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 |
1. |
2. |
3. |
3. |
Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
BOOK I.
I
THE ANCIENT BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHASE.
The fine heroic song of Chevy-Chase has ever been admired by competent judges. Those genuine strokes of nature and artless passion, which have endeared it to the most simple readers, have recommended it to the most refined; and it has equally been the amusement of our childhood, and the favourite of our riper years.
Mr. Addison has given an excellent critique on this very popular ballad, but is mistaken with regard to the antiquity of the common received copy; for this, if one may judge from the style, cannot be older than the time of Elizabeth, and was probably written after the elogium of Sir Philip Sidney: perhaps in consequence of it. I flatter myself, I have here recovered the genuine antique poem: the true original song, which appeared rude even in the time of Sir Philip, and caused him to lament, that it was so evil-apparelled in the rugged garb of antiquity.
This curiosity is printed; from an old manuscript, at the end of Hearne's preface to Gul. Newbrigiensis Hist. 1719. 8 vo. vol. 1. To the MS. Copy is subjoined the name of the author, Rychard Sheale : whom Hearne had so little judgment as to suppose to be the same with a R. Sheale, who was living in 1588. But whoever examines the gradation of language and idiom in the following volumes, will be convinced that this is the production of an earlier poet. It is indeed expressly mentioned among some very ancient songs in an old book intituled, The Complaint of Scotland , (fol. 42.) under the title of the Huntis of Chevet, where the two following lines are also quoted;
The Perssee and the Mongumrye mette .That day, that day, that gentil day :
Which, tho' not quite the same as they stand in the ballad, yet differ not more than might be owing to the author's quoting from memory. Indeed whoever considers the style and orthography of this old poem will not be inclined to place it lower than the time of Henry VI: as on the other hand the mention of Iames the Scottish king , with one or two Anachronisms, forbid us to assign it an earlier date. King James I. who was prisoner in this kingdom at the death of
So much for the date of this old ballad: with regard to its subject, altho' it has no countenance from history, there is room to think it had originally some foundation in fact. It was one of the Laws of the Marches frequently renewed between the two nations, that neither party should hunt in the other's borders, without leave from the proprietors or their deputies . There had long been a rivalship between the two martial families of Percy and Douglas, which heightened by the national quarrel, must have produced frequent challenges and struggles for superiority, petty invasions of their respective domains, and sharp contests for the point of honour; which would not always be recorded in history. Something of this kind we may suppose gave rise to the ancient ballad of the Hunting a' the Cheviat . Percy earl of Northumberland had vowed to hunt for three days in the Scottish border without condescending to ask leave from earl Douglas, who was either lord of the soil, or lord warden of the marches. Douglas would not fail to resent the insult, and endeavour to repel the intruders by force: this would naturally
Hearne has printed this ballad without any division of stanzas, in long lines, as he found it in the old written copy: but it is usual to find the distinction of stanzas neglected in ancient MSS; where, to save room, two or three verses are frequently given in one line undivided. See flagrant instances in the Harleian Catalog. No. 2253. s. 29. 34. 61. 70. & passim.
The First Part.
And a vowe to God mayd he,
That he wolde hunte in the mountayns
Off Chyviat within dayes thre,
In the mauger of doughtè Dogles,
And all that ever with him be.
He sayd he wold kill, and cary them away:
Be my feth, sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn,
I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.
With him a myghtye meany;
With fifteen hondrith archares bold;
The wear chosen out of shyars thre
In Cheviat the hillys so he;
The chyld may rue that ys un-born,
It was the mor pitté.
For to reas the dear;
Bomen bickarte uppone the bent
With ther browd aras cleare.
On every syde shear;
Grea-hondes thorowe the greves glent
For to kyll thear dear.
Yerly on a monnyn day;
A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.
The semblyd on sydis shear;
To the quyrry then the Persè went
To se the bryttlynge off the deare.
This day to meet me hear;
But I wyste he wold faylle verament:
A gret oth the Persè swear.
Lokyde at his hand full ny,
He was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge;
With him a myghtè meany,
Yt was a myghti sight to se.
Hardyar men both off hart nar hande
Wear not in Christiantè.
Withouten any fayle;
The wear borne a-long be the watter a Twyde,
Yth bowndes of Tividale.
And to your bowys tayk good heed;
For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
Had ye never so mickle need.
He rode his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A bolder barne was never born.
Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this
Chyviat chays in the spyt of me?
Yt was the good lord Persè:
We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says,
Nor whos men that we be;
But we wyll hount hear in this chays
In the spyte of thyne, and of the.
We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way.
Be my troth, sayd the doughtè Dogglas agayn,
Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day.
Unto the lord Persè:
To kyll all thes giltles men,
A-las! it wear great pittè.
I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande;
And do the battell off the and of me.
Who-soever ther-to says nay.
Be my troth, doughtè Doglas, he says,
Thow shalt never se that day;
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him on man for on.
Ric. Wytharynton was his nam;
It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde, he says,
To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.
I am a poor squyar of lande;
And stande my-selffe, and looke on,
But whyll I may my weppone welde
I wyll not ‘fayl’ both harte and hande.
The first fit here I fynde.
And you wyll here any mor athe hontyng athe Chyviat
Yet ys ther mor behynde.
The Second Part.
Ther hartes were good yenoughe;
The first of arros that the shote off,
Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.
Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,
The cum in on every syde.
Gave many a wounde full wyde;
Many a doughete the garde to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde.
And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;
It was a hevy syght to se
Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.
Many sterne the stroke downe streght:
Many a freyke, that was full free,
Ther undar foot dyd lyght.
Lyk to captayns of myght and mayne;
The swapte togethar tyll the both swat
With swordes, that wear of fyn myllàn.
Ther-to the wear full fayne,
Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,
As ever dyd heal or rayne.
And i' feth I shall the brynge
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.
I hight the hear this thinge,
For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,
That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng.
I tolde it the beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
To no man of a woman born.
Forthe off a mightie wane ,
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
In at the brest bane.
The sharp arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyffe days
He spayke mo wordes but ane,
That was, Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may,
For my lyff days ben gan.
And sawe the Duglas de;
He tooke the dede man be the hande,
And sayd, Wo ys me for the!
My landes for years thre,
For a better man of hart, nare of hande
Was not in all the north countrè.
Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry,
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght;
He spendyd a spear a trusti tre:
Throughe a hondrith archery;
He never styntyde, nar never blane
Tyll he came to the good lord Persè.
A dynte, that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghtè tre
Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
A large cloth yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiantè,
Then that day slain wear thare.
Say slean was the lord Persè,
He bar a bende-bow in his hande,
Was made off trusti tre:
To th'hard stele halyde he;
A dynt, that was both sad and soar,
He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry.
That he of Mongon-byrry sete;
The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar,
With his hart blood the wear wete .
But still in stour dyd stand,
Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,
With many a bal-ful brande.
An owar befor the none,
And when even-song bell was rang
The battell was nat half done.
Be the lyght off the mone;
In Chyviat the hyllys abone.
Went away but fifti and thre;
Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
But even five and fifti:
The hade no strengthe to stand on he:
The chylde may rue that ys un-borne,
It was the mor pittè.
Sir John of Agerstone
The family of Haggerston of Haggerston, near Berwick, has been seated there for many centuries, and still remains. Thomas Haggerston was among the commissioners returned for Northumberland in 12 Hen. 6. 1433. (Fuller's Worthies, p. 310.) The head of this family at present is Sir Thomas Haggerston, Bart. of Haggerston abovementioned.
Sir Roger the hinde Hartly ,
Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone
This family was one of the most ancient in Northumberland: they were once Lords of Ford Castle, and also of the Barony of Heron in this county; their principal seat being at Chip-Chose near Hexham. Thus, Johannes Hearon, miles, is among those who signed a treaty with the Scots in 1449. Hen. 6. (See Nicholson's Laws of the Borders, p. 34. see also p. 330. 331. 332. 333. 335.)—Two Herons are among the commissioners in Fuller. p. 310.—Johan Heronn was sheriff of Northumberland in 35 of Edw. 3. (Fuller. p. 311.) Also in 7° of Richard 2. (p. 312.) and others afterwards. The descendant of this family, Sir Thomas Heron, Bart. is at present an officer in the army.
A knyght of great renowen,
Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè
The anceint family of Rokeby in Yorkshire, seems to be here intended. In Thoresby's Ducat. Leod. p. 253: fol. is a genealogy of this house, by which it appears that the head of the family about the time when this ballad was written, was Sir Ralph Rokeby, Knt. Ralph being a common name of the Rokebys.
With dyntes wear beaten dowene.
That ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
He knyled and fought on hys kne.
Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry ,
Sir Davye Lwdale , that worthè was,
His sistars son was he:
That never a foot wolde fle;
Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was,
With the Duglas dyd he dey.
Off byrch, and hasell so ‘gray’;
Many wedous with wepyng tears,
Cam to fach ther makys a-way.
Northombarlond may mayk grat mone,
For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,
On the march perti shall never be none.
To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches,
He lay slean Chyviot with-in.
He sayd, Alas, and woe ys me!
He sayd, y-feth shuld never be.
Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Persè, leyff-tenante of the Merchis,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.
Good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondrith captayns in Yynglonde, he sayd,
As good as ever was hee:
But Persè, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Persè,
He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down:
On a day wear beaten down:
Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,
Over castill, towar, and town.
That tear begane this spurn:
Call it the Battell of Otterburn.
Uppon a monnyn day:
Ther was the dougghté Doglas slean,
The Persè never went away.
Sen the Doglas, and the Persè met,
But yt was marvele, and the rede blude ronne not,
As the reane doys in the stret.
And to the blys us brynge!
Thus was the hountynge of the Chevyat:
God send us all good ending!
The style of this and the following ballad is uncommonly rugged and uncouth, owing to their being writ in the very coarsest and broadest northern Dialect.
The battle of Hombyll-down, or Humbleton, was fought Sept. 14. 1402. (anno 3. Hen. IV.) wherein the English, under the command of the E. of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur, gained a compleat victory over the Scots. The village of Humbleton is one mile north-west from Wooller in Northumberland: near it are two hills, which retain to this day evident marks of encampments.—Humbleton is in Glendale ward, a district so named in this county, and mentioned above in ver. 163.
