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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I. | BOOK I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
BOOK I.
I. RICHARD OF ALMAIGNE
“A ballad made by one of the adherents to Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester, soon after the battle of Lewes, which was fought May 14, 1264,”
— affords a curious specimen of ancient Satire, and shews that the liberty, assumed by the good people of this realm, of
To render this antique libel intelligible, the reader is to understand that just before the battle of Lewes which proved so fatal to the interests of Henry III. the barons had offered his brother Richard King of the Romans 30,000 l. to procure a peace upon such terms, as would have divested Henry of all his regal power, and therefore the treaty proved abortive.—The consequences of that battle are well known: the king, prince Edward his son, his brother Richard, and many of his friends fell into the hands of their enemies: while two great barons of the king's party, John earl of Warren, and Hugh Bigot the king's Justiciary, had been glad to escape into France.
In the 1st stanza the aforesaid sum of thirty thousand pounds is alluded to, but with the usual misrepresentation of party malevolence, is asserted to have been the exorbitant demand of the king's brother.
With regard to the 2d st. the Reader is to note that Richard, along with the earldom of Cornwall, had the honours of Walingford and Eyre confirmed to him on his marriage with Sanchia daughter of the Count of Provence, in 1243.—Windsor castle was the chief fortress belonging to the king, and had been garrisoned by foreigners: a circumstance, which furnishes out the burthen of each stanza.
The 2d st. very humorously alludes to some little fact, which history hath not condescended to record. Earl Richard possessed some large water-mills near Istleworth, which had been plundered and burnt by the Londoners: in these perhaps by way of defence he had lodged a party of soldiers.
The 4th st. is of obvious interpretation: Richard, who had been elected king of the Romans in 1256, and had afterwards gone over to take possession of his dignity, was in the year 1250 about to return into England, when the barons raised a popular clamour, that he was bringing with him foreigners to over-run the kingdom: upon which he was
In the 5th st. the writer regrets the escape of the Earl of Warren, and in the 6th and 7th sts. insinuates that if he and Sir Hugh Bigot once fell into the hands of their adversaries, they should never more return home. A circumstance, which fixes the date of this ballad; for in the year 126; both these noblemen landed in South Wales, and the royal party soon after gained the ascendant. See Holingshed, Rapin, &c.
The following is copied from a very ancient MS. in the British Museum. [Harl. MSS. 2253. s. 23.] This MS. is judged, from the peculiarities of the writing, to be not later than the time of Richard II; th being every where expressed by the character þ; the y is pointed after the Saxon manner, and the í hath an oblique stroke over it.
Prefixed to this ancient libel on government is a small design, which the engraver intended should correspond with the subject. On the one side a Satyr, (emblem of Petulance and Ridicule) is trampling on the ensigns of Royalty; on the other Faction under the masque of Liberty is exciting Ignorance and Popular Rage to deface the Royal Image; which stands on a pedestal inscribed magna charta, to denote that the rights of the king, as well as those of the people, are founded on the laws; and that to attack one, is in effect to demolish both.
The kyng of Alemaigne, bi mi leaute,
Thritti thousent pound askede he
For te make the pees in the countre,
Ant so he dude more.
Richard, thah thou be ever trichard,
Tricthen shalt thou never more.
He spende al is tresour opon swyvyng,
Haveth he nout of Walingford oferlyng,
Let him habbe, ase he brew, bale to dryng,
Maugre Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.
He saisede the mulne for a castel,
With hare sharpe swerdes he grounde the stel,
He wende that the sayles were mangonel
To helpe Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.
Makede him a castel of a mulne post,
Wende with is prude, ant is muchele bost,
Brohte from Alemayne mony sori gost
To store Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.
That lette passen over see the erl of Warynne:
He hath robbed Engelond, the mores, ant th fenne,
The gold, ant the selver, and y-boren henne,
For love of Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.
Hevede he nou here the erl of Waryn,
Shuld he never more come to is yn,
Ne with sheld, ne with spere, ne with other gyn,
To help of Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.
Hevede he nou here Sire Hue de Bigot:
Al he shulde grante here twelfmoneth scot,
Shulde he never more with his sot pot
To helpe Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou be ever trichard,
Tricthen shalt thou never more.
The Series of Poems given in this volume will shew the gradual changes of the English Language thro' a succession of five hundred years. This and the following article may be considered as specimens of it in its most early state, almost as soon as it ceased to be Saxon. Indeed the annals of this kingdom are written in the Saxon language almost down to the end of K. Stephen's reign: for so far reaches the Saxon Chronicle; within little more than a century of the date of this poem.
II. ON THE DEATH OF K. EDWARD THE FIRST.
We have here an early attempt at Elegy. Edward I. died July 7. 1307, in the 35th year of his reign, and 60th of his age. This poem appears to have been composed soon after his death. According to the modes of thinking peculiar to those times, the writer dwells more upon his devotion, than his skill in government, and pays less attention to the martial and political abilities of this great monarch, in which he had no equal, than to some little weaknesses of superstition, which he had in common with all his cotemporaries. The king had in the decline of life vowed an expedition to the holy land, but finding his end approach, he dedicated the sum of 32,000 l. to the maintenance of a large body of knights (140 say historians, 80 says our poet,) who were to carry his heart with them into Palestine. This dying command of the king was never performed. Our poet with the honest prejudices of an Englishman, attributes this failure to the advice of the king of France, whose daughter Isabel our young monarch immediately married. But the truth is, Edward and his destructive favourite Piers Gaveston spent the money upon their pleasures.—To do the greater honour to the memory of his heroe, our poet puts his eloge in the mouth of the Pope; with the some poetic licence, as a more modern bard would have introduced Britannia, or the Genius of Europe pouring forth his praises.
This antique Elegy is extracted from the same MS volume, as the preceding article; is found with the same peculiarities of writing and orthography; and tho' written
A stounde herkneth to my song
Of duel, that Deth hath diht us newe,
That maketh me syke, ant sorewe among;
Of a knyht, that wes so strong,
Of wham God hath don ys wille;
Me-thuncheth that deth hath don us wrong,
That he so sone shall ligge stille.
Of wham that song is, that y synge;
Of Edward kyng, that lith so lowe,
Zent al this world is nome con springe:
Trewest mon of alle thinge,
Ant in werre war ant wys,
For him we ahte oure honden wrynge,
Of Cristendome he ber the prys.
He spek ase mon that wes in care,
“Clerkes, knyhtes, barons, he sayde,
“Y charge ou by oure sware,
“Y deze, y ne may lyven na more;
“Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe,
“For he is nest to buen y-core.
“That hit be write at mi devys,
“Over the see that Hue be diht,
“With fourscore knyhtes al of prys,
“In werre that buen war ant wys,
“Azein the hethene for te fyhte,
“To wynne the croiz that lowe lys,
“Myself ycholde zef that y myhte.”
That thou the counsail woldest fonde,
To latte the wille of ‘Edward kyng’
To wende to the holy londe:
That oure kyng hede take on honde
All Engelond to zeme ant wysse,
To wenden in to the holy londe
To wynnen us heveriche blisse.
And seyde that oure kynge wes ded:
Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,
Ywis his herte wes ful gret:
Ant spec a word of gret honour.
“Alas! he seid, is Edward ded?
“Of Cristendome he ber the flour.”
For dol ne mihte he speke na more;
Ant after cardinals he sende,
That muche couthen of Cristes lore,
Bothe the lasse, ant eke the more,
Bed hem bothe rede ant synge:
Gret deol me myhte se thore,
Mony mon is honde wrynge.
With ful gret solempnetè,
Ther me con the soule blesse:
“Kyng Edward honoured thou be:
“God love thi sone come after the,
“Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne,
“The holy crois y-mad of tre,
“So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne.
“The flour of al chivalrie
“Now kyng Edward liveth na more:
“Alas! that he zet shulde deye!
“Oure banners, that bueth broht to grounde;
“Wel! longe we mowe clepe and crie
“Er we a such kyng han y-founde.”
King of Engelond al aplyht,
God lete him ner be worse man
Then is fader, ne lasse of myht,
To holden is pore men to ryht,
And understonde good counsail,
Al Engelong for to wysse ant dyht;
Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail.
Ant min herte yzote of bras,
The godness myht y never telle,
That with kyng Edward was:
Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour,
In uch bataille thou hadest prys;
God bringe thi soule to the honour,
That ever wes, ant ever ys.
That lasteth ay withouten ende,
Bidde we God, ant oure Ledy to thilke blisse.
Jesus us sende. Amen.
Here follow in the original three lines more, which, as apparently spurious, we chuse to throw to the bottom of the Page, viz.
III. AN ORIGINAL BALLAD BY CHAUCER.
This little sonnet, which hath escaped all the editors of Chaucer's works, is now printed for the first time from an ancient MS in the Pepysian library, that contains many other poems of its venerable author. The versification is of that species, which the French call Rondeau, very naturally englished by our honest countrymen Round O. Tho' so early adopted by them, our ancestors had not the honour of inventing it: Chaucer picked it up, along with other better things, among the neighbouring nations. A fondness for laborious trifles hath always prevailed in the dawn of literature. The ancient Greek poets had their wings and axes: the great father of English poesy may therefore be pardoned one poor solitary rondeau.—Dan Geofrey Chaucer died Oct. 25. 1400. aged 72.
I.
1
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly,I may the beaute of them not sustene,
So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene.
2
And but your words will helen hastelyMy hertis wound, while that it is grene,
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly.
3
Upon my trouth I sey yow feithfully,That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene;
For with my deth the trouth shal be sene.
Youre two eyn, &c.
II.
1
So hath youre beauty fro your herte chasedPitee, that me n' availeth not to pleyn;
For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
2
Giltless my deth thus have ye purchased;I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to fayn:
So hath your beaute fro your herte chased.
3
Alas, that nature hath in yow compassedSo grete beaute, that no man may atteyn
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyn.
So hath youre beaute, &c.
III.
1
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat,I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene.
2
He may answere, and sey this and that,I do no sors, I speak ryght as I mene;
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat.
3
Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat,And he is strike out of my bokes clene:
For ever mo this is non other mene.
Syn I fro love escaped, &c.
