mutton.
A squadron of flies errant,
Against the foe appears;
With regiments of buzzing knights,
And swarms of volunteers:
The warlike wasp encourag'd 'em,
With animating hum;
And the loud brazen hornet next,
He was their kettle-drum:
The Spanish don Cantharido
Did him most sorely pester,
And rais'd on skin of vent'rous knight
Full many a plaguy blister.
A bee whipt thro' his button hole,
As thro' key hole a witch,
And stabb'd him with her little tuck
Drawn out of scabbard breech:
An arm so big and brawny,
And slasht her so, that here lay head,
And there lay bag and honey:
Then 'mongst the rout he flew as swift,
As weapon made by Cyclops,
And bravely quell'd seditious buz,
By dint of massy fly-flops.
Surviving flies do curses breathe,
And maggots too at Cæsar.
But George he shav'd the dragon's beard,
And Askelon was his razor.
St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France:
Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
XVI. LUCY AND COLIN
—was written by Thomas Tickel, Esq; the celebrated friend of Mr. Addison, and editor of his works. He was son of a Clergyman in the north of England, had his education at Queen's college Oxon, was under-secretary to Mr. Addison and Mr. Craggs, when successively secretaries of state; and was lastly (in June, 1724) appointed secretary to the Lords Justices in Ireland, which place he held till his death in 1740. He acquired Mr. Addison's patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond written while he was at the University.
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so fair a face.
Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lip, and damask cheek,
And eyes of glossy blue.
When beating rains descend?
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid;
Her life now near its end.
Take heed, ye easy fair:
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains, beware.
A bell was heard to ring;
And at her window, shrieking thrice,
The raven flap'd his wing.
The solemn boding sound;
And thus, in dying words, bespoke
The virgins weeping round.
“Which says, I must not stay:
“I see a hand, you cannot see,
“Which beckons me away.
“In early youth I die.
“Am I to blame, because his bride
“Is thrice as rich as I?
“Vows due to me alone:
“Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
“Nor think him all thy own.
“Impatient, both prepare;
“But know, fond maid, and know, false man,
“That Lucy will be there.
“The bridegroom blithe to meet;
“He in his wedding-trim so gay,
“I in my winding-sheet.”
The bridegroom blithe to meet;
He in his wedding-trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.
How were those nuptials kept?
The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
At once his bosom swell:
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.
Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod
For ever now remains.
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots
They deck the sacred green.
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.
XVII. MARGARET's GHOST.
This Ballad, which appeared in some of the public newspapers in or before the year 1724, came from the pen of David Mallet, Esq; who in the edition of his poems, 3 vols. 1759, informs us that the plan was suggested by the four verses quoted above in pag. 119, which he supposed to be the beginning of some ballad now lost.
“These lines, says he, naked of ornament and simple, as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago.”
The two introductory lines (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz.
“And all were fast asleep, &c.
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shrowd.
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.
Consum'd her early prime:
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy'd before her time.
“Come from her midnight grave;
“Now let thy pity hear the maid,
“Thy love refus'd to save.
“When injur'd ghosts complain;
“Now yawning graves give up their dead,
“To haunt the faithless swain.
“Thy pledge, and broken oath:
“And give me back my maiden vow,
“And give me back my troth.
“And not that promise keep?
“Why did you swear mine eyes were bright,
“Yet leave those eyes to weep?
“And yet that face forsake?
“How could you win my virgin heart,
“Yet leave that heart to break?
“And made the scarlet pale?
“And why did I, young witless maid,
“Believe the flattering tale?
“These lips no longer red:
“Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
“And every charm is fled.
“This winding-sheet I wear:
“And cold and weary lasts our night,
“Till that last morn appear.
“A long and last adieu!
“Come see, false man, how low she lies,
“Who dy'd for love of you.”
With beams of rosy red:
Pale William shook in ev'ry limb,
And raving left his bed.
Where Margaret's body lay;
And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf,
That wrapt her breathless clay:
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more.
XVIII. THE BOY AND THE MANTLE,
As revised and altered by a modern hand.
Mr. Warton, in his ingenious Observations on Spenser, has given his opinion that the fiction of the Boy and the Mantle is taken from an old French piece intitled Le court mantel quoted by M. de St. Palaye in his curious “Memoires sur l' ancienne Chevalerie,” Paris, 1759. 2 tom. 12mo. who tells us the story resembles that of Ariosto's inchanted cup. 'Tis possible our English poet may have taken the hint of this subject from that old French Romance, but he does not appear to have copied it in the manner of execution: to which (if one may judge from the specimen given in the Memoires) that of the ballad does not bear the least resemblance. After all 'tis most likely that all the old stories concerning K. Arthur are originally of British growth, and that what the French and other southern nations have of this kind were at first exported from this island. See Memoires de l' Acad. des Inscrip. tom. xx. p. 352.
A prince of passing might;
And there maintain'd his table round,
Beset with many a knight.
With mirth and princely cheare,
When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
Before him did appeare.
This boy had him upon,
With brooches, rings, and owches
Full daintily bedone.
About his middle meet;
And thus, with seemely courtesy,
He did king Arthur greet.