One of the earliest productions of the Scottish press, now to be found. The title-page was wanting in the copy here quoted; but it is supposed to have been printed in 1540.
Item. . . Concordatum est, quod, . . . nullus unius partis vel alterius ingrediatur terras, boschas, forrestas, warrenas, loca, dominia quæcunque alicujus partis alterius subditi, causa venandi, piscandi, aucupandi, disportum aut solatium in eisdem, aliave quacunque de causa, absque licentia ejus . . . . ad quem . . . loca . . . . . . pertinent, aut de deputatis suis prius capt. & obtent.
By these “shyars thre” is probably meant three districts in Northumberland, which still go by the name of shires, and are all in the neighbourhood of Cheviot. These are Island-shire, being the district so named from Holy-Island: Norehamshire, so called from the town and castle of Norcham (or Norham); and Bamboroughshire, the ward or hundred belonging to Bamborough-castle and town.
This incident is taken from the battle of Otterbourn; in which Sir Hugh Montgomery, Knt. (son of John Lord Montgomery) was slain with an arrow. Vid. Crawford's Peerage.
II. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.
The only battle, wherein an Earl of Douglas was slain fighting with a Percy, was that of Otterbourn, which is the subject of this ballad. It is here related with the allowable partiality of an English poet, and much in the same manner as it is recorded in the English Chronicles. The Scottish writers have, with a partiality at least as excuseable, related it no less in their own favour. Luckily we have a very circumstantial narrative of the whole affair from Froissart a French historian, who appears to be unbiassed. Froissart's relation is prolix; I shall therefore give it as abridged by Carte, who has however had recourse to other authorities, and differs from Froissart in some things, which I shall note in the margin.
In the twelfth year of Richard II, 1388, “The Scots taking advantage of the confusions of this nation, and falling with a party into the west-marches, ravaged the country about Carlisle, and carried off 300 prisoners. It was with a much greater force, headed by some of the principal nobility, that, in the beginning of August , they invaded Northumberland: and having wasted part of the county of Durham , advanced to the gates of Newcastle; where,
Such is the account collected by Carte, in which he seems not to be free from partiality: for prejudice must own that Froissart's circumstantial account carries a great appearance of truth, and he gives the victory to the Scots. He however does justice to the courage of both parties; and represents their mutual generosity in such a light, that the present age might edify by the example. “The Englysshmen on the one partye, and Scottes on the other party, are good men of warre, for whan they mete, there is a hard fighte without sparynge. There is no hoo betwene them as long as speares, swordes, axes, or dagers wyll endure; but lay on eche upon other: and whan they be well beaten, and that the one party hath obtayned the victory, they than glorifye so in their dedes of armes, and are so joyfull, that suche as be taken, they shall be ransomed or they go out of the felde ; so that shortely eche of them is so contente with other, that at their departynge, curtoysly they will saye, God thanke you. But in fyghtynge one with another there is no playe, nor sparynge.” Froissart's Cronycle, (as translated by Sir Johan Bourchier Lord Berners) Cap. cxlij.
The following ballad is printed from a manuscript copy in the Harleian Collection [No. 293. fol. 52.] where it is intitled, “A songe made in R. 2. his tyme of the battele of Otterburne, betweene Lord Henry Percye earle of Northomberlande and the earle Douglas of Scotlande, Anno
When hosbandes winn their haye,
The dughtie Douglas bowned him to ride,
In England to take a praye:
He bounde him over Sulway :
The grete wold ever together ride;
That race they may rue for aye.
And so doune by Rodelyffe crage,
Upon Grene ‘Leyton’ they lighted downe,
Many a stirande stage :
And haried many a towne;
They did our Englishe men great wronge,
To battelle that weare not ‘bowne.’
Of comforte that was not colde,
And said, We have brent Northomberlande,
We have all welthe in holde.
All the welthe in the worlde have wee;
I rede we ride to New Castelle,
So still and stalworthlye.
The standards shone fulle brighte;
And thither they came fulle right.
I telle you withouten dreede;
He had bine a marche-man all his dayes,
And kepte Barwicke upon Tweed.
The Scottes they cried on height,
Sir Harye Percy, and thou beste within,
Come to the feeld, and fyghte:
Thy eritage good and right;
And syne my lodginge I have take,
With my brande dubbed many a knight.
The Scottishe oste for to see;
“And thou haste brente Northomberland,
Full sore it ruethe mee.
Thou haste done me great envie;
For the trespas thou haste me done,
The tone of us shall dye.”
Or wher wilte thou come to me?
Theare maieste thou well lodged be.
To make the game and glee:
The faulkone and the fesante bothe,
Amonge the holtes on ‘hee’.
Well lodged there maiste thou be.”
Yt shall not be long, or I com thee till,
Sayd Sir Henrye Percy.
By the faithe of my bodye.
Ther shall I come, sayes Sir Harye Percy;
My trowthe I plighte to thee.
For south, as I you saye:
Theare he made the Douglas drinke,
And all his hoste that daye.
For southe withouten naye,
Uppon a wedensdaye:
His getinge more and lesse,
And syne he warned his men to goe
To choose their geldings grasse.
A watche I dare well saye:
So was he ware one the noble Percye
In the dawninge of the daye.
As fast as he might roone,
Awakene, Dowglas, cried the knight,
For his love, that sits in throne.
For thow maieste wakene with wynne:
Yonder have I spiede the proud Persye,
And sevene standards with him.
It is but a fained call:
The durste not looke one my bred bannor,
For all England to haylle.
That stands so fayere one Tyne?
He could not gare me once to dyne.
To looke and it were lesse;
Arraye you, lordinges, one and all,
For heare begyns no peace.
At the time of this battle the Earldom of Menteith was possessed by Robert Stewart, Earl of Fise, third son of K. Robert II. who, according to Buchanan, commanded the Scots that entered by Carlisle. But our Minstrel had probably an eye to the family of Graham, who had this Earldom when the ballad was written. See Douglas's Peerage of Scotland, 1764. fol.
The fowarde I geve to thee:
The earle of Hunteley kawte and keene,
He shall with thee bee.
One the other hande he shall be:
Lord Jhonstone, and lord Maxwell
These two families of Johnston Lord of Johnston, and Maxwell Lord of Maxwell, were always very powerful on the borders. Of the former family is Johnston Marquis of Annandale: of the latter is Maxwell Earl of Nithsdale. I cannot find that any chief of this family was named Sir Hugh; but Sir Herbert Maxwell was about this time much distinguished. (See Doug.) This might have been originally written Sir H. Maxwell, and by transcribers converted into Sir Hugh. So above, in p. 8. Richard is contracted into Ric.
They two shall be with me.
To battelle make you bowen:
Sir Davie Scotte , Sir Walter Stewarde ,
Sir John of Agurstone
The seat of this family was sometimes subject to the Kings of Scotland. Thus Richardus Hagerstoun, miles, is one of the Scottish knights, who signed a treaty with the English in 1249. Hen. 3. (Nicholson, p. 2. note.)—It was the fate of many parts of Northumberland often to change their masters, according as the Scottish or English arms prevailed.
Which was ever a gentle knighte,
Uppon the Dowglas lowde can he crie,
I wille hould that I have highte:
And done me greate envye;
The tone of us shall dye.
With greate worde upe on ‘hee’,
And sayd, I have twenty against thy one,
Beholde and thou mayeste see.
For sothe as I you say:
Jhesu Christe in hevene on height
Did helpe him well that daye.
The Chronicles will not leane;
Forty thousand of Scots and fowere
That daye foughte them againe.
And Christe they shout on heighte,
And syne ‘marcht on’ our Englishe men,
As I have tould you righte.
To name they weare full fayne,
Our Englishe mene they cried on height,
And Christe they shoute againe.
I tell you in sertayne;
Men of armes begane to joyne;
Many a doughty man was slayne.
That ether of other was faine;
The swapped together, whille that they swatte,
With swoards of ffyne Collayne;
As the rocke doth in the rayne.
Yeld thee to me, sayd the Dowglàs,
Or else thowe shalte be slayne:
Thou art some mane of mighte;
And so I doe by thy burnished brande,
Thou arte an earle, or else a knighte .
Now haste thou rede full righte,
Yet will I never yeeld me to thee,
Whille I maye stonde and fighte.
With swoards sharpe and longe;
Tyll their helmets came in pieces downe.
I tell you in this stownde,
He smote the Dowglas at the swords length,
That he felle to the grounde.
I tell you in certáyne;
To the earle he coulde him smytte,
Thus was the Dowglas slayne.
With many a greevous grone;
Ther the foughte the daye, and all the nighte,
And many a doughtie man was ‘slone.’
But styfly in stowre cane stand,
Eyche hewinge on other whylle they might drye,
With many a balfull brande.
For southe and sertenlye,
Sir James Dowglas theare was slayne,
That daye that he could dye.
Grisly groned uppon the grounde;
Sir Davie Scotte, Sir Walter Stuard,
Sir ‘John’ of Agurstonne .
That never a foote wold flye;
Sir Hughe Maxwell, a lord he was,
With the Dowglas did he dye.
For southe as I you saye,
Of four and forty thousand Scotts
Went but eighteene awaye.
For southe and sertenlye,
A gentle knighte, Sir John Fitz-hughe ,
Yt was the more pittye.
Harbottle is a village upon the river Coquet, about 10 m. west of Rothbury. The family of Harbottle was once considerable in Northumberland. (See Fuller. p. 312. 313.) A daughter of Sir Guischard Harbottle, Knt. married Sir Thomas Percy, Knt. son of Henry the fifth,—and father of Thomas, seventh Earl of Northumberland.
For him their harts weare soare,
The gentle ‘Lovelle’ thear was slayne,
That the Percyes standard boare.
For soothe as I you saye;
Of nine thousand Englishe mene
Fyve hondred came awaye:
Christe keepe thear sowles from wo,
Seeing thear was so fewe frendes
Against so manye foo.
Of byrche, and haselle graye;
Many a wydowe with weepinge teeres
Their maks they fette away.