IV. THE TURNAMENT OF TOTTENHAM:
“or, the wooeing, winning, and wedding of Tibbe, the Reev's daughter there.”
It does honour to the good sense of this nation, that while all Europe was captivated with the bewitching charms of Chivalry and Romance, two of our writers in the rudest times could see thro' the false glare that surrounded them, and discover whatever was absurd in them both. Chaucer wrote his Rhyme of sir Thopas in ridicule of the latter, and in the following poem we have a humourous burlesque of the former. Without pretending to decide, whether the institution of chivalry was upon the whole useful or pernicious in the rude ages, a question that has lately employed many fine pens , it evidently encouraged a vindictive spirit, and gave such force to the custom of duelling, that it will probably never be worn out. This, together with the fatal consequences which often attended the diversion of the Turnament, was sufficient to render it obnoxious to the graver part of mankind. Accordingly the Church early denounced its censures against it, and the State was often prevailed on to attempt its suppression. But fashion and opinion are superior to authority; and the proclamations against Tilting were as little regarded in those times, as the laws against Duelling are in these. This did not escape the discernment of our poet, who easily perceived that inveterate opinions must be attacked by other weapons, than proclamations and censures; he accordingly made use of the keen one of Ridicule. With this view he has here introduced, with admirable humour, a parcel of clowns, imitating all the solemnities of the Tournay. Here we have the
The Turnament of Tottenham was published from an ancient MS. in 1631, 4to, by the rew. Whilhem Bedwell, rector of Tottenham, and one of the translators of the Bible: he tells us it was written by one Gilbert Pilkington, thought to have been some time parson of the same parish, and author of another piece intitled Passio Domini Jesu Christi. Bedwell, who was eminently skilled in the oriental languages, appears to have been but little conversant with the ancient writers in his own, and he so little entered into the spirit of the poem he was publishing that he contends for its being a serious narrative of a real event, and thinks it must have been written before the time of Edward III, because Turnaments were prohibited in that reign. “I do verily beleeve, says he, that this Turnament was acted before this proclamation of K. Edward. For how durst any to attempt to do that, although in sport, which was so straightly forbidden, both by the civill and ecclesiasticall power? For although they fought not with lances, yet, as our authour sayth, “It was no childrens game.” And what would have become of him, thinke you, which should have slayne another in this manner of jeasting? Would he not, trow you, have been hang'd for it in earnest? yea, and have bene buried like a dogge?” It is however well known that Turnaments were in use down to the reign of Elizabeth.
Without pretending to ascertain the date of this Poem, the obsoleteness of the style shews it to be very ancient: It will appear from the sameness of orthography in the above extract
“And hardy indeed:”
but they seemed most naturally to run into one, and the frequent neglect of rhyme in the former of them seemed to prove that the author intended no such division.
Of fell fighting folke ‘a’ ferly we finde;
The Turnament of Tottenham have I in minde;
It were harme such hardinesse were holden behinde.
In story as we reade,
Of Hawkin, of Harry,
Of Timkin, of Terry,
Of them that were doughty, and hardy in deed.
There was made a shurting by the highway:
Thither come all the men of that countray
Of Hisselton, of High-gate, and of Hakenay,
There hopped Hawkin,
There daunced Dawkin,
There trumped Timkin, and were true drinkers.
That they should reck'n their skot, and their counts cast,
Perkin the potter into the presse past,
And say'd, Randill the reve, a daughter thou hast,
Tibbe thy deare,
Therefore faine weet would I,
Whether these fellowes or I,
Or which of all this batchelery
Were the best worthy to wed her his fere.
And sayd, Randill the reve, lo! the ladde raves,
How proudly among us thy daughter he craves,
And we are richer men then he, and more good haves,
Of cattell, and of corne.
Then sayd Perkin, ‘I have hight
‘To Tibbe in my right
‘To be ready to fight, and thoughe it were to morne.
That about this carping lenger would be taryd;
I would not my daughter that she were miskaryd,
But at her most worship I would she were maryd,
For the turnament shall beginne
This day seav'n-night,
With a flayle for to fight,
And he, that is most of might, shall brok her with winne.
Shall be granted the gree, by the common assent,
For to winne my daughter with doughtinesse of dent,
And Copple my brood-hen, that was brought out of Kent,
And my dunned cow:
For no spence will I spare;
For no cattell will I care;
He shall have my gray mare, and my spotted sow.
Then they take their leave, and hamward they hede,
And all the weeke after they gayed her wede,
Till it come to the day, that they should do their dede:
They armed them in mattes;
They set on their nowlls
Good blacke bowlls,
To keep their powlls from battering of battes.
And every ilke of hem a black hatte, instead of a crest,
A basket or panyer before on their brest,
And a flayle in their hande, for to fight prest,
Forthe con they fare.
There was kid mickle force,
Who should best fend his corse;
He, that had no good horse, borrowed him a mare.
When all the great company riding to the croft,
Tibbe on a gray-mare was sette up on-loft,
Upon a sacke-full of senvy, for she should sit soft,
And led till the gappe:
Forther would she not than,
For the love of no man,
Till Copple her brood-hen wer brought into her lappe.
And a garland on her head full of ruell bones;
And a brouch on her brest full of sapphyre stones,
The holyroode tokening was written for the nonce;
For no spendings ‘they had spar'd:’
When jolly Jenkin wist her thare,
He gurd so fast his gray mare,
That she let a fowkin fare at the rere-ward.
I shall fall five in the field, and I my flaile finde.
I make a vowe, quoth Hudde, I shall not leve behinde;
May I meet with lyard or bayard the blinde,
I wote I shall them grieve.
I make a vowe, quoth Hawkin,
May I meete with Dawkin,
For all his rich kin, his flaile I shall him reve.
Which of all the bachelery graunted is the gree:
I shall skomfit hem all, for the love of thee,
In what place that I come, they shall have doubt of mee;
For I am armd at the full:
In my armes I beare wele
A dough-trough, and a pele,
A saddle without a pannele, with a fleece of wooll.
I make a vow, they shall abye that I finde out,
Have I twice or thrice ridden thorough the rout,
In what place that I come, of me they shall ha doubt,
Mine armes bene so clere;
I beare a riddle and a rake,
Powder'd with the brenning drake,
And three cantles of a cake, in ilka cornere.
Saw thou never young boy forther his body bede;
For when they fight fastest, and most are in drede,
I shall take Tib by the hand, and away her lede:
Then bin mine armes best;
I beare a pilch of ermin,
Powderd with a cats skinne,
The cheefe is of perchmine , that stond'th on the crest.
While I am most merry, thou gettst her not swa;
For she is well shapen, as light as a rae,
There is no capull in this mile before her will ga:
Shee will me not beguile;
I dare soothly say,
Shee will be a Monday
Fro Hisselton to Hacknay, nought other halfe mile.
I will wirke wislier without any boast;
Five of the best capulls, that are in this host,
I will hem lead away by another cost;
And then laugh Tibbe,
Wi loo, boyes, here is hee,
That will fight and not flee,
For I am in my jollity; Ioo foorth, Tibbe.
With flailes, and harnisse, and trumps made of tre:
There were all the bachelers of that countre;
They were dight in aray, as themselves would be:
Their banner was full bright,
Of an old rotten fell,
The cheese was a plowmell,
And the shadow of a bell, quartered with the moone-light.
When ilka freke in the field on his fellow bette,
And layd on stifly, for nothing would they lette,
And fought ferly fast, till ‘theire’ horses swette;
And few wordes were spoken:
There were flailes all to slatterd,
There were shields all to clatterd,
Bowles and dishes all to batterd, and many heads broken.
Of fell frekes in the field, broken were their fannes;
Of some were the heads broken, of some the braine-pannes,
And evill were they besene, ere they went thance,
With swipping of swipples:
The ladds were so weary for fought,
That they might fight no more on-loft,
But creeped about in the croft, as they were crooked cripples.
Help, Hudde, I am dead in this ilk rowte:
An horse for forty pennys, a good and a stowte;
That I may lightly come of mine owne owte;
For no cost will I spare.
He starte up as a snaile,
And hent a capull by the taile,
And raught of Daukin his flayle, and wanne him a mare.
Glad and blithe they were, that they ‘had’ done sa:
They would have them to Tibbe, and present her with tha:
The capuls were so weary, that they might not ga,
But still can they ‘stonde.’
Alas! quoth Hudde, my joy I leese
Mee had lever then a stone of cheese,
That deare Tibbe had all these, and wist it were my sonde.
He fought freshly, for he had rest him long;
He was ware of Tirry take Tibbe by the hond,
And would have led her away with a love-song;
And Perkin after ran,
And off his capull he him drowe,
And gave him of his flayle inowe;
Then te, he! quoth Tibbe, and lowe, ye are a doughty man.
All the wives of Tottenham come to see that fight;
To fetch home their husbands, that were them trough plight,
With wispes and kixes, that was a rich sight;
Her husbands home to fetch.
And some they had in armes,
That were feeble wretches,
And some on wheel-barrowes, and some on critches.
And grant him there the gree, the more was his pride:
Tib and hee, with great mirth, hameward can ride,
And were all night togither, till the morrow tide;
And to church they went:
So well his needs he has sped,
That deare Tibbe he shall wed;
The cheefemen that her hither lead, were of the turnament.
Some come hop-halte, and some tripping thither on the stones;
Some with a staffe in his hand, and some two at once;
Of some were the headsbroken; of some the shoulderbones:
With sorrow come they thither;
Wo was Hawkin; wo was Harry;
Wo was Tymkin; wo was Tirry;
And so was all the company, but yet they come togither.
Every five and five had a cokeney;
And so they sat in jollity all the long day.
Tibbe at night, I trowe, had a simple aray;
Mickle mirth was them among:
In every corner of the house
Was melody delicious,
For to hear precious of six mens song.
See [Mr. Hurd's] Letters on Chivalry, 8vo. 1762. Memoires de la Chevalierie par M. de la Curne des Palais, 1759. 2 tom. 12 mo. &c.
The latter part of this stanza seemed embarrassed and redundant, we have therefore ventured to contract it. It stood thus;
That I will bee alwaies ready in my right,
With a flayle for to fight
This day seaven-night, and thought it were to morne.
The two last lines seem in part to be borrowed from the following stanza, where they come in more properly.