“Thus feasting in thy bowre.
“And Guenever thy goodly queen,
“That fair and peerlesse flowre.
“I wish you all take heed,
“Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose
“Should prove a cankred weed.”
A little wand he drew;
And with it eke a mantle
Of wondrous shape, and hew.
“Have thou here of mee,
“And give unto thy comely queen,
“All-shapen as you see.
“That once hath been to blame.”
Then every knight in Arthur's court
Slye glaunced at his dame.
The mantle she must trye.
This dame, she was new-fangled,
And of a roving eye.
And all was with it cladde,
From top to toe it shiver'd down,
As tho' with sheers beshradde.
Another while too short,
And wrinkled on her shoulders
In most unseemly sort.
Then all of sable hue.
“Beshrew me, quoth king Arthur,
“I think thou beest not true.”
Ne longer would not stay;
But storming like a fury,
To her chamber flung away.
That had the mantle wrought:
And doubly curst the froward impe,
Who thither had it brought.
“Beneath the green-wood tree:
“Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
“The sport of them and thee.”
And bade her to come near:
“Yet dame, if thou be guilty,
“I pray thee now forbear.”
With forward step came on,
And boldly to the little boy
With fearless face is gone.
With purpose for to wear:
It shrunk up to her shoulder,
And left her b**side bare.
That was in Arthur's court,
Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
To see that pleasant sport.
No longer bold or gay,
But with a face all pale and wan,
To her chamber slunk away.
A pattering o'er his creed;
And proffer'd to the little boy
Five nobles to his meed:
“Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
“If thou wilt let my lady fair
“Within the mantle shine.”
With step demure, and slow,
And gravely to the mantle
With mincing pace does goe.
That was so fine and thin,
It shrivell'd all about her,
And show'd her dainty skin.
Or his long prayers bestead;
She had no more hung on her,
Than a tassel and a thread.
With terror and dismay,
And, with a face of scarlet,
To her chamber hied away.
And bade her to come neare:
“Come win this mantle, lady,
“And do me credit here.
“For now it shall be thine,
“If thou hast never done amiss,
“Sith first I made thee mine.”
With modest grace came on,
And now to trye the wondrous charm
Courageously is gone.
And put it on her backe,
About the hem it seemed
To wrinkle and to cracke.
“And shame me not for nought,
“I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
“Or blameful I have wrought.
“Beneathe the green-wood tree:
“Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
“Before he married mee.”
And her worst fault had told,
The mantle soon became her
Right comely as it shold.
Like gold it glittering shone:
And much the knights in Arthur's court
Admir'd her every one.
The boy he turn'd his eye:
Where stood a boar's-head garnished
With bayes and rosemarye.
His little wand had drawne,
Quoth he, “There's never a cuckold's knife,
“Can carve this head of brawne.”
On whetstone, and on hone:
Some threwe them under the table,
And swore that they had none.
Of steel and iron made;
And in an instant thro' the skull
He thrust the shining blade.
Full easily and fast:
And every knight in Arthurs court
A morsel had to taste.
All golden was the rim:
Said he, “No cuckolde ever can
“Set mouth unto the brim.
“Lift fairly to his head:
“But or on this, or that side,
“He shall the liquor shed.”
Some shed it on their thigh;
And hee that could not hit his mouth,
Was sure to hit his eye.
Was known of every man:
But Cradock lifted easily,
And wan the golden can.
Were this fair couple's meed:
And all such constant lovers,
God send them well to speed.
And thus could spightful say,
“Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
“Hath borne the price away.
“That makes herselfe so clean:
“Yet from her pillow taken
“Thrice five gallants have been.
“Have her lewd pillow prest:
“Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth
“Must beare from all the rest.”
Who had the same in hold:
“Chastize thy wife, king Arthur,
“Of speech she is too bold:
“Of carriage all too free;
“Sir king, she hath within thy hall
“A cuckold made of thee.
“She hath her carriage borne:
“And given thee for a kingly crown
“To wear a cuckold's horne.”
The learned editor of the Specimens of Welch Poetry, 4to. informs me that the story of the Boy and the Mantle is taken from what is related in some of the old Welsh MSS. of Tegan Earfron, one of King Arthur's mistresses. She is said to have possessed a mantle that would not fit any immodest or incontinent woman; this (which, the old writers say, was reckoned among the curiosities of Britain) is frequently alluded to by the old Welsh Bards.
Carleile, so often mentioned in the Ballads of K. Arthur, the editor once thought might probably be a corruption of Caer-leon, an ancient British city on the river Uske in Monmouthshire, which was one of the places of K. Arthur's chief residence; but he is now convinced, that it is no other than Carlisle, in Cumberland; the Old English Minstrels, being most of them Northern Men, naturally represented the Hero of Romance as residing in the North: And many of the places mentioned in the Old Ballads are still to be found there: Thus Tearne-Wadling (vid. p. 12. note.) is the name of a Lake near Hesketh in Cumberland, on the road from Penrith to Carlisle. A Tradition still prevails in the neighbourhood, that an old Castle once stood at Tearne-Wadling, the remains of which are either now, or were not long since to be seen.
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