Betweene the nighte and the daye:
Theare the Dowglas loste his lyfe,
And the Percye was leade away .
Sir Hughe Mongomerye was his name,
For soothe as I you saye
He borowed the Percye home agayne.
To Jeasue moste of might,
To bring his sowle to the blyss of heven,
For he was a gentle knight.
Froissart speaks of both parties (consisting in all of more than 40,000 men) as entering England at the same time: but the greater part by way of Carlisle.
And, according to the ballad, that part of Northumberland called Bamboroughshire; a large tract of land so named from the town and castle of Bamborough; formerly the residence of the Northumbrian Kings.
This circumstance is omitted in the ballad. Hotspur and Douglas were two young warriors much of the same age.
Froissart says the English exceeded the Scots in number three to one, but that these had the advantage of the ground, and were also fresh from sleep, while the English were greatly fatigued with their previous march.
By Henry L. Percy, according to this ballad, and our old English historians, as Stow, Speed, &c. but borne down by numbers, if we may believe Froissart.
Hotspur (after a very sharp conflict) was taken prisoner by John lord Montgomery, whose eldest son Sir Hugh was slain in the same action with an arrow, according to Crawfurd's Peerage (and seems also to be alluded to in the foregoing ballad, p. 13.) but taken prisoner and exchanged for Hotspur, according to this ballad.
Froissart (according to the Eng. Translation) says he had his account from two squires of England, and from a knight and squire of Scotland, soon after the battle.
So in Langham's letter concerning Q. Elizabeth's entertainment at Killingworth Castle, 1575. 12°. p. 61. “Heer was no ho in devout drinkyng.”
winn their haye. This is the reading in Crawford's Peerage, p. 97; and this is the Northumberland phrase to this day: by which they always express “getting in their bay.” The orig. MS. reads here winn their waye.
i. e. “over Solway frith.” This evidently refers to the other division of the Scottish army, which came in by way of Carlisse.—Bounde him; i. e. hied him. Vid. Gloss.
They: sc. the earl of Douglas and his party.—The several stations here mentioned, are well-known places in Northumberland. Ottercap hill is in the parish of Kirk-Whelpington, in Tynedale-ward. Rodeliffe- (or as it is more usually pronounced Rodeley-) Cragge is a noted cliff near Rodeley, a small village in the parish of Hartburn, in Morpethward: It lies south-east of Ottercap. Green Leyton is another small village in the same parish of Hartburn, and is south-east of Rodeley.— The orig. MS. reads here corruptly, Hoppertop and Lynton.
This line is probably corrupted. It should perhaps be
Stirrande many a stagge:A species of stags or wild deer have been killed within the present century, on some of the large wastes in Northumberland.
Otterbourn stands near the old Watling-street road, being in the parish of Elsdon, and lying three miles west of that town. The remains of the Scottish encampment are still visible.
Roe-bucks were to be found upon the wastes not far from Hexham within these forty years.—Whitfield, Esq; of Whitfield, is said to have destroyed the last of them. The orig. MS. reads rowe.
Our old Minstrel repeats these names, as Homer and Virgil do those of their Heroes:
------ fortemque Gyam, fortemque Cloanthum. &c. &c.The Orig. MS. reads, here, “Sir James.” but see above, ver. 112.
III. THE JEW'S DAUGHTER,
A Scottish Ballad,
—Is founded upon the supposed practice of the Jews in
crucifying or otherwise murthering Christian children; out of
hatred to the religion of their parents: a practice, which
hath been always alledged in excuse for the cruelties exercised
upon that wretched people, but which probably never happened
in a single instance. For if we consider, on the one
hand, the ignorance and superstition of the times when such
stories took their rise, the virulent prejudices of the monks
who record them, and the eagerness with which they would
be catched up by the barbarous populace as a pretence for plunder;
on the other hand, the great danger incurred by the
perpetrators, and the inadequate motives they could have to
The following ballad is probably built upon some Italian Legend, and bears a great resemblance to the Prioresse's Tale in Chaucer: the poet seems also to have had an eye to the known story of Hugh of Lincoln, a child said to have been there murthered by the Jews in the reign of Henry III. The conclusion of this ballad appears to be wanting: what it probably contained may be seen in Chaucer. As for Mirryland Toun, it is probably a corruption of Milan (called by the Dutch Meylandt) Town; since the Pa is evidently the river Po.
Printed from a MS. copy sent from Scotland.
Sae dois it doune the Pa:
Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune,
Quhan they play at the ba'.
Said, Will ye cum in and dine?
I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in,
Without my play-feres nine.
To intice the zong thing in:
Scho powd an apple white and reid,
And that the sweit bairne did win.
And low down by her gair,
Scho has twin'd the zong thing and his life;
A word he nevir spak mair.
And out and cam the thin;
And out and cam the bonny herts bluid:
Thair was nae life left in.
And drest him like a swine,
And laughing said, Gae nou and pley
With zour sweit play-feres nine.
Bade him lie stil and sleip.
Scho cast him in a deip draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deip.
And every lady went hame:
Than ilka lady had her zong sonne,
Bot lady Helen had nane.
And sair sair gan she weip:
And she ran into the Jewis castèl,
Quhan they wer all asleip.
I pray thee to me speik:
‘O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well
‘Gin ze zour sonne wad seik.’
And knelt upon her kne:
My bonny sir Hew, an ze be here,
I pray thee speik to me.
The well is wondrous deip,
A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert,
A word I dounae speik.
Fetch me my windling sheet,
And at the back o' Mirry-land toun,
Its thair we twa sall meet.
IV. SIR CAULINE.
This old romantic tale was preserved in the Editor's folio MS, but in so defective and mutilated a condition that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and compleat the story.
There is something peculiar in the metre of this old ballad: it is not unusual to meet with redundant stanzas of six lines; but the occasional insertion of a double third or fourth line, as ver. 31, 44, &c. is an irregularity I do not remember to have seen elsewhere.
It may be proper to inform the reader before he comes to Pt. 2. v. 110, 111. that the round table was not peculiar to the reign of K. Arthur, but was common in all the ages of Chivalry. The proclaiming a great turnament (probably with some peculiar solemnities) was called “holding a Round Table.” Dugdale tells us, that the great baron Roger de Mortimer “having procured the honour of knighthood to be conferred ‘on his three sons’ by K. Edw. I. he, at his own costs, caused a tourneament to be held at Kenilworth; where he sumptuously entertained an hundred knights, and as many ladies for three days; the like whereof was never before in England; and there began the round table, (so called by reason that the place wherein they practised those feats, was environed with a strong wall made in a round form:) And upon the fourth day, the golden lion, in sign of triumph, being yielded to him; he carried it (with all the company) to Warwick.”—It may further be added, that Matthew Paris frequently calls justs and turnaments Hasti Iudia Mensæ Rotundæ.
As to what will be observed in this ballad of the art of healing being practised by a young princess; it is no more than what is usual in all the old romances, and was conformable to real manners; it being a practice derived from the earliest times among all the Gothic and Celtic nations, for [illeg.]men, even of the highest rank, to exercise the art of surgery. In the Northern Chronicles we always find the young damsels stanching the wounds of their lovers, and the wives those of their husbands . And even so late as the time of Q. Elizabeth, it is mentioned among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the “eldest of them are skilful in surgery.”
The First Part.
There dwelleth a bonnye kinge;
And with him a yong and comlye knighte,
Men call him syr Caulìne.
In fashyon she hath no peere;
And princely wightes that ladye wooed
To be theyr wedded feere.
But nothing durst he saye;
Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man,
But deerlye he lovde this may.
Great dill to him was dight;
The maydens love removde his mynd,
To care-bed went the knighte.
One while he spred them nye:
And aye! but I winne that ladyes love,
For dole now I mun dye.
Our kinge was bowne to dyne:
That is wont to serve the wyne?
And fast his handes gan wringe:
Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye
Without a good leechìnge.
She is a leeche fulle fine:
Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread,
And serve him with the wyne soe red;
Lothe I were him to tine.
Her maydens followyng nye:
O well, she sayth, how doth my lord?
O sicke, thou fayr ladyè.
Never lye soe cowardlee;
For it is told in my fathers halle,
You dye for love of mee.
That all this dill I drye:
For if you wold comfort me with a kisse,
Then were I brought from bale to blisse,
No lenger wold I lye.
I am his onlye heire;
Alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte,
I never can be youre fere.
And I am not thy peere,
But let me doe some deedes of armes
To be your bacheleere.
My bacheleere to bee,
(But ever and aye my heart wold rue,
Giff harm shold happe to thee,)
Upon the mores brodìnge;
And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte
Untill the fayre mornìnge?
Will examine you beforne:
And never man bare life awaye,
But he did him scath and scorne.
And large of limb and bone;
And but if heaven may be thy speede,
Thy life it is but gone.
For thy sake, fair ladìe;
And Ile either bring you a ready tokèn,
Or Ile never more you see.
Her maydens following bright:
Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone,
And to the Eldridge hills is gone,
For to wake there all night.
He walked up and downe;
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe
Over the bents soe browne:
Quoth hee, If cryance come till my heart,
I am ffar from any good towne.
A furyous wight and fell;
A ladye bright his brydle led,
Clad in a fayre kyrtèll:
O man, I rede thee flye,
For ‘but’ if cryance come till thy heart,
I weene but thou mun dye.
Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee;
For, cause thou minged not Christ before,
The less me dreadeth thee.
Syr Cauline bold abode:
Then either shooke his trustye speare,
And the timber these two children bare
Soe soone in sunder slode.
And layden on full faste,
Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde,
They all were well-nye brast.
And stiffe in stower did stande,
But syr Cauline with a ‘backward’ stroke,
He smote off his right-hand;
That soone he with paine and lacke of bloud
Fell downe on that lay-land.
All over his head so hye:
And here I sweare by the holy roode,
Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye.
Faste wringing of her hande:
For the maydens love, that most you love,
Withold that deadlye brande.
Now smyte no more I praye;
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord,
He shall thy hests obaye.
And here on this lay-land,
That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye,
And therto plight thy hand:
To sporte, gamon, or playe:
And that thou here give up thy armes
Until thy dying daye.