Mares were never used in Chivalry: It was beneath the dignity of a knight to ride any thing but a stallion. V. Memoires de la Chevalerie.
Originally it stood thus,
I make a vowe, quoth Tibbe, copple is comen of kinde;but as this evidently has no connection with the lines that follow, the Editor proposes the above emendation.
V. FOR THE VICTORY AT AGINCOURT.
That our plain and martial ancestors could wield their swords much better than their pens, will appear from the following homely Rhymes, which were drawn up by some poet laureat of those days to celebrate the immortal victory gained at Agincourt, Oct. 25, 1415. This song or hymn is given meerly as a curiosity, and is printed from a MS copy in the Pepys collection, vol. I. folio. It is there accompanied with the musical notes, which are copied in a small plate at the end of this volume.
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria!With grace and myzt of chivalry;
The God for hym wrouzt marvelously,
Wherefore Englonde may calle, and cry
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
To Harflue toune with ryal aray;
That toune he wan, and made a fray,
That Fraunce shall rywe tyl domes day.
Deo gratias, &c.
Thorowe Fraunce for all the Frenshe boste;
He spared ‘for’ drede of leste, ne most,
Tyl he come to Agincourt coste.
Deo gratias, &c.
In Agincourt feld he fauzt manly,
Thorow grace of God most myzty
He had bothe the felde, and the victory.
Deo gratias, &c.
Were take, and slayne, and that wel sone,
And some were ledde in to Lundone
With joye, and merthe, and grete renone.
Deo gratias, &c.
His peple, and all his wel wyllynge,
Gef him gode lyfe, and gode endynge,
That we with merth mowe savely synge
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
VI. THE NOT-BROWNE MAYD.
The sentimental beauties of this ancient ballad have always recommended it to Readers of taste, not withstanding the rust of antiquity, which obscures the style and expression. Indeed if it had no other merit, than the having afforded the groundwork to Prior's Henry and Emma, this ought to preserve it from oblivion. That we are able to give it in a more correct manner; than almost any other Poem in these volumes, is owing to the great care and exactness of the accurate Editor of the Prolusions 8vo. 1760; who has formed the text from two copies found in two different editions of Arnolde's Chronicle, a book supposed to be first printed about 1521. From the correct Copy in the Prolusions the following is printed, with a few additional improvements gathered from another edition of Arnolde's book preserved in the public Library at Cambridge. All the various readings of this Copy will be found here, either received into the text, or noted in the margin. The references to the Prolusions will shew where they occur. It does honour to the critical sagacity of that gentleman, that almost all his conjectural readings are found to be the established ones of this edition. In our ancient folio MS. described in the preface is a very corrupt and defective copy of this ballad, which yet afforded a great improvement in one line that will be found in its due place.
It has been a much easier task to settle the text of this poem, than to ascertain its date. Mat. Prior published it in the folio edition of his poems, 1718, as then “300 years old.” In making this decision he was probably guided by the learned Wanley, whose judgment in matters of this nature was most consummate. For that whatever related to the reprinting of this old piece was referred to Wanley, appears from two letters
“That I may 'say, or I cease, thy selven to please;
“And Mary his mother, that maketh this world;
“And all the seemlie saints, that sitten in heaven;
“I will carpe of kings, that conquered full wide,
“That dwelled in this land, that was alyes noble;
“Henry the seventh, that soveraigne lord, &c.
With regard to the date of the following ballad, we have taken a middle course, neither placed it so high as Wanley and Prior, nor quite so low as the editor of the Prolusions: we should have followed the latter in dividing every other line into two, but that the whole would then have taken up more room, than could be allowed it in this volume.
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vayne,
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man agayne:
For late a man do what he can,
Theyr favour to attayne,
Yet, yf a newe do them persue,
Theyr first true lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banyshed man.
It is bothe writ and sayd
That womans faith is, as who sayth,
All utterly decayd;
But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnèsse
In this case might be layd,
That they love true, and continùe:
Recorde the not-browne mayde:
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his mone,
Wolde nat depart; for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.
What was all the manere
Betwayne them two: we wyll also
Tell all the payne, and fere,
That she was in. Nowe I begyn,
So that ye me answère;
Wherfore, all ye, that present be
I pray you, gyve an ere.
“I am the knyght; I come by nyght,
As secret as I can;
Sayinge, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banyshed man.”
And I your wyll for to fulfyll
In this wyll nat refuse;
Trustying to shewe, in wordès fewe,
That men have an yll use
(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causelesse them accuse:
Therfore to you I answere nowe,
All women to excuse,—
Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere?
I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
It standeth so; a dede is do
Wherof grete harme shall growe:
My destiny is for to dy
A shamefull deth, I trowe;
Or elles to fle: the one must be;
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true!
None other rede I can;
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
O lord, what is this worldys blysse,
That changeth as the mone!
My somers day in lusty may
Is derked before the none.
I here you say, farewell; Nay, nay,
We départ nat so sone:
Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas! what have ye done?
All my welfàre to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
I can beleve, it shall you greve,
And somewhat you dystrayne;
But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde
Within a day or twayne
Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought,
Your labour were in vayne.
And thus I do; and pray you to,
As hartely, as I can;
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Now, syth that ye have shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde:
Syth it is so, that ye wyll go,
I wolle not leve behynde;
Shall never be sayd, the not-browne mayd
Was to her love unkynde:
Make you redy, for so am I,
Allthough it were anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke, and say:
Of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde,
That ye be gone away;
Your wanton wyll for to fulfill,
In grene wode you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyght
No lenger make delay:
Rather than ye sholde thus for me
Be called an yll womàn,
Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Though it be songe of old and yonge,
That I sholde be to blame,
Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large
In hurtynge of my name:
For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love
It is devoy'd of shame;
In your dystresse, and hevynesse,
To part with you, the same;
And sure all tho' that do not so,
True lovers are they none:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
I counceyle you, remember howe
It is no maydens lawe,
Nothynge to dout, but to renne out
To wode with an outlàwe:
For ye must there in your hand bere
A bowe, redy to drawe;
And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve,
Ever in drede and awe;
Wherby to you grete harme myght growe:
Yet had I lever than,
That I had to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
I thinke nat, nay, but as ye say,
It is no maydens lore:
But love may make me for your sake,
As I have sayd before
To come on fote, to hunt, and shote
To gete us mete in store;
For so that I your company
May have, I aske no more:
From which to part, it maketh my hart
As colde as ony stone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
For an outlawe this is the lawe,
That men hym take and bynde;
Without pytè, hanged to be,
And waver with the wynde.
If I had nede, (as God forbede!)
What rescous coude ye fynde?
Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe
For fere wolde drawe behynde:
And no mervayle: for lytell avayle
Were in your counceyle than:
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Ryght wele knowe ye, that women be
But feble for to fyght;
No womanhede it is indede
To be bolde as a knyght:
Yet, in such fere yf that ye were
With enemyes day or nyght,
I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande,
To greve them as I myght,
And you to save; as woman have
From deth ‘men’ many one:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Yet take good hede; for ever I drede
That ye coude nat sustayne
The thornie wayes, the depe valèies,
The snowe, the frost, the rayne,
The colde, the hete: for dry, or wete,
We must lodge on the playne;
And, us above, none other rose
But a brake bush, or twayne:
Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve;
And ye wolde gladly than
That I had to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Syth I have here bene partynère
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your wo
Endure, as reson is:
Yet am I sure of one plesùre;
And, shortely, it is this:
That, where ye be, me semeth, pardè,
I coude nat fare amysse.
Without more speche, I you beseche
That we were sone agone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
If ye go thyder, ye must consyder,
Whan ye have lust to dyne,
There shall no mete be for you gete,
Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne.
Ne shetés clene, to lye betwene,
Maden of threde and twyne;
None other house, but leves and bowes,
To cover your hed and myne.
O myne harte swete, this evyll dyéte
Sholde make you pale and wan;
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Amonge the wylde dere, such an archère,
As men say that ye be,
Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle,
Where is so grete plentè:
And water clere of the ryvére
Shall be full swete to me;
With which in hele I shall ryght wele
Endure, as ye shall see:
And, or we go, a bedde or two
I can provyde anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Lo yet, before, ye must do more,
Yf ye wyll go with me:
As cut your here up by your ere,
Your kyrtel by the kne;
With bowe in hande, for to withstande
Your enemyes, yf nede be:
And this same nyght before day-lyght,
To wode-warde wyll I fle.
Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill,
Do it shortely as ye can;
Els wyll I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
I shall as nowe do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede;
To shorte my here, a bowe to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my swete mother, before all other
For you I have most drede:
But nowe, adue! I must ensue,
Where fortune doth me lede.
All this make ye: Now let us fle;
The day cometh fast upon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go,
And I shall tell ye why,—
Your appetyght is to be lyght
Of love, I wele espy:
For, lyke as ye have sayed to me,
In lyke wyse hardely
Ye wolde answére whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde;
And so is a womàn.
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Yf ye take hede, it is no nede
Such wordes to say by me;
For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed,
Or I you loved, pardè:
And though that I of auncestry
A barons daughter be,
Yet have you proved howe I you loved
A squyer of lowe degré;
And ever shall, whatso befall;
To dy therfore anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
A barons chylde to be begylde!
It were a cursed dede;
To be felàwe with an outlawe!
Almighty God forbede!
Yet beter were, the pore squyère
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye sholde say another day,
That, by my cursed dede,
Ye were betray'd: Wherfore, good mayd,
The best rede that I can,
Is, that I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thyng you upbrayd:
But yf ye go, and leve me so,
Than have ye me betrayd.
Remember you wele, howe that ye dele;
For, yf ye, as ye sayd,
Be so unkynde, to leve behynde,
Your love, the not-browne mayd,
Trust me truly, that I shall dy
Sone after ye be gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent;
For in the forest nowe
I have purvayed me of a mayd,
Whom I love more than you;
Another fayrère, than ever ye were,
I dare it wele avowe;
And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe
With other, as I trowe:
It were myne ese, to lyve in pese;
So wyll I, yf I can;
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
She.
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I wyll be your:
And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde,
And courteys every hour;
Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll
Commaunde me to my power:
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
‘Of them I wolde be one;’
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Myne owne dere love, I se the prove
That ye be kynde, and true;
Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe,
The best that ever I knewe.