With many a sorrowfulle sighe;
And sware to obey syr Caulines hest,
Till the tyme that he shold dye.
Sett him in his saddle anone,
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye
To theyr castle are they gone.
That was so large of bone,
And on it he founde five ringes of gold
Of knightes that had be slone.
As hard as any flint:
And he tooke off those ringès five,
As bright as fyre and brent.
As light as leafe on tree:
I-wys he neither stint ne blanne,
Till he his ladye see.
Before that lady gay:
O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills;
These tokens I bring away.
Thrice welcome unto mee,
For now I perceive thou art a true knighte,
Of valour bolde and free.
Thy hests for to obaye:
And mought I hope to winne thy love!—
Ne more his tonge colde say.
And fette a gentill sighe:
Alas! syr knight, how may this bee,
For my degree's soe highe?
To be my batchilere,
Ile promise if thee I may not wedde
I will have none other fere.
Towards that knighte so free:
He gave to it one gentill kisse,
His heart was brought from bale to blisse,
The teares sterte from his ee.
Ne let no man it knowe;
For and ever my father sholde it ken,
I wot he wolde us sloe.
Lovde syr Caulìne the knighte:
From that daye forthe he only joyde
Whan shee was in his sight.
Within a fayre arbòure,
Where they in love and sweet daliaunce
Past manye a pleasaunt houre.
In this conclusion of the First Part, and at the beginning of the Second, the reader will observe a resemblance to the story of Sigismunda and Guiscard, as told by Boccace and Dryden: See the latter's Description of the Lovers meeting in the Cave, and those beautiful lines, which contain a reflection so like this of our poet, “everye white, &c. viz.
“And tides at highest mark regorge their flood;
“So Fate, that could no more improve their joy,
“Took a malicious pleasure to destroy.
“Tancred, who fondly loved, &c.”
Part the Second.
And everye sweete its sowre:
This founde the ladye Christabelle
In an untimely howre.
Was with that ladye faire,
The kinge her father walked forthe
To take the evenyng aire:
To rest his wearye feet,
Theresette in daliaunce sweet.
And an angrye man was hee:
Nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe,
And rewe shall thy ladìe.
And throwne in dungeon deepe:
And the ladye into a towre so hye,
There left to wayle and weepe.
And to the kinge sayd shee:
I praye you save syr Caulines life,
And let him banisht bee.
Across the salt sea some:
But here I will make thee a band,
If ever he come within this land,
A foule deathe is his doome.
To parte from his ladyè;
And many a time he sighed sore,
And cast a wistfulle eye:
Farre lever had I dye.
Was had forthe of the towre;
But ever shee droopeth in her minde,
As nipt by an ungentle winde
Doth some faire lillye flowre.
To tint her lover soe:
Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee,
But I will still be true.
And lords of high degree,
Did sue to that fayre ladye of love;
But never shee wolde them nee.
Ne comforte she colde finde,
The kynge proclaimed a tourneament,
To cheere his daughters mind:
Fro manye a farre countryè,
To break a spere for theyr ladyes love
Before that faire ladyè.
In purple and in palle:
But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone
Was the fayrest of them all.
Before his ladye gaye;
But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe,
He wan the prize eche daye.
His hewberke, and his sheelde,
Ne noe man wist whence he did come,
Ne noe man knewe where he did gone,
When they came out the feelde.
In feates of chivalrye,
When lo upon the fourth mornìnge
A sorrowfulle sight they see.
All foule of limbe and lere;
Two goggling eyen like fire farden,
A mouthe from eare to eare.
That waited on his knee,
And at his backe five heads he bare,
All wan and pale of blee.
Behold that hend Soldàin!
Behold these heads I beare with me!
They are kings which he hath slain.
Whom a knight of thine hath shent:
And hee is come to avenge his wrong,
And to thee, all thy knightes among,
Defiance here hath sent.
Thy daughters love to winne:
And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd,
Thy halls and towers must brenne.
Or else thy daughter deere;
Or else within these lists soe broad
Thou must finde him a peere.
And in his heart was woe:
Is there never a knighte of my round tablè,
This matter will undergoe?
Will fight for my daughter and mee?
Whoever will fight yon grimme soldàn,
Right fair his meede shall bee.
And of my crowne be heyre;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle
To be his wedded fere.
Did stand both still and pale;
For whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn,
It made their hearts to quail.
When she sawe no helpe was nye:
She cast her thought on her owne true-love,
And the teares gusht from her eye.
Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd:
Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldàn,
Thoughe he be unmacklye made.
That lyeth within thy bowre,
I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende
Thoughe he be stiff in stowre.
The kinge he cryde, with speede:
Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte;
My daughter is thy meede.
And sayd, Awaye, awaye:
I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn,
Thou lettest me here all daye.
In his blacke armoure dight:
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe,
“That this were my true knighte!”
Within the lists soe broad;
And now with swordes soe sharpe of steele,
They gan to lay on load.
That made him reele asyde;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
And thrice she deeply sighde.
And made the bloude to flowe:
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,
And thrice she wept for woe.
Which brought the knighte on his knee:
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,
And she shriekt loud shriekings three.
All recklesse of the pain:
Quoth hee, But heaven he now my speede,
Or else I shall be slaine.
And spying a secrette part,
He drave it into the soldan's syde,
And pierced him to the heart.
Whan they sawe the soldan falle:
The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,
That had reskewed her from thrall.
Rose uppe from offe his seate,
And downe he stepped intò the listes,
That curteous knighte to greete.
Was fallen intò a swounde,
And there all walteringe in his gore,
Lay lifelesse on the grounde.
Thou art a leeche of skille;
Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,
Than this good knighte sholde spille.
To helpe him if she maye;
But when she did his beavere raise,
It is my life, my lord, she sayes,
And shriekte and swound awaye.
When he heard his ladye crye,
O ladye, I am thine owne true love.
For thee I wisht to dye.
He closed his eyes in death,
Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde,
Begane to drawe her breathe.
Indeed was dead and gone,
She layde her pale cold cheeke to his,
And thus she made her moane.
For mee thy faithfulle feere;
'Tis meet that I shold followe thee,
Who hast bought my love soe deare.
And with a deepe-fette sighe,
That burst her gentle hearte in twayne,
Fayre Christabelle did dye.
V. EDWARD, EDWARD.
A Scottish Ballad.
Edward, Edward?
Quhy dois zour brand sae drap wi' bluid?
And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
Edward, Edward.
Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid;
My deir son I tell the, O.
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and frie, O.
Edward, Edward:
Sum other dule ze drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas! and wae is mee, O!
Edward, Edward?
And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
Mither, mither:
Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?
Ile let thame stand til they doun fa',
Mither, mither:
Ile let thame stand till they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
Edward, Edward?
Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
The warldis room, late them beg throw life,
Mither, mither:
The warldis room, let them beg throw life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell mee, O.
The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Mither, mither:
The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.
VI. KING ESTMERE.
This old Romantic Legend, (which is given from two
copies, one of them in the Editor's folio MS.) bears marks
of great antiquity, and perhaps ought to have taken place
of any in this volume. It should seem to have been written
while a great part of Spain was in the hands of the
Saracens or Moors: whose empire there was not fully extinguished
before the year 1491. The Mahometans are spoken
of in v. 49, &c. just in the same terms as in all other
old romances. The author of the ancient Legend of Sir
And so full of zeal for his religion, as to return the following polite message to a Paynim king's fair daughter, who had fallen in love with him, and sent two Saraecn knights to invite him to her bower,
“To speake with an heathen hounde,
“Unchristen houndes, I rede you fie,
“Or I your harte bloud shall se .”
Indeed they return the compliment by calling him elswhere “A christen hounde. ”
This was conformable to the real manners of the barbarous ages: perhaps the same excuse will hardly serve our bard for the situations in which he has placed some of his royal personages. That a youthful monarch should take a journey into another kingdom to visit his mistress incog. was a piece of gallantry paralleled in our own Charles I. but that king Adland should be found lolling or leaning at his gate (v. 35.) may be thought perchance a little out of character. And yet the great painter of manners, Homer, did not think it inconsistent with decorum to represent a king of the Taphians rearing himself at the gate of Ulysses to inquire for that monarch, when he touched at Ithaca as he was taking a voyage with a ship's cargo of iron to dispose in traffic . So little ought we to judge of ancient manners by our own.
Before I conclude this article, I cannot help observing that the reader will see in this ballad, the character of the old Minstrels (those successors of the bards) placed in a very respectable light : here he will see one of them represented mounted on a fine horse, accompanied with an attendant to bear his harp after him, and to sing the
Come and you shall heare;
Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren,
That ever born y-were.
The tother was kyng Estmere;
As any were farr and neare.
Within kyng Estmeres halle:
When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr,
A wyfe to gladd us all?
And answered him hastilee:
I knowe not that ladye in any lande,
That is able to marry with mee.
Men call her bright and sheene;
If I were kyng here in your stead,
That ladye sholde be queene.
Throughout merrye Englànd,
Where we might find a messenger
Betweene us two to sende.
Ile beare you companèe;
Many throughe fals messengers are deceivde,
And I feare lest soe shold wee.
Of twoe good renisht steedes,
And when they came to king Adlands halle,
Of red golde shone their weedes.
Before the goodlye yate,
Ther they found good kyng Adlànd
Rearing himselfe theratt.
Nowe Christ thee save and see.
Sayd, You be welcome, king Estmere,
Right hartilye unto mee.
Men call her bright and sheene,
My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
Of Englande to be queene.
Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
And then she nicked him of naye,
I feare sheele do youe the same.
And 'leeveth on Mahound;
And pitye it were that fayre ladyè
Shold marrye a heathen hound.
For my love I you praye;
That I may see your daughter deare
Before I goe hence awaye.
Syth my daughter was in halle,
She shall come downe once for your sake
To glad my guestès alle.
With ladyes lacede in pall,
And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes,
To bring her from bowre to hall;
And eke as manye gentle squieres,
To waite upon them all.
Hunge lowe downe to her knee;
And everye rynge on her smalle fingèr,
Shone of the chrystall free.
Sayes, Christ you save and see.
Sayes, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
Right welcome unto mee.
So well, and hartilèe,
Soone sped now itt may bee.
My daughter, I saye naye;
Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
What he sayd yesterdaye.
And reave me of my lyfe:
And ever I feare that paynim kyng,
Iff I reave him of his wyfe.
Are stronglye built aboute;
And therefore of that foule paynìm
Wee neede not stande in doubte.
By heaven and your righte hand,
That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queene of your land.
By heaven and his righte hand,
That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
And make her queene of his land.
To goe to his owne countree,
That marryed the might bee.
A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
With kempès many a one.
With manye a grimme baròne,
Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.
In all the spede might bee,
That he must either returne and fighte,
Or goe home and lose his ladyè.
Another whyle he ranne;
Till he had oretaken king Estmere,
I wis, he never blanne.
What tydinges nowe, my boye?
O tydinges I can tell to you,
That will you sore annoye.
A myle out of the towne,
With kempès many a one:
With manye a grimme baròne,
Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.
And ever-more well by mee:
You must either turne againe and fighte,
Or goe home and lose your ladyè.
My reade shall ryde at thee,
Whiche waye we best may turne and fighte,
To save this fayre ladyè.
And your reade must rise at me,
I quicklye will devise a waye
To sette thy ladye free.
And learned in gramaryè
And when I learned at the schole,
Something shee taught itt mee.
And iff it were but knowne,
His color, which is whyte and redd,
It will make blacke and browne:
Itt will make redd and whyte;
That sworde is not in all Englande,
Upon his coate will byte.
Out of the north countrèe;
And Ile be your boye, so faine of fighte,
To beare your harpe by your knee.
That ever tooke harpe in hand;
And I will be the best singèr,
That ever sung in this land.
All and in grammaryè,
That we towe are the boldest men,
That are in all Christentyè.
On towe good renish steedes;
And whan they came to king Adlands hall,
Of redd gold shone their weedes.
Untill the fayre hall yate,
There they found a proud portèr
Rearing himselfe theratt.
Sayes, Christ thee save and see.
Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr,
Of what land soever ye bee.
Come out of the northe countrèe;
We beene come hither untill this place,
This proud weddinge for to see.
As it is blacke and browne,
Ild saye king Estmere and his brother
Were comen untill this towne.
Layd itt on the porters arme:
And ever we will thee, proud portèr,
Thow wilt saye us no harme.
And sore he handled the ryng,
Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
He lett for no kind of thyng.
Up att the fayre hall board;
The frothe, that came from his brydle bitte,
Light on kyng Bremors beard.
Goe stable him in the stalle;
Itt doth not beseeme a proud harpèr
To stable him in a kyngs halle.
He will do nought that's meete;
And aye that I cold but find the man,
Were able him to beate.
Thou harper here to mee;
There is a man within this halle,
That will beate thy lad and thee.
A sight of him wold I see;
And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd,
Then he shall beate of mee.
And looked him in the eare;
For all the gold, that was under heaven,
He durst not neigh him neare.
And how what aileth thee?
He sayes, Itt is written in his forhead
All and in gramaryè,
That for all the gold that is under heaven,
I dare not neigh him nye.
And playd thereon so sweete:
Upstarte the ladye from the kynge,
As hee sate at the meate.
Now stay thy harpe, I say;
For an thou playest as thou beginnest,
Thou'lt till my bride awaye.
And playd both fayre and free;
The ladye was so pleasde theratt,
She laught loud laughters three.
Thy harpe and stryngs eche one,
And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,
As there be stryngs thereon.
Iff I did sell it yee?
“To playe my wiffe and me a fitt ,
When abed together we bee.”
As shee sitts laced in pall,
And as many gold nobles I will give,
As there be rings in the hall.
Iff I did sell her yee?
More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
To lye by mee than thee.
And Adler he did syng,
“O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
“Noe harper, but a kyng.
“As playnlye thou mayest see;
“And Ile rid thee of that foule paynìm,
“Who partes thy love and thee.”
And blushte and lookt agayne,
And hath the Sowdan slayne.
And loud they gan to crye:
Ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
And therefore yee shall dye.
And swith he drew his brand;
And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
Right stiffe in stour can stand.
Throughe help of Gramaryè
That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
Or forst them forth to flee.
And marryed her to his wyfe,
And brought her home to merrye Englànd
With her to leade his lyfe.
See a short Memoir at the end of this ballad, pag. 74.
Termagaunt (mentioned above in p. 60.) is the name given in the old romances to the God of the Sarazens: in which he is constantly linked with Mahound or Mahomet. Thus in the legend of syr Guy the Soudan (Sultan) swears,
“And Termagaunt my God so bright.”
Sign. p. iij. b.
This word is derived by the very learned Editor of Junius from the Anglo-Saxon [for] very, and [for] mighty. —As this word had so sublime a derivation, and was so applicable to the true God, how shall we account for its being so degraded? Perhaps Termagant had been a name originally given to some Saxon idol, before our ancestors were converted to Christianity; or had been the peculiar attribute of one of their false deities; and therefore the first Christian missionaries rejected it as profane and improper to be applied to the true God. Afterwards when the irruptions of the Saracens into Europe, and the Crusades into the East, had brought them acquainted with a new species of unbelievers; our ignorant ancestors, who thought all that did not receive the Christian law, were necessarily Pagans and Idolaters, supposed the Mahometan creed was in all respects the same with that of their Pagan forefathers, and therefore made no scruple to give the ancient name of Termagant to the God of the Saracens: just in the same manner as they afterwards used the name of Sarazen to express any kind of Pagan or Idolater. In the ancient romance of Merline (in the editor's folio MS.) the Saxons themselves that came over with Hengist, because they were not Christians, are constantly called Sarazens.
However that be, it is certain that, after the times of the Crusades, both Mahound and Termagaunt made their frequent appearance in the Pageants and religious Enterludes of the barbarous ages; in which they were exhibited with gestures so furious and frantic, as to become proverbial. Thus Skelton speaks of Wolsey,
“No man dare him withsay.”
Ed. 1736. p. 158.
And Bale, describing the threats used by some Papist magistrates to his wife, speaks of them as “grennyng upon her lyke Termagauntes in a playe.” [Actes of Engl. Votaryes, pt. 2. fo. 83. Ed. 1550. 12mo.]—Hence we may conceive the force of Hamlet's expression in Shakespeare, where condemning a ranting player he says, “I could have such a fellow whipt for ore-doing Termagant: it out-Herods Herod.” A. 3. sc. 3.—By degrees the word came to be applied to an outrageous turbulent person, and especially to a violent brawling woman; to whom alone it is now confined: and this the rather as, I suppose, the character of Termagant was anciently represented on the stage after the eastern mode, with long robes or petticoats.
Another frequent character in the old pageants or enterludes of our ancestors, was the sowdan or soldan representing a grim eastern tyrant: This appears from a curious passage in Stow's Annals [p. 458.]—In a stage-play “the people know right well that he that plaieth the sowdain, is percase a sowter [shoe-maker], yet if one should cal him by his owne name, while he standeth in his majestie, one of his tormentors might bap to break his head.” The sowdain or soldan, was a name given to any Sarazen king, (being only a more rude pronunciation of the word sultan) as the soldan of Egypt, the soudan of Persia, the sowdan of Babylon, &c. who were generally represented as accompanied with grim Sarazens, whose business it was to punish and torment Christians.
I cannot conclude this short Memoir, without observing that the French romancers who had borrowed the word Termagant from us, and applied it as we in their old romances, corrupted it into Tervagaunte: And from them La Fontaine took it up, and has used it more than once in his tales.—This may be added to the other proofs adduced in these volumes of the great intercourse that formerly subsisted between the old minstrels and legendary writers of both nations, and that they mutually borrowed each others romances.
Even so late as the time of Froissart, we find Minstrels and Heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an enemy's country. Cap. cxl.
The word Gramayre occurs several times in the foregoing poem, and every where seems to signify Magic or some kind of supernatural science. I know not whence to derive it, unless it be from the word Grammar.—In those dark and ignorant ages, when it was thought a high degree of learning to be able to read and write; he who had made a little further progress in literature, might well pass for a conjurer or magician.
VII. SIR PATRICK SPENCE,
A Scottish Ballad
—is given from two MS copies transmitted from Scotland. In what age the hero of this ballad lived, or when this fatal expedition happened that proved so destructive to the Scots nobles, I have not been able to discover; yet am of opinion that their catastrophe is not altogether without foundation in history, though it has escaped my own researches. In the infancy of navigation, such as used the northern seas, were very liable to shipwreck in the wintry months: hence a law was enacted in the reign of James the III, (a law which was frequently repeated afterwards) “That there be na schip frauched out of the realm with any staple gudes, fra the feast of Simons day and Jude, unto the feast of the purification our Lady called Candelmess.”
Jam. III. Parlt. 2. Ch. 15.In some modern copies, instead of Patrick Spence hath been substituted the name of Sir Andrew Wood, a famous Scottish admiral who flourished in the time of our Edw. IV. but whose story hath nothing in common with this of the ballad. As Wood was the most noted warrior of Scotland, it is probable that, like the Theban Hercules, he hath engrossed the renown of other heroes.
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
To sail this schip of mine?
Sat at the kings richt kne:
Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailòr,
That sails upon the se.
And signd it wi' his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
A loud lauch lauched he:
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
This ill deid don to me;
To send me out this time o'the zeir,
To sail upon the se?
Our guid schip sails the morne.
O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
And I feir, I feir, my deir mastèr,
That we will com to harme.
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
It's fiftie fadom deip:
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
A village lying upon the river Forth, the entrance to which is sometimes denominated De mortuo mari.
VIII. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE.
We have here a ballad of Robin Hood (from the Editor's folio MS) which was never before printed, and carries marks of much greater antiquity than any of the common popular songs on this subject.