Be mery and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe,
Ye sholde have cause to rewe:
Be nat dismayed; whatsoever I sayd
To you, whan I began;
I wyll nat to the grene wode go,
I am no banyshed man.
She.
These tydings be more gladd to me,
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they sholde endure:
But it is often sene,
Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke
The wordés on the splene.
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle,
And stele from me, I wene:
Than, were the case worse than it was,
And I more wo-begone:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Ye shall nat nede further to drede;
I wyll nat dysparàge
You, (God defend!) syth ye descend
Of so grete a lynàge.
Nowe undyrstande; to Westmarlande,
Which is myne herytage,
I wyll you brynge; and with a rynge,
By way of maryage
I wyll you take, and lady make,
As shortely as I can:
Thus have you won an erlys son,
And not a banyshed man.”
Author.
“Here may ye se, that women be
In love, meke, kynde, and stable:
Late never man reprove them than,
Or call them variable;
But, rather, pray God, that we may
To them be comfortable;
Which sometyme proveth such, as he loveth,
Yf they be charytable.
For syth men wolde that women sholde
Be meke to them each one;
Moche more ought they to God obey,
And serve but hym alone.
This (which a learned friend supposes to be the first Edition) is in folio: the folios are numbered at the bottom of the leaf: the Song begins at folio 75.
VII. A BALET BY THE EARL RIVERS.
The amiable light, in which the character of Anthony Widville the gallant Earl Rivers has been placed by the elegant Author of the Catal. of Noble Writers, interests us in whatever fell from his pen. It is presumed therefore that the insertion of this little Sonnet will be pardoned, tho' it should not be found to have much poetical merit. It is the only original Poem known of that nobleman's; his more voluminous works being only translations. And if we consider that it was written during his cruel confinement in Pomfret castle a short time before his execution in 1483, it gives us a fine picture of the composure and steadiness with which this stout earl beheld his approaching fate.
The verses are preserved by Rouse a contemporary historian, who seems to have copied them from the Earl's own hand writing. In tempore, says this writer, incarcerationis apud Pontem-fractum edidit unum Balet in anglicis, ut mihi monstratum est, quod subsequitur sub his verbis: Sum what musyng, &c. “Rossi Hist. 8vo. 2 Edit. p. 213.” The 2d Stanza is, notwithstanding, imperfect, and we have inserted asterisks, to denote the defect.
This little piece, which perhaps ought rather to have been printed in stanzas of eight short lines, is written in imitation of a poem of Chaucer's, that will found in Urry's Edit. 1721. pag. 555. beginning thus,
“And sore sighying, All desolate.
“Me remembrying of my livyng
“My death wishyng Bothe erly and late.
“That wote ye what, Out of mesure
“My life I hate; Thus desperate
“In such pore estate, Doe I endure, &c.”
In remembring the unstydfastnes;
This world being of such whelyng,
Me contrarieng, what may I gesse?
Is now to sese my wofull chaunce.
Lo ‘is’ this traunce now in substaunce,
[OMITTED] such is my dawnce.
Bowndyn am I, and that gretly, to be content:
Seyng playnly, that fortune doth wry
All contrary from myn entent.
Hytt is ny spent. Welcome fortune!
But I ne went thus to be shent,
But sho hit ment, such is hur won.
VIII. CUPID'S ASSAULT: BY LORD VAUX.
The Reader will think that infant Poetry grew apace between the times of Rivers and Vaux, tho' nearly contemporaries; if the following Song is the composition of that Sir Nicholas (afterwards Lord) Vaux, who was the shining ornament of the court of Henry VII. and died in the year 1523.
And yet to this Lord it is attributed by Puttenham in his “Art of Eng. Poesie, 1589. 4to.” a writer commonly well informed: take the passage at large. “In this figure [Counterfait Action] the Lord Nicholas Vaux, a noble gentleman and much delighted in vulgar making, and a man otherwise of no great learning, but having herein a marvelous facilitie, made a dittie representing the Battayle and Assault of Cupide, so excellently well, as for the gallant and propre application of his fiction in every part, I cannot choose but set downe the greatest part of his ditty, for in truth it cannot be amended. When Cupid scaled, &c.” p. 200.—For a father account in Nicholas Lord Vaux see Mr. Walpole's Noble Authors, Vol. 1.
The following Copy is printed from the first Edit. of Surrey's Poems, 1557, 4to.
—See another Song of Lord Vaux's in the preceeding Vol. Book II. No. II.Wherin my hart lay wounded sore;
The batry was of such a sort,
That I must yelde or die therfore.
How he is banner did display:
Alarme, alarme, he gan to call:
And bad his souldiours kepe aray.
Were pearced hartes with teares besprent,
In silver and sable to declare
The stedfast love, he alwayes ment.
In colours like to white and blacke,
With powder and with pelletes prest
To bring the fort to spoile and sacke.
Stode in the rampire brave and proude,
For spence of pouder he spared not
Assault! assault! to crye aloude.
Eche pece discharged a lovers loke;
Which had the power to rent, and tore
In any place whereas they toke.
The scaling ladders were up set,
And Beautie walked up and downe,
With bow in hand, and arrowes whet.
And shrouded him under ‘his’ targe;
As one the worthiest of them all,
And aptest for to geve the charge.
And halberders with handy strokes;
The argabushe in fleshe it lightes,
And duns the ayre with misty smokes.
When shot and powder gins to want,
I hanged up my flagge of truce,
And pleaded for my livès grant.
And Beauty entred with her band,
With bagge and baggage, sely wretch,
I yelded into Beauties hand.
And every souldier to retire,
And Mercy wyll'd with spede to fet
Me captive bound as prisoner.
Hath served you at all assayes,
I yeld to you without delay
Here of the fortresse all the kayes.
At whom you shot at with your eye;
Nedes must you with your handy warke
Or salve my sore, or let me die.
Since the foregoing Song was first printed off, reasons have occurred, which incline me to believe that Lord Vaux the poet, was not the Lord Nicholas Vaux, who died in 1523, but rather a successor of his in the title.—For in the first place it is remarkable that all the old writers mention Lord Vaux the poet, as contemporary or rather posterior to Sir Thomas Wyat, and the E. of Surrey, neither of which made any figure till long after the death of the first Lord Nicholas Vaux. Thus Puttenham in his “Art of English Poesie, 1589.” in p. 48. having named Skelton, adds, “In the latter end of the same kings raigne [Henry VIII.] sprong up a new company of courtly Makers, [poets] of whom Sir Thomas Wyat th'elder, and Henry Earl of Surrey were the two chieftaines, who having travailed into Italie, and there tasted the sweet and stately measures and stile of the Italian poesie . . greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poesie . . . . In the same time, or not long after was the Lord Nicholas Vaux, a man of much facilitie in vulgar makings .”—Webbe in his Discourse of English Poetrie, 1586. ranges them in the following order, “The E. of Surrey, the Lord Vaux, Norton, Bristow.” And Gascoigne in the place quoted in the 1st vol. of this work, [B. II. No. II.] mentions Lord Vaux after Surrey.—Again, the stile and measure of Lord Vaux's pieces seem too refined and polished for the age of Henry VII. and rather resemble the smoothness and harmony of Surrey and Wyat, than the rude metre of Skelton and Hawes:—But what puts the matter out of all doubt, in the British Museum is a copy of his poem, I lothe that I did love, [vid. vol. 1. ubi supra] with this title, “Adyttye or sonet made by the Lord Vaus, in the time of the noble Queene Marye, representing the image of Death.”
Harl. MSS. No. 1703. §. 25.It is evident then that Lord Vaux the poet was not he that flourished in the reign of Henry vij. but either his son, or grandson: and yet according to Dugdale's Baronage, the former
Thomas Lord Vaux of Harrowden in Northamptonshire was summoned to parliament in 1531. When he died, does not appear; but he probably lived till the latter end of Queen Mary's reign, since his son
William was not summoned to parl. till the last year of that reign, in 1558. This Lord died in 1595. See Dugdale, V. 2. p. 304.—Upon the whole I am inclined to believe that Lord Thomas was the Poet.
IX. SIR ALDINGAR.
This old fabulous legend is given from the Editor's folio MS, with a few conjectural emendations, and the insertion of 3 or 4 stanzas to supply defects in the original copy.
It has been suggested to the Editor, that the Author of this Poem seems to have had in his eye the story of Gunhilda, who is sometimes called Eleanor, and was married to the Emperor (here called King) Henry.
Sir Aldingar they him call;
A falser steward than he was one,
Servde not in bower nor hall.
Her deere worshippe to betraye:
Our queene she was a good womàn,
And evermore sayd him naye.
With her hee was never content,
Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,
In a fyer to have her brent.
A lazar both blinde and lame:
He took the lazar upon his backe,
And on the queenes bed him layne.
“Looke thou go not hence away;
“Ile make thee a whole man and a sound
“In two howers of the day.”
And hyed him to our king:
“If I might have grace, as I have space,
“Sad tydings I could bring.”
Saye on the soothe to mee.
“Our queene hath chosen a new new love,
“And shee will have none of thee.
“The lesse had beene her shame;
“But she hath chose her a lazar man,
“A lazar both blinde and lame.”
The tydings thou tellest to me,
Then I will make thee a riche riche knight,
Riche both of golde and fee.
As God nowe grant it bee!
Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood,
Shall hang on the gallows tree.
And opend to him the dore.
A lodlye love, king Henrye sayd,
For our queene dame Elinore!
Here on my sword thoust dye;
But a payre of new gallowes shall now be built,
And there shalt thou hang on hye.
And an angry man was hee;
And soone he found queene Elinore,
That bride so bright of bleo.
And Christ you save and see;
Heere you have chosen a newe newe love,
And you will have none of mee.
The lesse had been your shame:
But you have chose you a lazar man,
A lazar both blinde and lame.
And brent all shalt thou bee.—
“Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene,
Sir Aldingar's false to mee.
My heart with griefe will brast.
I had thought swevens had never beene true;
I have proved them true at last.