The severity of those tyrannical forest-laws, that were introduced by our Norman kings, and the great temptation of breaking them by such as lived near the royal forests, at a time when the yeomanry of this kingdom were every where trained up to the long-bow, and excelled all other nations in the art of shooting, must constantly have occasioned great numbers of outlaws, and especially of such as were the best marksmen. These naturally fled to the woods for shelter, and forming into troops, endeavoured by their numbers to protect themselves from the dreadful penalties of their delinquency. The ancient punishment for killing the king's deer, was loss of eyes and castration: a punishment far worse than death. This will easily account for the troops of banditti, which formerly lurked in the royal forests, and from their superior skill in archery and knowledge of all the recesses of those unfrequented solitudes, found it no difficult matter to resist or elude the civil power.
Among all these, none was ever more famous than the hero of this ballad: the heads of whose story, as collected by Stow, are briefly these.
“In this time [about the year 1190, in the reign of Richard I.] were many robbers, and outlawes, among the which Robin Hood, and Little John, renowned theeves, continued in woods, despoyling and robbing the goods of
“The saide Robert entertained an hundred tall men and good archers with such spoiles and thefts as he got, upon whom four hundred (were they ever so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested: poore mens goods he spared, abundantlie relieving them with that, which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich carles: whom Maior (the historian) blameth for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves he affirmeth him to be the prince and the most gentle theefe.” Annals, p. 159.
The personal courage of this celebrated outlaw, his skill in archery, his humanity, and especially his levelling principle of taking from the rich and giving to the poor, have in all ages rendered him the favourite of the common people: who not content to celebrate his memory by innumerable songs and stories, have erected him into the dignity of an earl. Indeed it is not impossible, but our hero, to gain the more respect from his followers, or they to derive the more credit to their profession, may have given rise to such a report themselves: for we find it recorded in an epitaph, which, if genuine, must have been inscribed on his tombstone near the nunnery of Kirk-lees in Yorkshire; where (as the story goes) he was bled to death by a treacherous nun to whom he applied for phlebotomy.
laiz robert earl of huntingtun
nea arcir ver az hie sae geud
an pipl kauld im Robin Heud
sick utlawz as hi an is men
vil England nivir si agen.
This Epitaph appears to me suspicious; however, a late Antiquary has given a pedigree of Robin Hood, which,
“That be of fre bore blode:
“I shall you tell of a good yeman,
“His name was Robyn hode.
“Whiles he walked on grounde;
“So curteyse an outlawe as he was one,
“Was never none yfounde.” &c.
The printer's colophon is, “Explicit Kinge Edwarde and Robin hode and Lyttel Johan. Enprented at London in Fletestrete at the sygne of the sone by Wynkin de Worde.” —In Mr. Garrick's Collection is a different edition of the same poem “Imprinted at London upon the thre Crane wharfe by Wyllyam Copland.” containing at the end a little dramatic piece on the subject of Robin Hood and the Friar, not found in the former copy, called, “A newe playe for to be played in Maye games very plesaunte and full of pastyme.”
I shall conclude these preliminary remarks with observing, that the hero of this ballad was the favourite subject of popular songs so early as the time of K. Edw. III. In the
But of our Lorde and our Lady, I lerne nothyng at all.
See also in Bp. Latimer's Sermons a very curious and characteristical story, which shews what respect was shewn to the memory of our archer in the time of that prelate.
And leaves both large and longe,
Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst
To heare the small birdes songe.
Sitting upon the spraye,
Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay.
A sweaven I had this night;
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
That fast with me can fight.
And tooke my bowe me froe;
Iff I be Robin alive in this lande,
Ile be wroken on them towe.
As the wind blowes over the hill;
For iff itt be never so loude this night,
To-morrow it may be still.
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yond wighty yeomen,
In greenwood where they bee.
And tooke theyr bowes each one;
And they away to the greene forrèst
A shooting forth are gone;
Where they had gladdest to bee,
There they were ware of a wight yeomàn,
That leaned agaynst a tree.
Of manye a man the bane;
And he was clad in his capull hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne.
Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wight yeoman
To know what he doth meane.
And that I farley finde:
How often send I my men before,
And tarry my selfe behinde?
And a man but heare him speake;
And it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I thy head wold breake.
So they parted Robin and John;
And John is gone to Barnesdale:
The gates he knoweth eche one.
Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
For he found tow of his owne fellòwes
Were slaine both in a slade.
Fast over stocke and stone,
For the proud sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
With Christ his might and mayne;
To stopp he shall be fayne.
And fetteled him to shoote:
The bow was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.
That ever thou grew on a tree;
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sherriffes men,
And William a Trent was slaine.
To have bene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the green wood slade
To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.
And hanged hye on a hill.
If it be Christ his will.
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeomàn,
Where under the leaves he stood.
“Good morrowe, good fellow, quo' he:”
Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
A good archere thou sholdst bee.
And of my morning tyde.
Ile lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.
Men call him Robin Hood;
Rather Ild meet with that proud outlàwe
Than fortye pound soe good.
And Robin thou soone shalt see:
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.
Among the woods so even,
We may chance to meete with Robin Hood
Here at some unsett steven.
That grew both under a breere,
And sett them threescore rood in twaine
To shoote the prickes y-fere.
Leade on, I do bidd thee.
Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
My leader thou shalt bee.
He mist but an inch it fro:
The yeoman he was an archer good,
But he cold never do soe.
He shot within the garlànd:
But Robin he shott far better than hee,
For he clave the good pricke wande.
Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
Thou wert better than Robin Hoode.
Under the leaves of lyne.
Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robìn,
Till thou have told me thine.
And Robin to take Ime sworne;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guy of good Gisbòrne.
By thee I set right nought:
I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought.
Might have seen a full fayre sight,
To see how together these yeomen went
With blades both browne and bright.
Two howres of a summers day:
Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy
Them fettled to flye away.
And stumbled at that tyde;
And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,
And hitt him upon the syde.
That art but mother and may',
I think it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day.
And soone leapt up againe,
And strait he came with a ‘backward’ stroke,
And he sir Guy hath slayne.
And stuck it upon his bowes end:
Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an end.
And nicked sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born,
Cold know whose head it was.
And with me be not wrothe;
Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe.
And on sir Guy did throwe,
And hee put on that capull hyde,
That cladd him topp to toe.
Now with me I will beare;
For I will away to Barnèsdale,
To see how my men doe fare.
And a loud blast in it did blow.
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.
I heare nowe tydings good,
For yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blow,
And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
Cladd in his capull hyde.
Aske what thou wilt of mee.
O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
Nor I will none of thy fee:
Let me goe strike the knave;
For this is all the meede I aske;
None other rewarde I'le have.
Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee:
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shal bee.
Well knewe he it was his steven:
Now shall I be looset, quoth Little John,
With Christ his might in heaven.
He thought to loose him blive;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him can drive.
Why draw you mee so neere?
Itt was never the use in our countryè,
Ones shrift another shold heere.
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand,
And bade it be his boote.
His boltes and arrowes eche one:
When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
He fettled him to be gone.
He fled full fast away;
And soe did all the companye;
Not one behind wold stay.
Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
But Little John with an arrowe soe broad,
He shott him into the ‘backe’-syde.
The title of Sir was not formerly peculiar to Knights, it was given to priests, and sometimes to very inferior personages.
It should perhaps be Swards: i.e. the surface of the ground: viz. “when the fields are in their beauty.”
The common epithet for a sword or other offensive weapon, in the old metrical romances, is Brown. As “brown brand,” or “brown sword: brown bill,” &c. and sometimes even “bright brown sword.” Chaucer applies the word rustie in the same sense; thus he describes the reve:
Prol. ver. 620.
And even thus the God Mars:
Test. of Cressid. 188.
Spencer has sometimes used the same epithet: See Warten's Observ. vol. 2. p. 62. It should seem from this particularity that our ancestors did not pique themselves upon keeping their weapons bright: perhaps they deemed it more honourable to carry them stained with the blood of their enemies.
IX. AN ELEGY ON HENRY FOURTH EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.
The subject of this poem, which was written by Skelton, is the death of Henry Percy, fourth earl of Northumberland, who fell a victim to the avarice of Henry VII. In 1489 the parliament had granted the king a subsidy for carrying on the war in Bretagne. This tax was found so heavy in the North, that the whole country was in a flame. The E. of Northumberland, then lord lieutenant for Yorkshire, wrote to inform the king of the discontent, and praying an abatement. But nothing is so unrelenting as avarice: the king wrote back that not a penny should be abated. This message being delivered by the earl with too little caution, the populace rose, and supposing him to be the promoter of their calamity, broke into his house, and murdered him with several of his attendants: who yet are charged by Skelton with being backward in their duty on this occasion. This melancholy event happened at the earl's seat at Cocklodge, near Thirske, in Yorkshire, April 28. 1489. See Lord Bacon, &c.
If the reader does not find much poetical merit in this old poem (which yet is one of Skelton's best), he will see a striking picture of the state and magnificence kept up by our
John Skelton, who commonly styled himself Poet Laureat, died June 21. 1529. The following poem, which appears to have been written soon after the event, is printed from an ancient MS. copy preserved in the British Museum, being much more correct than that printed among Skelton's Poems in bl. let. 12mo. 1568.—It is addressed to Henry Percy fifth earl of Northumberland, and is prefacea, &c. in the following manner:
Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit.
Ad nutum celebris tu prona repone leonis,
Quæque suo patri tristia justa cano.
Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet
Fortunam, cuncta quæ male fida rotat.
Qui leo sit felix, & Nestoris occupet annos;
Ad libitum cujus ipse paratus ero.
The dedely fate, the dolefulle destenny
Of him that is gone, alas! withoute restore,
Whos lordshepe doutles was slayne lamentably
Thorow treson ageyn hym compassyd and wrought;
Trew to his prince, in word, in dede, and thought.
In the college of musis goddess hystoriall,
Adres the to me, whiche am both halt and lame
In elect uteraunce to make memoryall:
To the for soccour, to the for helpe I call
Myne homely rudnes and drighnes to expelle
With the freshe waters of Elyconys welle.
Of famous princis and lordes of astate,
By thy report ar wonte to be extold,
Regestringe trewly every formare date;
Of thy bountie after the usuall rate,
Kyndle in me suche plenty of thy noblès,
Thes sorrowfulle dities that I may shew expres.
Of formar writinge by any presidente
That vilane hastarddis in ther furious tene,
Confeterd togeder of commoun concente
Falsly to slo ther moste singular goode lorde?