In my bed wheras I laye,
I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast
Had carried my crowne awaye;
And all my faire head-geere:
And he wolde worrye me with his tush
And to his nest y-beare:
A merlin him they call,
Which untill the grounde did strike the grype,
That dead he downe did fall.—
A battell wolde I prove,
To fight with that traitor Aldingar;
Att him I cast my glove.
My liege, grant me a knight
To fight with that traitor Aldingar,
To maintaine me in my right.”
To seeke thee a knight therin:
If thou find not a knight in forty dayes
Thy bodye it must brenn.”
By north and south bedeene:
But never a champion colde she find,
Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.
Noe helpe there might be had;
Many a teare shed our comelye queene
And aye her hart was sad.
And knelt upon her knee,
“Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame,
I trust yet helpe may be:
And with the same me binde;
That never will I return to thee,
Till I some helpe may finde.”
Oer hill and dale about:
But never a champion colde she finde,
Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.
When our good queene must dye;
All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle,
When she found no helpe was nye.
And the salt teares fell from her eye:
When lo! as she rode by a rivers side,
She met with a tinye boye.
All clad in mantle of golde;
He seemed noe more in mans likenèsse,
Then a child of four yeere olde.
And what doth cause you moane?
The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke,
But fast she pricked on.
And greete thy queene from mee:
When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,
Now helpe enoughe may bee.
In her bedd, wheras shee laye;
How when the grype and the grimly beast
Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,
And saved her from his clawes:
Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,
For heaven will fende her cause.
And her hart it lept for glee:
And when she told her gracious dame
A gladd womàn was shee.
No helpe appeared nye:
Then woeful, woeful was her hart,
And the teares stood in her eye.
And a stake was made of tree;
And now queene Elinore forth was led,
A sorrowful sight to see.
And three times spake on hye:
Giff any good knight will fende this dame,
Come forth, or shee must dye.
No helpe appeared nye:
And now the fyer was lighted up,
Queen Elinore she must dye.
As hot as hot might bee;
When riding upon a little white steed,
The tinye boy they see.
And loose our comelye queene:
I am come to fight with sir Aldingar,
And prove him a traitor keene.”
But when he saw the chylde,
He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe,
And weened he had been beguylde.
And eyther fighte or flee;
I trust that I shall avenge the wronge,
Thoughe I am so small to see.
So gilt it dazzled the ee;
The first stroke stricken at Aldingar
Smote off his leggs by the knee.
And fight upon thy feete,
For and thou thrivest, as thou beginnest,
Of height wee shal be meete.
While I am a man alive.
A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr,
Me for to houzle and shrive.
Bot shee wolde never consent;
Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge
In a fyer to have her brent.
A lazar both blinde and lame:
I tooke the lazar upon my backe,
And on her bedd him layne.
These tidings sore to tell.
But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar,
Falsing never doth well.
The short time I must live.
Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar,
As freely I forgive.
And love her as thy life,
For never had a king in Christentye,
A truer and fairer wife.
And loosed her full sone:
Then turnd to look for the tinye boye;
—The boye was vanisht and gone.
And stroakt him with his hand:
The lazar under the gallowes tree
All whole and sounde did stand.
Was comelye, straight and tall;
King Henrye made him his head stewàrde
To wayte withinn his hall.
X. THE GABERLUNZIE MAN.
A Scottish Song.
Tradition assures us that the author of this song was K. James V. of Scotland. This prince (whose character for wit and libertinism bears a great resemblance to that of his gay successor Charles II.) was noted for strolling about his dominions in disguise , and for his frequent gallantries with country girls. Two adventures of this kind he hath celebrated with his own pen, viz. in this ballad of The Gaberlunzie Man; and in another intitled The Jolly Beggar, beginning thus,
And he tuik up his quarters into a land'art toun.
Fa, la, la, &c.
It seems to be the latter of these ballads (which was too licentious to be admitted into this collection) that is meant in the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors , where the ingenious writer remarks, That there is something very ludicrous in the young woman's distress when she thought her first favour had been thrown away upon a beggar.
Bp. Tanner has attributed to James V. the celebrated ballad of Christ's Kirk on the Green, which better authorities ascribe to his ancestor James I. and which has all the internal marks of being the production of an earlier age.
As for K. James V. he died Dec. 13th, 1542, aged 33.
Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
Saying, Goodwife, for zour courtesie,
Will ze lodge a silly poor man?
The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
And down azont the ingle he sat;
My dochters shoulders he gan to clap,
And cadgily ranted and sang.
As first when I saw this countrie,
How blyth and merry wad I bee!
And I wad nevir think lang.
He grew canty, and she grew fain;
But little did her auld minny ken
What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
When wooing they were sa thrang.
As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
Tis I wad lay thee by my back,
And awa wi' me thou sould gang.
And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
Ild clead me braw, and lady-like,
And awa with thee Ild gang.
They raise a wee before the cock,
And wyliely they shot the lock,
Up the morn the auld wife raise,
And at her leisure put on her claiths,
Syne to the servants bed she gaes
To speir for the silly poor man.
The strae was cauld, he was away,
She clapt her hands, cryd, dulefu' day!
For some of our geir will be gane.
Some ran to coffers, and some to kists,
But nought was stown that could be mist,
She dancid her lane, cryd, praise be blest,
I have lodgd a leal poor man.
The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,
Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
And bid her come quickly ben.
The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
The sheets was cauld, she was away,
And fast to her goodwife can say,
Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.
And hast ze, find these traitors agen;
For shees be burnt, and hees be slein.
Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit,
The wife was wood, and out o'her wit;
She could na gang, nor yet could she sit,
But ay did curse and did ban.
Fou snug in a glen, where nane could see,
The twa, with kindlie sport and glee,
Cut frae a new cheese a whang.
The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,
To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.
Quo she, to leave thee, I will be laith,
My winsome gaberlunzie-man.
Ill fardly wad she crook her mou,
Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,
Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.
My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;
And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,
To follow me frae toun to toun,
And carrie the gaberlunzie on.
And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
Whilk is a gentil trade indeed
Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
And draw a black clout owre my ee,
A criple or blind they will cau mee:
While we sall sing and be merrie—o.
XI. ON THOMAS LORD CROMWELL.
It is ever the fate of a disgraced minister to be forsaken by his friends, and insulted by his enemies, always reckoning among the latter the giddy inconstant multitude. We have here a spurn at fallen greatness from some angry partisan of declining popery, who could never forgive the downfall of their Diana, and loss of their craft. The ballad seems to have been composed between the time of Cromwell's commitment to the tower June 11. 1540, and that of his being beheaded July 28. following. A short interval! but Henry's passion for Catharine Howard would admit of no delay. Notwithstanding our libeller, Cromwell had many excellent qualities; his great fault was too much obsequiousness to the arbitrary will of his master; but let it be considered that this master had raised him from obscurity, and that the high-born nobility had shewn him the way in every kind of mean and servile compliance.—The original copy printed at London in 1540, is intitled, “A newe ballade made of Thomas Crumwel, called Trolle on away.” To it is prefixed this distich by way of burthen,
Synge heave and howe rombelowe trolle on away.
Of that false traytoure Thomas Crumwel,
Now that he is set to learne to spell.
Synge trolle on away.
Thou haddyst fayre tyme, but thou lackydyst grace;
Thy cofers with golde thou fyllydst a pace.
Synge, &c.
Thou lockydst them vp where no man wyst,
Tyll in the kynges treasoure suche thinges were myst.
Synge, &c.
Thy marchaundyse sayled over the sandes,
Therfore nowe thou art layde fast in bandes.
Synge, &c.
Perceyud myschefe kyndlyd in thy face,
Then it was tyme to purchase the a place.
Synge, &c.
Mouyd with petye, and made the hys seruyture;
But thou, as a wretche, suche thinges dyd procure.
Synge, &c.
One God, one fayth, and one kynge catholyke,
For thou hast bene so long a scysmatyke.
Synge, &c.
But euer was full of iniquite:
Wherfore all this lande hathe ben troubled with the.
Synge, &c.
Agaynst the churche thou baddest them stycke;
Wherfore nowe thou haste touchyd the quycke.
Synge, &c.
Thou woldyst not suffre within thy walles;
Nor let vs praye for all chrysten soules.
Synge, &c.
Whyther of Chayme, or Syschemell,
Or else sent vs frome the deuyll of hell.
Synge, &c.
But couetyd euer to clymme to hye,
And nowe haste thou trodden thy shoo awrye.
Synge, &c.
Wherfore al Englande doth hate the, as I suppose,
Bycause thou wast false to the redolent rose.
Synge, &c.
Upon thy gresy fullers stocke;
Wherfore lay downe thy heade vpon this blocke.
Synge, &c.
And for thy carcas care thou nought,
Let it suffre payne, as it hath wrought.
Synge, &c.
And prynce Edwarde that goodly flowre,
With all hys lordes of great honoure.
Synge trolle on awaye, syng trolle on away.
Hevye and how rombelowe trolle on awaye.
The foregoing Piece gave rise to a poetic controversy, which was carried on thro' a succession of seven or eight Ballads written for and against Lord Cromwell. These are all preserved in the archives of the Antiquarian Society, in a large folio Collection of Proclamations, &c. made in the Reigns of K. Hen. VIII. K. Edw. VI. Q. Mary. Q. Eliz. K. James I. &c.
XII. HARPALUS.
An ancient English Pastoral.
This beautiful poem, which is perhaps the first attempt at pastoral writing in our language, is preserved among the Songs and Sonnettes of the earl of Surrey, &c. 4 to. in that part of the collection, which consists of pieces by uncertain auctours. These poems were first published in 1557, ten years after that accomplished nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of Henry VIII: but it is presumed most of them were composed before the death of sir Thomas Wyatt in 1541.
See Surrey's poems, 4 to. fol. 19. 49.Tho' written perhaps near half a century before the Shepherd's calendar , this will be found far superior to any of those Eclogues in natural unaffected sentiments, in simplicity of style, in easy flow of versification, and all other beauties of pastoral poetry. Spenser ought to have profited more by so excellent a model.
As fresh, as any flowre;
Whom Harpalus the herdman prayde
To be his paramour.
Were herdmen both yfere:
And Phylida could twist and spinne,
And thereto sing full clere.
For Harpalus to winne:
For Corin was her onely joye,
Who forst her not a pinne.
How often garlandes make
Of couslips and of columbine?
And al for Corin's sake.
And forced more the field:
Of lovers lawe he toke no cure;
For once he was begilde.
His labour all was lost;
For he was fardest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.
And drye as clot of clay:
His fleshe it was consumed cleane;
His colour gone away.
His heare hong all unkempt:
A man most fit even for the grave,
Whom spitefull love had shent.
His face besprent with teares:
It semde unhap had him long ‘hatcht’,
In mids of his dispaires.
As one forlorne was he;
Upon his head alwayes he ware
A wreath of wyllow tree.
And he sate in the dale;
And thus with sighes and sorowes shril,
He gan to tell his tale.
Unhappiest under sunne!
The cause of thine unhappy day,
By love was first begunne.
A tigre to make tame,
That settes not by thy love a leeke;
But makes thy griefe her game.
The frost into ‘a’ flame;
As for to turne a frowarde hert,
Whom thou so faine wouldst frame.
He leapes among the leaves:
He eates the frutes of thy redresse:
Thou ‘reapst’, he takes the sheaves.
And harke your herdmans sounde:
Whom spitefull love, alas! hath slaine,
Through-girt with many a wounde.
That here your pasture takes:
I se that ye be not begilde
Of these your faithfull makes.
The bucke harde by the doe:
The turtle dove is not unkinde
To him that loves her so.
The yong cowe hath the bulle:
The calfe with many a lusty lambe
Do fede their hunger full.
Thee, Phylida, so faire:
For I may say that I have bought
Thy beauty all tò deare.
With beautie should have part?
Or els that such great tyranny
Should dwell in womans hart?
She cruelly is prest;
To th'ende that I may want my breath:
My dayes been at the best.
And do not stoppe thine eares;
That she may feele within her brest
The paines of my dispaires:
That she may crave her fee:
As I have done in great distresse,
That loved her faithfully.
Her slave, and eke her thrall:
Write you, my frendes, upon my grave
This chaunce that is befall.
“By cruell love now slaine:
“Whom Phylida unjustly thus,
“Hath murdred with disdaine.”
XIII. ROBIN AND MAKYNE.
An ancient Scottish Pastoral.
The palm of pastoral poesy is here contested by a cotemporary writer with the author of the foregoing. The reader will decide their respective merits. The author of this poem has one advantage over his rival, in having his name handed down to us. Mr. Robert Henryson (to whom we are indebted for it) appears to so much advantage among the writers of eclogue, that we are sorry we can give little other account of him, besides what is contained in the following eloge, written by W. Dunbar, a Scottish poet, who lived about the middle of the 16th century:
“With gude Mr. Robert Henryson.”
Indeed some little farther insight into the history of this Scottish bard is gained from the title prefixed to some of his poems preserved in the British Museum; viz. “The morall Fabillis of Esop compylit be Maister Robert Henrisoun, scolmaister of Dumfermling, 1571.”
Harleian MSS. 3865. § 1.In Ramsay's Evergreen, Vol. I. whence the above distich, and the following beautiful poem are extracted, are preserved two other little Doric pieces by Henryson; the one intitled The Lyon and the Mouse; the other, The garment of gude Ladyis.
Keipand a flock of fie,
Quhen mirry Makyne said him till,
“O Robin rew on me
“I haif thee luivt baith loud and still,
“Thir towmonds twa or thre:
“Doubtless bot dreid Ill die.
Naithing of luve I knaw,
But keip my sheip undir yon wod:
Lo quhair they raik on raw.
Quhat can have mart thee in thy mude,
Thou Makyne to me schaw;
Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?
Fain wald I leir that law.
“Tak thair an A, B, C;
“Be keynd, courtas, and fair of feir,
“Wyse, hardy, ‘bauld’ and frie,
“Sae that nae danger do the deir,
“What dule in dern thou drie;
“Press ay to pleis, and blyth appeir,
“Be patient and privie.”
I wat not quhat is luve;
But I half marvel uncertain
Quhat makes thee thus wanruse.
The wedder is fair, and I am fain;
My sheep gais hail abuve;
And we sould pley us on the plain,
They wald us baith repruve.
“And wirk all as I reid;
“And thou sall haif my heart all hale,
“Eik and my maiden-heid:
“Sen God, he sends ‘us’ bute for bale,
“And for murning remeid,
“I'dern with thee but give I dale,
“Doubtless I am but deid.”
Gif ye will meit me heir,
Maybe my sheip may gang besyde,
Quhyle we have liggd full neir;
But maugre haif I, gif I byde,
Frae thay begin to steir,
Quhat lyes on heart I will nocht hyd,
Then Makyne mak gude cheir.
“I luve but thee alane.”
Makyne, adieu! the sun goes west,
The day is neir-hand gane.
“Robin, in dule I am so drest,
“That luve will be my bane.”
Makyn, gae luve quhair-eir ye list,
For lemans I luid nane.
“I sich and that full fair.”
Makyne, I have bene here this quyle;
At hame I wish I were.
“Robin, my hinny, talk and smyle,
“Gif thou will do nae mair.”
Makyne, som other man beguyle,
For hameward I will fare.
As light as leif on tree;
But Makyne murnt and made lament,
Scho trow'd him neir to see.
Robin he brayd attowre the bent:
Then Makyne cried on hie,
“Now may thou sing, for I am shent!
“Quhat can ail luve at me?”
And weirylie could weip;
Then Robin in a full fair dale
Assemblit all his sheip:
Be that some part of Makyne's ail,
Out-throw his heart could creip,
Hir fast he followt to assail,
And till her tuke gude keip.
A word for ony thing;
For all my luve, it sall be thyne,
Withouten departing.
All hale thy heart for till have myne,
Is all my coveting;
My sheip quhyle morn till the hours nyne,
Will need of nae keiping.
“In jests and storys auld,
“The man that will not when he may,
“Sall have nocht when he wald.
“I pray to heaven baith nicht and day,
“Be eiked their cares sae cauld,
“That presses first with thee to play
“Be forrest, firth, or fauld.”
The wether warm and fair,
And the grene wod richt neir-hand by,
To walk attowre all where:
There may nae janglers us espy,
That is in luve contrair;
Therin, Makyne, baith you and I
Unseen may mak repair.
“And quyt brocht till an end.
“And nevir again thereto perfay,
“Sall it be as thou wend;
“For of my pain thou made but play,
“I words in vain did spend;
“As thou hast done sae sall I say,
“Murn on, I think to mend.”
My heart on thee is set;
I'll evermair to thee be leil,
Quhyle I may live but lett,
Never to fail as uthers feil,
Quhat grace so eir I get.
“Robin, with thee I will not deal;
“Adieu, for this we met.”
Outowre the holtis hair;
Pure Robin murnd and Makyne leugh;
Scho sang, and he sicht sair:
Scho left him in baith wae and wreuch,
In dolor and in care,
Keipand his herd under a heuch,
Amang the rushy gair.
XIV. GENTLE HERDSMAN, TELL TO ME.
Dialogue between a Pilgrim and Herdsman.
The scene of this beautiful old ballad is laid near Walsingham in Norfolk, where was anciently an image of the Virgin Mary, famous over all Europe for the numerous pilgrimages made to it, and the great riches it possessed. Erasmus has given a very exact and humorous description of the superstitions practised there in his time. See his account of the Virgo parathalassia, in his colloquy, intitled, Peregrinatio religionis ergo. He tells us, the rich offerings in silver, gold, and precious stones, that were there shewn him, were incredible, there being scarce a person of any note in England, but what some time or other paid a visit, or sent a present to our lady of Walsingham . At the dissolution of the monasteries in 1538, this splendid image, with another from Ipswich, was carried to Chelsea, and there burnt in the presence of commissioners; who, we trust, did not burn the jewels and the finery.
This poem is printed from a copy in the Editor's folio MS. which had greatly suffered by the hand of time; but vestiges of several of the lines remaining, some conjectural supplements have been attempted, which, for greater exactness, are in this one ballad distinguished by Italicks.
Of curtesy I thee pray,
Unto the towne of Walsingham
Which is the right and ready way.
“The way is hard for to be gone;
“And verry crooked are those pathes
“For you to find out all alone.”
And the way never soe ill,
Itt were not enough for mine offence;
Itt is soe grievous and soe ill.
“Thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene;
“Time hath not given thee leave, as yett,
“For to committ so great a sinne.”
If thou knewest soe much as I;
My witts, and thoughts, and all the rest,
Have weil deserved for to dye.
My clothes, and sexe doe differ farr:
I am a woman, woe is me!
Born to greeffe and irksome care.
My wayward cruelty could kill:
And though my teares will nought avail,
Most dearely I bewail him still.
None ever more sincere colde bee;
Of comely mien and shape he was,
And tenderlye hee loved mee.
I grewe so proud his paine to see,
That I, who did not know myselfe,
Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.
As womens lookes are often soe,
He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth,
Uuless I willed him soe to doe.
To see I pityed not his greeffe,
He gott him to a secrett place,
And there hee dyed without releeffe.
And sacriffice my tender age;
And every day Ile begg my bread,
To undergoe this pilgrimage.
And ever will doe till I dye;
And gett me to some secrett place,
For soe did hee, and so will I.
But keepe my secretts I thee pray;
Unto the towne of Walsingham
Show me the right and readye way.
“For he must ever guide thee still:
“Turne downe that dale, the right hand path,
“And soe, faire pilgrim, fare thee well!”
XV. K. EDWARD IV. AND TANNER OF TAMWORTH
Was a story of great fame among our ancestors. The author of the Art of English poesie, 1589, 4to, seems to speak of it, as a real fact.—Describing that vicious mode of speech, which the Greeks called Acyron, i. e. “When we use a dark and obscure word, utterly repugnant to that we should express;” he adds, “Such manner of uncouth speech did the Tanner of Tamworth use to king Edward the fourth; which Tanner, having a great while mistaken him, and used very broad talke with him, at length perceiving by his traine that it was the king, was afraide he should be punished for it, [and] said thus, with a certaine rude repentance,
“I hope I shall be hanged to-morrow,for [I feare me] I shall be hanged; whereat the king laughed a good , not only to see the Tanner's vaine feare, but also to heare his illshapen terme; and gave
“And Edward wer in this place,
“Hee shold not touch this tonne:
“He wold be wroth with John I hope,
“Thereffore I beshrew the soupe,
“That in his mouth shold come.”