It may be registerde of shamefull recorde.
Fulfilled with honor, as all the worlde dothe ken;
At his commaundement, whiche had both day and night
Knyghtis and squyers, at every season when
He calde upon them, as menyall houshold men:
Were no thes commones uncurteis karlis of kynde
To slo their owne lorde? God was not in their minde.
That were aboute hym, his owne servants of trust,
To suffre hym slayn of his mortall fo?
Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust:
They bode not till the rekening were discust.
What shuld I flatter? what shulde I glose or paynt?
Fy, fy for shame, their harts wer to faint.
Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede;
To whome grete astates obeyde and lowttede;
A mayny of rude villayns made him for to blede:
Unkindly they slew hym, that holp them oft at nede:
He was their bulwark, their paves, and their wall,
Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal.
What frantyk frensy syll in youre brayne?
Where was your wit and reson, ye shuld have had?
What willfull foly made yow to ryse agayne
Your naturall lord? alas! I can not fayne.
Ye armed you with will, and left your wit behynd;
Well may you be called comones most unkynd.
Redy to assyst you in every tyme of nede:
Your worship depended of his excellence:
Alas! ye mad men, to far ye did excede:
Your hap was unhappy, to ill was your spede:
What movyd you agayn hym to war or to fight?
What aylde you to sle your lord agyn all right?
The welle concernyng of all the hole lande,
Demaundyng soche dutyes as nedis most acord
To the right of his prince which shold not be withstand;
For whos cause ye slew hym with your awne hande:
But had his nobill men done wel that day,
Ye had not been hable to have saide him nay.
How-be-it the mater was evident and playne,
For yf they had occupied ther spere and ther shelde,
This noble man doutles had not be slayne.
Bot men say they wer lynked with a double chayn,
And held with the commouns under a cloke,
Whiche kindeled the wyld fyre that made all this smoke.
Of them demaunded and asked by the kynge;
With one voice importune, they playnly said nay:
They buskt them on a bushment themself in baile to bringe:
Agayne the kings plesure to wrastle or to wringe,
Bluntly as bestis withe boste and with cry
They saide, they forsede not, nor carede not to dy.
As man that was innocent of trechery or trayne,
Presed forthe boldly to witstand the myght,
And, lyke marciall Hector, he fauht them agayne,
Vigorously upon them with myght and with mayne,
Trustinge in noble men that wer with hym there:
Bot all they fled from hym for falshode or fere.
Togeder with servaunts of his famuly,
Turnd their backis, and let ther master fall,
Of whos [life] they counted not a flye;
Take up whos wolde for them, they let hym ly.
Alas! his golde, his fee, his annuall rente
Upon suche a sort was ille bestowde and spent.
Withe his enemys, that were stark mad and wode;
Yet whils he stode he gave them woundes wyde:
Alas for routhe! what thouche his mynde were goode,
His corage manly, yet ther he shed his bloode!
For cruelly amonge them ther he was slayne.
The famous erle of Northumberlande:
Of knightly prowès the sworde pomel and hylt,
The myghty lyoun doutted by se and lande!
O dolorous chaunce of fortuns fruward hande!
What man remembring how shamfully he was slayne,
From bitter weepinge hymself kan restrayne?
O dolorous teusday, dedicate to thy name,
When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar!
O grounde ungracious, unhappy be thy fame,
Whiche wert endyed with rede blode of the same!
Moste noble erle! O fowle mysuryd grounde
Whereon he gat his fynal dedely wounde!
Goddes mooste cruell unto the lyf of man,
All merciles, in the ys no pitè!
O homycide, whiche sleest all that thou kan,
So forcibly upon this erle thow ran,
That with thy sworde enharpid of mortall drede,
Thou kit asonder his persight vitall threde!
Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge;
Bot by them to knoulege ye may attayne
Of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge.
Which whils he lyvyd had fuyson of every thing,
Tyl fykkill fortune began on hym to frowne.
Sourmountinge in honor all erls he did excede,
To all cuntreis aboute hym reporte me I dare.
Lyke to Eneas benygne in worde and dede,
Valiaunt as Hector in every marciall nede,
Provydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse,
Tyll the chaunce ran agyne him of fortunes duble dyse.
With my rude pen enkankerd all with rust?
Whos noble actis shew worsheply his name,
Transcendyng far myne homely muse, that must
Yet sumwhat wright supprisid with hartly lust,
Truly reportinge his right noble astate,
Immortally whiche is immaculate.
Trew to his prince for to defende his right,
Doublenes hatinge, fals maters to compas,
Treytory and treson he bannesht out of syght,
With trowth to medle was all his hole delyght,
As all his kuntrey kan testefy the same:
To slo suche a lord, alas, it was grete shame.
In me all onely wer sett and comprisyde,
Enbrethed with the blast of influence dyvyne,
As perfightly as could be thought or devysyd;
To me also allthouche it were promysyde
All were to litill for his magnyficence.
Grow and encrese, remembre thyn astate,
God the assyst unto thyn herytage,
And geve the grace to be more fortunate,
Agayne rebellyouns arme to make debate.
And, as the lyoune, whiche is of bestis kinge,
Unto thy subjectis be kurteis and benyngne.
Stabille thy mynde constant to be and fast,
Right to mayntein, and to resist all wronge,
All flattringe faytors abhor and from the cast,
Of foule detraction God kepe the from the blast,
Let double delinge in the have no place,
And be not light of credence in no case.
Eche man may sorow in his inward thought,
Thys lords death, whose pere is hard to fynd
Allgyf Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught.
Al kings, all princes, all dukes, well they ought
Bothe temporall and spirituall for to complayne
This noble man, that crewelly was slayne.
And all other gentilmen with hym enterteynd
In fee, as menyall men of his housold,
Whom he as lord worsheply manteynd:
To sorowfull weping they ought to be constreynd,
Of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce.
That with one worde formed al thing of noughte;
Hevyn, hell, and erth obey unto thi kall;
Which to thy resemblance wondersly hast wrought
All mankynd, whom thou full dere hast boght,
With thy blode precious our finaunce thou dyd pay,
And us redemed, from the fendys pray:
As thou art of mercy and pite the well,
Thou bringe unto thy joye etermynable
The sowle of this lorde from all daunger of hell,
In endles blis with the to byde and dwell
In thy palace above the orient,
Where thou art lorde, and God omnipotent.
Maiden moste pure, and goddis moder dere,
To sorowfull harts chef comfort and solace,
Of all women O floure withouten pere,
Pray to thy son above the starris clere,
He to vouchesaf by thy mediatioun
To pardon thy servant, and bringe to salvacion.
With all the hole sorte of that glorious place,
His soule mot receyve into ther company
Well of pite, of mercy, and of grace,
The father, the son, and the holy goste
In Trinitate one God of myghts moste.
I have placed the foregoing poem of Skelton's before the following extract from Hawes, not only because it was written first, but because I think Skelton is in general to be considered as the earlier poet; many of his poems being written long before Hawes's Graunde Amour.
Henry, first E. of Northumberland, was born of Mary daughter to Henry E. of Lancaster, second son of K. Henry III.—He was also lineally descended from the Emperour Charlemagne and the ancient Kings of France, by his ancestor Josceline de Lovain, (son of Godfrey Duke of Brabant,) who took the name of Percy on marrying the heiress of that house in the reign of Hen. II. Vid. Camden. Britan. Edmondson, &c.
X. THE TOWER OF DOCTRINE.
The reader has here a specimen of the descriptive powers of Stephen Hawes, a celebrated poet in the reign of Hen. VII. tho' now little known. It is extracted from an allegorical poem of his (written in 1505.) intitled, “The Hist. of Graunde Amoure & La Belle Pucel, called the Palace of Pleasure, &c.” 4to. 1555.
See more of Hawes in Ath. Ox. v. 1. p. 6. and Warton's Observ. v. 2. p. 105.
The following Stanzas are taken from Chap. III. and IV. “How Fame departed from Graunde Amour and left him with Governaunce and Grace, and howe he went to the Tower of Doctrine, &c.”—As we are able to give no small lyric piece of Hawes's, the reader will excuse the insertion of this extract.
Farre in the west neare to the element,
And as I dyd then unto it approche,
Upon the toppe I sawe refulgent
The royal tower of Morall Document,
Made of fine copper with turrettes fayre and hye,
Which against Phebus shone soe marveylously,
What of the tower, and of the cleare sunne,
I could nothyng behold the goodlines
Of that palaice, whereas Doctrine did wonne:
Tyll at the last, with mysty wyndes donne,
The radiant brightnes of golden Phebus
Auster gan cover with clowde tenebrus.
And often mused of the great hyghnes
Of the craggy rocke, which quadrant did appeare:
But the fayre tower, (so much of ryches
Was all about,) sexangled doubtles;
Gargeyld with grayhoundes, and with many lyons,
Made of fyne golde; with divers sundry dragons.
About was set, whiche with the wynde aye moved
With propre vices, that I did well beholde
About the tower, in sundry wyse they hoved
With goodly pypes, in their mouthes ituned,
That with the wynd they pyped a daunce
Iclipped Amour de la hault plesaunce.
To whyche ther was no way to passe but one,
Into the toure for to have an intres:
A grece there was ychesyld all of stone
Out of the rocke, on whyche men dyd gone
Up to the toure, and in lykewyse dyd I
Wyth bothe the Grayhoundes in my company :
Where I sawe stondynge the goodly Portres,
Whyche axed me, from whence I came a-late;
To whome I gan in every thynge expresse
All myne adventure, chaunce, and busynesse,
And eke my name; I tolde her every dell:
Whan she herde this she lyked me right well.
Into the ‘base’ courte she dyd me then lede,
Where was a fountayne depured of pleasance,
A noble sprynge, a ryall conduyte-hede,
Made of fyne golde enameled with reed;
And on the toppe four dragons blewe and stoute
Thys dulcet water in four partes dyd spoute.
Sweter than Nylus or Ganges was ther odoure;
Tygrys or Eufrates unto them no pere:
Fragraunt of fume, and swete as any floure;
And in my mouthe it had a marveylous scent
Of divers spyces, I knewe not what it ment.