Pt. 2. st. 24.
The following text is selected from two copies in black letter. The one in the Bodleyan library, intitled, “A merrie, pleasant, and delectable historie betweene K. Edward the Fourth, and a Tanner of Tamworth, &c. printed at London, by John Danter, 1596.” This copy, ancient as it now is, appears to have been modernized and altered at the time it was published; but many vestiges of the more ancient readings were recovered from another copy, (though more recently printed,) in one sheet folio, without date, in the Pepys collection.
And blossoms bedecke the tree,
King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
Some pastime for to see.
With horne, and eke with bowe;
To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye,
With all his lordes a rowe.
By eight of clocke in the day,
When he was ware of a bold tannèr
Come ryding along the waye.
Fast buttoned under his chin,
And under him a good cow-hide,
And a mare of four shilling .
Under the grene wood spraye;
And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
To weet what he will saye.
Thou art welcome, sir, sayd hee.
“The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
I praye thee to shewe to mee.”
Fro the place where thou dost stand?
The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
Turne in upon thy right hand.”
Thou doest but jest I see:
Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
And I pray thee wend with mee.
I hold thee out of thy witt:
All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare,
And I am fasting yett.
No daynties we will spare;
All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
And I will paye thy fare.”
Thou payest no fare of mine:
I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
Than thou hast pence in thine.
And send them well to priefe.
The tanner wolde faine have beene away,
For he weende he had beene a thiefe.
Of thee I am in great feare,
For the cloathes, thou wearest upon thy backe,
Might beseeme a lord to weare.
I tell you, sir, by the roode.
“Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
And standest in midds of thy goode.”
As you ryde farre and neare?
“I heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse,
But that cowe-hides are deare.”
I marvell what they bee?”
What art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
I carry one under mee.”
I praye thee tell me trowe.
“I am a barker, sir, by my trade;
Nowe tell me what art thou?”
That am forth of service worne;
And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
Thy cunninge for to learne.
That thou my prentise were:
Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
By fortye shilling a yere.
If thou wilt not seeme strange:
Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
Yet with thee I faine wold change.
As change full well maye wee,
By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellòwe,
I will have some boot of thee.”
I sweare, so mote I thee:
My horse is better than thy mare,
And that thou well mayst see.
And softly she will fare:
Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
Aye skipping here and theare.”
Now tell me in this stound.
“Noe pence, nor half pence, by my faye,
But a noble in gold so round.”
Sith thou will have it of mee.”
I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner,
Thou hadst not had one penniè.
A change we must abide,
Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.
I sweare, so mote I thee;
Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
If thou woldst give it to mee.
That of the cow was hilt;
And threwe it upon the king's sadèlle,
That was soe fayrelye gilte.
'Tis time that I were gone:
When I come home to Gyllian, my wife,
Sheel say I am a gentilmon.”
The tanner a f--- lett fall.
Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the kyng,
Thy courtesye is but small.
And his foote in the stirrup was;
He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
Whether it were golde or brass.
And eke the blacke cowe-horne;
He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
As the devill had him borne.
And held by the pummil fast:
At length the tanner came tumbling downe;
His necke he had well-nye brast.
With mee he shall not byde.
“My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.
As change full well may wee,
By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr,
I will have some boote of thee.”
Nowe tell me in this stounde?
“Noe pence nor halfpence, sir, by my faye,
But I will have twentye pound.”
And twentye I have of thine:
And I have one more, which we will spend
Together at the wine.”
And blewe both loude and shrille:
And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
Fast ryding over the hille.
That ever I sawe this daye!
Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes
Will beare my cowe-hide away.
I sweare, soe mote I thee:
But they are the lords of the north countrèy,
Here come to hunt with mee.
And knelt downe on the grounde:
Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
He had lever than twentye pounde.
A coller he loud did crye:
Then woulde he lever then twentye pound,
He had not beene so nighe.
I trowe it will breed sorrowe:
After a coller comes a halter,
And I shall be hanged to-morrowe.
For the sport thou hast shewn to me,
I wote noe halter thou shalt weare,
But thou shalt have a knight's fee.
With tenements faire beside:
'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.”
For the favour thou hast me showne;
If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth,
Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.
In the reign of Edward IV. Dame Cecill, lady of Torboke, in her will dated March 7. A. D. 1466; among many other bequests has this, “Also I will that my sonne Thomas of Torboke have 13 s. 4 d. to buy him an horse.” Vid Harleian Catalog. 2176. 27.—Now if 13 s. 4 d. would purchase a steed fit for a person of quality, a tanner's horse might reasonably be valued at four or five shillings.
A collar was, I believe, anciently used in the ceremony of conferring knighthood. Or perhaps the King used the French word Acoller, signifying to give the Acolade, or blow that was to dub him a knight. This the Tanner ignorantly mistakes for A collar.
XVI. AS YE CAME FROM THE HOLY LAND.
Dialogue between a Pilgrim and Traveller.
The scene of this song is the same, as in num. XIV. The pilgrimage to Walsingham suggested the plan of many popular pieces. In the Pepys collection, Vol. I. p. 226, is a kind of Interlude in the old ballad style, of which the first stanza alone is worth reprinting,
To the shrine with speede,
Met I with a jolly palmer
In a pilgrimes weede.
Now God you save, you jolly palmer!
“Welcome, lady gay,
“Oft have I sued to thee for love.”
—Oft have I said you nay.
The pilgrimages undertaken on pretence of religion, were often productive of affairs of gallantry, and led the votaries to no other shrine than that of Venus .
The following ballad was once very popular; it is quoted in Fletcher's “Knt. of the burning pestle,” Act 2. sc. ult. and in another old play, called, “Hans Beer-pot, his invisible Comedy, &c.” 4to, 1618; Act I.—The copy below was communicated to the Editor by the late Mr. Shenstone as corrected by him from an ancient MS, and supplied with a concluding stanza.
We have placed this, and Gentle Herdsman, &c. thus early in the volume, upon a presumption that they must have been written, if not before the dissolution of the monasteries, yet while the remembrance of them was fresh in the minds of the people.
Of ‘blessed’ Walsingham,
O met you not with my true love
As by the way ye came?
“That have met many a one,
“As I came from the holy land,
“That have both come, and gone?”
But as the heavens faire;
There is none hath her form divine,
Either in earth, or ayre.
“With an angelicke face;
“Who like a nymphe, a queene appeard
“Both in her gait, her grace.”
And left me all alone;
Who some time loved me as her life,
And called me her owne.
“And a new way doth take,
“That some time loved thee as her life,
“And thee her joy did make?”
Growe old now as you see;
Love liketh not the falling fruite,
Nor yet the withered tree.
Forgetting promise past:
He is blind, or deaf, whenere he list;
His faith is never fast.
And yieldes a trustlesse joye;
Wonne with a world of toil and care,
And lost ev'n with a toye.
Or Loves faire name abusde,
Beneathe which many vaine desires,
And follyes are excusde.
‘Which viewless vestals tend,
‘That burnes for ever in the soule,
‘And knowes nor change, nor end.’
Even in the time of Langland, pilgrimages to Walsingham were not unfavourable to the rites of Venus. Thus in his Visions of Pierce Plowman, fo. 1.
Hermets on a heape, with hoked staves,Wenten to Walsingham, and her wenches after.
XVII. HARDYKNUTE.
A Scottish Fragment.
As this fine morsel of heroic poetry hath generally past for ancient, it is here thrown to the end of our earliest pieces; that such as doubt of its age, may the better compare it with other pieces of genuine antiquity. For after all, there is more than reason to suspect, that most of its beauties are of modern date; and that these at least (if not its whole existence) have flowed from the pen of a lady, within this present century. The following particulars may be depended on. One Mrs. Wardlaw, whose maiden name was Halket (aunt to the late Sir Peter Halket of Pitferran in Scotland, who was killed in America along with general Bradock in 1755) pretended she had found this poem, written on shreds of paper, employed for what is called the bottoms of clues. A suspicion arose that it was her own composition. Some able judges asserted it to be modern. The lady did in a manner acknowledge it to be so. Being desired to shew an additional stanza, as a proof of this, she produced the three last beginning with “Loud and schrill,” &c. which were not in the copy that was first printed, The late Lord President Forbes, and Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto (late Lord Justice Clerk for Scotland) who had believed it ancient, contributed to the expence of publishing the first Edition, which came out in folio about the year 1720.—This account is transmitted from Scotland by a gentleman of distinguished rank, learning, and genius, who yet is of opinion, that part of the ballad may be ancient; but retouched and much enlarged by the lady abovementioned. Indeed he hath been informed, that the late William Thompson, the Scottish musician, who
And stately stept he west,
Full seventy zeirs he now had sene,
With skerss sevin zeirsof rest.
He livit quhen Britons breach of faith
Wroucht Scotland meikle wae:
And ay his sword tauld to their cost,
He was their deidly fae.
With halls and touris a hicht,
And guidly chambers fair to se,
Quhair he lodgit mony a knicht.
His dame sae peirless anes and fair,
For chast and bewtie deimt,
Nae marrow had in all the land,
Saif Elenor the quene.
All men of valour stout;
In bluidy ficht with sword in hand
Nyne lost their lives bot doubt:
Four zit remain, lang may they live
To stand by liege and land;
Hie was their fame, hie was their micht,
And hie was their command.
Their sister fast and deir,
Her girdle shawd her midle gimp,
And gowden glist her hair.
Quhat waefou wae her bewtie bred?
Waefou to zung and auld,
Waufou I trow to kyth and kyn,
As story ever tauld.
Puft up with powir and micht,
Landed in fair Scotland the yle,
With mony a hardy knicht.
The tydings to our gude Scots king
Came, as he sat at dyne,
With noble chiefs in braif aray,
Drinking the blude-reid wine.
Zours faes stand on the strand,
Full twenty thousand glittering spears
The king of Norse commands.”
Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray,
Our gude king raise and cryd,
A trustier beast in all the land
A Scots king nevir seyd.
That lives on hill so hie,
To draw his sword, the dreid of faes,
And haste and follow me.
The little page flew swift as dart
Flung by his masters arm,
“Cum down, cum down, lord Hardyknute,
And rid zour king frae harm.”
Sae did his dark-brown brow;
His luiks grew kene, as they were wont
In dangers great to do;
He hes tane a horn as green as glass,
And gien five sounds sae shrill,
That treis in grene wood schuke thereat,
Sae loud rang ilka hill.
Had past that summers morn,
Quhen low down in a grassy dale,
They heard their fatheris horn.
That horn, quod they, neir sounds in peace,
We haif other sport to byde.
And sune they heyd them up the hill,
And sune were at his syde.
To end my lengthned life,
My age micht weil excuse my arm
Frae manly feats of stryfe;
But now that Norse dois proudly boast
Fair Scotland to inthrall,
Its neir be said of Hardyknute,
He feard to ficht or fall.
Thy arrows schute sae leil,
That mony a comely countenance
They haif turnd to deidly pale.
Brade Thomas tak ze but zour lance,
Ze neid nae weapons mair,
Gif ze ficht we' it as ze did anes
Gainst Westmorlands ferss heir.
That runs in forest wyld,
Get me my thousands thrie of men
Well bred to sword and schield:
Bring me my horse and harnisine
My blade of mettal cleir.
If faes kend but the hand it bare,
They sune had fled for feir.
(And tuke her by the hand),
Fairer to me in age zou seim,
Than maids for bewtie famd:
My zoungest son shall here remain
To guard these stately towirs,
And shut the silver bolt that keips
Sae fast zour painted bowirs.”
And then her boddice grene,
Hir silken cords of twirtle twist,
Weil plett with silver schene;
And apron sett with mony a dice
Of neidle-wark sae rare,
Wove by nae hand, as ze may guess,
Saif that of Fairly fair.
Owre hills and mony a glen,
Quhen he came to a wounded knicht
Making a heavy mane;
“Here maun I lye, here maun I dye,
By treacheries false gyles;
Witless I was that eir gaif faith
To wicked womans smyles.”
To lean on silken seat,
My laydis kyndlie care zoud prove,
Quha neir kend deidly hate:
Hir self wald watch ze all the day,
Hir maids a deid of nicht;
And Fairly fair zour heart wald cheir,
As scho stands in zour sicht.
Full lowns the shynand day:
Cheis frae my menzie quhom ze pleis
To leid ze on the way.”
With smyless luke, and visage wan
The wounded knicht replyd,
“Kynd chiftain, zour intent pursue,
For heir I maun abyde.
Can eir be sweit or fair,
But sune beneath sum draping tree,
Cauld death shall end my care.”
With him nae pleiding micht prevail;
Brave Hardyknute in to gain,
With fairest words and reason strong,
Strave courteously in vain.
Lord Chattans land sae wyde;
That lord a worthy wicht was ay,
Quhen faes his courage seyd:
Of Pictish race by mothers syde,
Quhen Picts ruld Caledon,
Lord Chattan claimd the princely maid,
Quhen he saift Pictish crown.
He reicht a rysing heicht,
Quhair braid encampit on the dale,
Norss menzie lay in sicht.
“Zonder my valiant sons and ferss,
Our raging revers wait
On the unconquerit Scottish swaird
To try with us their fate.
Our sauls upon the rude;
Syne braifly schaw zour veins ar filld
With Caledonian blude.”
Then furth he drew his trusty glaive,
Quhyle thousands all around
Drawn frae their sheaths glanst in the sun,
And loud the bougills sound.
In hast his merch he made,
Quhyle, play and pibrochs, minstralls meit
Afore him statly strade.
“Thryse welcum valziant stoup of weir,
Thy nations scheild and pryde;
Thy king nae reason has to feir
Quhen thou art be his syde.”
For thrang scarce could they flie;
The darts clove arrows as they met,
The arrows dart the trie.
Lang did they rage and ficht full ferss,
With little skaith to man,
But bludy bludy was the field,
Or that lang day was done.
The war that luikt lyke play,
Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow,
Sen bows seimt but delay.
Quoth noble Rothsay, “Myne i'll keip,
I wate its bleid a skore.”
Hast up my merry men, cryd the king,
As he rade on before.
With him to mense the faucht,
But on his forehead there did licht
A sharp unsonsie shaft;
As he his hand put up to find
The wound, an arrow kene,
O waefou chance! there pinnd his hand
In midst betweene his ene.
Your mail-coat sall nocht byde
The strength and sharpness of my dart:”
Then sent it thruch his syde.
Another arrow weil he markd,
It persit his neck in twa,
His hands then quat the silver reins,
He law as eard did fa.
Again with micht he drew
And gesture dreid his sturdy bow,
Fast the braid arrow flew:
Wae to the knicht he ettled at;
Lament now quene Elgreid;
Hie dames to wail zour darlings fall,
His zouth and comely meid.
(Of gold weil was it twynd,
Knit lyke the fowlers net, throuch quhilk
His steilly harness shynd)
Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid
Him venge the blude it beirs;
Say, if he face my bended bow,
He sure nae weapon feirs.”
Braid shoulder and arms strong,
Cry'd, “Quhair is Hardyknute sae famd,
And feird at Britains throne:
Thah Britons tremble at his name,
I sune sall make him wail,
That eir my sword was made sae sharp,
Sae saft his coat of mail.”
It lent him zouthfou micht:
“I'm Hardyknute; this day, he cry'd,
To Scotland's king I hecht
To lay thee law, as horses hufe;
My word I mean to keip.”
Syne with the first strakeeir he strake,
He garrd his body bleid.
He sicht with shame and spyte;
“Disgrac'd is now my far-fam'd arm
That left thee power to stryke:”
Then gaif his head a blaw sae fell,
It made him doun to stoup,
As law as he to ladies usit
In courtly gyse to lout.
His bow he marvelld sair,
Sen blaws till then on him but darrd
As touch of Fairly fair:
Norse ferliet too as sair as he
To se his stately luke;
Sae sune as eir he strake a fae,
Sae sune his lyfe he tuke.
Bauld Thomas did advance,
A sturdy fae with luke enrag'd
Up towards him did prance;
He spurd his steid throw thickest ranks
The hardy zouth to quell,
Quha stude unmufit at his approach
His furie to repell.
Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir,
But dreidfull seems the rusty point!”
And loud he leuch in jeir.
“Aft Britons blude has dimd its shyne;
This poynt cut short their vaunt:”
Syne pierc'd the boisteris bairded cheik;
Nae tyme he tuke to taunt.
His stirrup was nae stay,
Sae feible hang his unbent knee
Sure taken he was fey:
Swith on the hardened clay he fell,
Richt far was heard the thud:
But Thomas luikt not as he lay
All waltering in his blude.
On raid he north the plain;
His seim in thrang of fiercest stryfe,
Quhen winner ay the same:
Nor zit his heart dames dimpelit cheik
Could meise saft love to bruik,
Till vengeful Ann returnd his scorn,
Then languid grew his luke.
All panting on the plain,
The fainting corps of warriours lay,
Neir to aryse again;
Neir to return to native land,
Nae mair with blythsom sounds
To boist the glories of the day,
And schaw their shining wounds.
May wash the rocks with teirs,
May lang luke owre the schiples seis
Befoir hir mate appears.
Ceife, Emma, ceise to hope in vain;
Thy lord lyis in the clay;
The valziant Scots nae revers thole
To carry lyfe away.
Set up for monument,
Thousands full fierce that summers day
Filld kene waris black intent.
Let Scots, quhyle Scots, praise Hardyknute,
Let Norse the name ay dreid,
Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird,
Sal latest ages reid.
Sair beat the heavy showir,
Mirk grew the nicht eir Hardyknute
Wan neir his stately towir.
His towir that usd with torches bleise
To shyne sae far at nicht,
Seimd now as black as mourning weid,
Nae marvel sair he sichd.
Thairs nae licht in my hall;
Nae blink shynes round my Fairly fair,
Nor ward stands on my wall.
“Quhat bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say;”—
Nae answer fits their dreid.
“Stand back, my sons, I'll be zour gyde:”
But by they past with speid.
There ceist his brag of weir,
Sair schamit to mynd ocht but his dame,
And maiden Fairly fair.
Black feir he felt, but quhat to feir
He wist not zit with dreid;
Sair schuke his body, sair his limbs,
And all the warrior fled.
Since this poem of Hardyknute was first printed off, still farther information has been received concerning the original manner of its publication, and the additions made to it afterwards.
“The late Dr. John Clerk, a celebrated physician in Edinburgh, one of Lord President Forbes's intimate companions, has left in his own hand writing, an ample account of all the additions and variations made in this celebrated poem, as also two additional stanzas never yet printed.”
The title of the first edition was, “Hardyknute, a Fragment. Edinburgh. 1719.”
Stanzas not in the first edition, but added afterwards in the Evergreen, 1724, 120. are the two, beginning at ver. 129. “Aryse young knicht, &c. to ver. 144.—Instead of ver. 143, 144, as they stand at present, Dr. Clerk's MS. has
Lang courteously in vain.
Again, from ver. 153. Now with his ferss, &c. to 176, are not in the first edit.—In Dr. Clerk's MS. ver. 170, &c. runs thus,
While minstrells play and pibrocks fine
Afore him stately went.
Lastly, from ver. 257. Quhair lyke a fyre, &c. to the end of the poem, were not in the 1st copy. Variation of line the last (v. 336.) is
“He feared a' could be feared.”The two additional stanzas come in between ver. 388. and v. 389. and are these,
Scarce could they reach their aim;
Or reach'd, scarce blood the round point drew,
'Twas all but shot in vain:
Sair wreck'd wi' that day's toils;
E'en fierce-born minds now lang'd for peace,
And curs'd war's cruel broils.
Swords clash'd and harness rang;
But saftly sae ilk blaster blew
The hills and dales fraemang.
Nae echo heard in double dints,
Nor the lang-winding horn,
Nae mair she blew out brade as she
Did eir that summers morn.
This obliging information the Reader owes to David Clerk, M. D. at Edinburgh, son of Dr. John Clerk.
It is perhaps needless to observe, that these two stanzas, as well as most of the variations above, are of inferior merit to the rest of the poem, and are probably first sketches that were afterwards rejected.
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