Dame Countenaunce into a goodly Hall,
Of jasper stones it was wonderly wrought:
The wyndowes cleare depured all of crystall,
And in the rouse on hye over all
Of golde was made a ryght crafty vyne;
Instede of grapes the rubies there did shyne.
With pillers made of stones precious,
Like a place of pleasure so gayely glorified,
It myght be called a palaice glorious,
So muche delectable and solacious;
The hall was hanged hye and circuler
With cloth of arras in the rychest maner.
Of the doubty waye to the Tower Perillous;
Howe a noble knyght should wynne the victory
Of many a serpente foule and odious.
XI. THE CHILD OF ELLE
—is given from a fragment in the Editor's folio MS: which tho' extremely defective and mutilated appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt a completion of the story. The Reader will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time be inclined to pardon it, when he considers how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original.
Child was a title sometimes given to a knight. See Gloss.
With walles and towres bedight,
And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
A younge and comely knighte.
And stood at his garden pale,
Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
Come trippinge downe the dale.
Y-wis he stoode not stille,
And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
Come climbing up the hille.
Now Christe thee save and see!
Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
And what may thy tydinges bee?
And the teares they falle from her eyne;
And aye she laments the deadlye feude
Betweene her house and thine.
Bedewde with many a teare,
And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
Who loved thee so deare.
The last boone thou mayst have,
And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
Whan she is layde in grave.
And in grave soone must shee bee,
Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
And forbidde her to think of thee.
Sir John of the north countràye,
And within three dayes shee must him wedde,
Or he vowes he will her slaye.
And greet thy ladye from mee,
And telle her that I her owne true love
Will dye, or sette her free.
And let thy fair ladye know
This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe,
Betide me weale or woe.
He neither stint ne stayd
Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
And he greets thee well by mee;
This night will he bee at thy bowre-windòwe,
And dye or sette thee free.
And all were fast asleepe,
All save the ladye Emmeline,
Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
Lowe whispering at the walle,
Awake, awake, my deare ladyè,
Tis I thy true love call.
Come, mount this faire palfràye:
This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe,
Ile carrye thee hence awaye.
Now nay, this may not bee;
For aye should I tint my maiden fame,
If alone I should wend with thee.
Mayst safelye wend alone,
To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
Where marriage shall make us one.
Of lynage proude and hye;
And what would he saye if his daughtèr
Awaye with a knight should fly?
Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
Till he had slayne thee, Child of Elle,
And seene thy deare hearts bloode.”
And a little space him fro,
I would not care for thy cruel fathèr,
Nor the worst that he could doe.
And once without this walle,
I would not care for thy cruel fathèr,
Nor the worst that might befalle.
And aye her heart was woe:
At length he seizde her lilly-white hand,
And downe the ladder he drewe:
And kist her tenderlìe:
The teares that fell from her fair eyes,
Ranne like the fountayne free.
And her on a faire palfràye,
And slung his bugle about his necke,
And roundlye they rode awaye.
In her bed whereas shee ley,
Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
Soe I shall have golde and fee.
Awake, my noble dame!
Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle,
To doe the deede of shame.
And callde his merrye men all:
“And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,
The ladye is carried to thrall.”
A mile forth of the towne,
When she was aware of her fathers men
Come galloping over the downe:
Sir John of the north countràye:
“Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false taitòure,
Nor carry that ladye awaye.
And was of a ladye borne,
And ill it beseems thee a false churles sonne
To carrye her hence to scorne.”
Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
Soe never did none by thee.
Light downe, and hold my steed,
While I and this discourteous knighte
Doe trye this arduous deede.
Light downe, and hold and horse;
While I and this discourteous knight
Doe trye our valours force.
And aye her heart was woe,
While twixt her love and the carlish knight
Past many a baleful blowe.
As his weapon he wavde amaine,
That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,
And layde him upon the plaine.
Full fast approached nye:
Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe?
Twere nowe no boote to flye.
And blew both loud and shrill,
And soone he saw his owne merry men
Come ryding over the hill.
I pray thee, hold thy hand,
Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts,
Fast knit in true loves band.
Full long and many a day;
But with such love as holy kirke
Hath freelye sayd wee may.
And blesse a faithfull paire:
My lands and livings are not small,
My house and lynage faire:
And a noble knyght my sire—
The baron he frownde, and turnde away
With mickle dole and ire.
And did all tremblinge stand:
At lengthe she sprange upon her knee,
And held his lifted hand.
This faire yong knyght and mee:
Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
I never had fled from thee.
Your darling and your joye;
O let not then your harsh resolves
Your Emmeline destroye.
And turnde his heade asyde
To whipe awaye the starting teare,
He proudly strave to hyde.
And musde a little space;
Then raisde faire Emmeline from the grounde,
With many a fond embrace.
And gave her lillye hand;
Here take my deare and only child,
And with her half my land:
In dayes of youthful pride;
Do thou the injurye repayre
In fondnesse for thy bride.
Heaven prosper thee and thine:
And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
My lovelye Emmeline.
XII. ADAM O' GORDON,
A Scottish Ballad
—was printed at Glasgow, by Robert and Andrew Foulis, MDCCLV. 8vo. 12 pages.—We are indebted for its publication (with many other valuable things in those volumes) to Sir David Dalrymple, Bart. who gave it as it was preserved in the memory of a lady, that is now dead.
The reader will here find it improved, and enlarged with several fine stanzas, recovered from a fragment of the same ballad, in the Editor's folio MS. It is remarkable that the latter is intitled Captain Adam Carre, and is in the English idiom. But whether the author was English or Scotch, the difference originally was not great. The English Ballads are generally of the North of England, the Scottish are of the South of Scotland, and of consequence the country of Ballad-singers was sometimes subject to one crown, and sometimes to the other, and most frequently to neither. Most of the finest old Scotch songs have the scene laid within 20 miles of England; which is indeed all poetic ground, green hills, remains of woods, clear brooks. The pastoral scenes remain: Of the rude chivalry of former ages happily nothing remains, but the ruins of the castles, where the more daring and successful robbers resided. The House, or Castle of the Rodes, stood about a measured mile south from Duns in Berwickshire: some of the ruins of it may be seen to this day. The Gordons were anciently seated in the same county: the two villages of East and West Gordon lie
From the different titles of this ballad, it should seem that the old strolling bards or minstrels (who gained a livelihood by reciting these poems) made no scruple of changing the names of the personages they introduced, to humour their hearers. For instance, if a Gordon's conduct was blame-worthy in the opinion of that age, the obsequious minstrel would, when among Gordons, change the name to Car, whose clan or sept lay further west, and vice versâ. In the third volume the reader will find a similar instance. See the song of Gil Morris, the hero of which had different names given him, perhaps from the same cause.
It may be proper to mention, that in the English copy, instead of the “Castle of the Rodes,” it is the “Castle of Bittons-borrow,” (or “Diactours-borrow,” for it is very obscurely written), and “Capt. Adam Carre” is called the “Lord of Westerton-town.” Uniformity required that the additional stanzas supplied from that copy should be clothed in the Scottish orthography and idiom: this has therefore been attempted, though perhaps imperfectly.
Quhen the wind blew schril and cauld,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
We maun draw to a hauld.
My mirry men and me?
We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
To see that fair ladìe.
Beheld baith dale and down:
There she was ware of a host of men
Cum ryding towards the toun.
O see ze nat quhat I see?
Methinks I see a host of men:
I marveil quha they be.
As he cam ryding hame;
It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
And putten on hir goun,
Till Edom o' Gordon and his men
Were round about the toun.
Nae sooner said the grace,
Till Edom o' Gordon and his men,
Were light about the place.
Sa fast as she could drie,
To see if by hir fair speechès
She could wi' him agree.
And hir yates all locked fast,
He fell into a rage of wrath,
And his hart was all aghast.
Cum doun, cum doun to me:
This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
To-morrow my bride sall be.
I winnae cum doun to thee;
I winnae forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far frae me.
Give owre zour house to me,
Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
Bot and zour babies three.
To nae sik traitor as zee;
And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
My lord sall make ze drie.
And charge ze weil my gun:
For, but if I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes we been undone.
And let twa bullets flee:
She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
And only raz'd his knee.
All wood wi' dule and ire:
Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
As ze brenn in the fire.
I paid ze weil zour fee;
Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa stane,
Lets in the reek to me?
I paid ze weil zour hire;
Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa stane,
To me lets in the fire?
Ze paid me weil my see:
But now Ime Edom o' Gordons man,
Maun either doe or die.
Sate on the nourice' knee:
Sayes, Mither deare, gi owre this house,
For the reek it smithers me.
Sae wad I a' my fee,
For ane blast o' the westlin wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee.
She was baith jimp and sma:
O row me in a pair o' sheits,
And tow me owre the wa.
And towd hir owre the wa:
But on the point of Gordons spear,
She gat a deadly fa.
And cherry were hir cheiks,
And clear clear was hir zellow hair,
Whereon the reid bluid dreips.
O gin hir face was wan!
He sayd, Ze are the first that eir
I wisht alive again.
O gin hir skin was whyte!
I might ha spared that bonnie face
To hae been sum mans delyte.
For ill dooms I doe guess;
I cannae luik in that bonnie face,
As it lyes on the grass.
Then freits wil follow thame:
Let it neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
Was daunted by a dame.
Cum flaming owre hir head,
She wept and kist her children twain,
Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.
And said, Awa', awa';
This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
I hauld it time to ga'.
As hee cam owre the lee;
He sied his castle all in blaze
Sa far as he could see.
And all his hart was wae:
Put on, put on, my wighty men,
So fast as ze can gae.
Sa fast as ze can drie;
For he that is hindmost of the thrang,
Sall neir get guid o' me.
Fou fast out-owre the bent;
But eir the foremost could get up,
Baith lady and babes were brent.
And wept in teenefu' muid:
O traitors, for this cruel deid
Ze sall weip teirs o' bluid.
Sa fast as he micht drie;
And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid,
He's wroken his dear ladìe.
This ballad is well known in that neighbourhood, where it is intitled Adam o' Gordon. It may be observed, that the famous freebooter, whom Edward I. fought with, hand to hand, near Farmham, was named Adam Gordon.
Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||