XVII. OLD TOM OF BEDLAM.
Mad song the first.
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The attribution of this poem is questionable.
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It is worth attention, that the English have more songs
and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their
neighbours. Whether it is that we are more liable to this
calamity than other nations, or whether our native gloominess
hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers,
the fact is incontestable, as any one may be satisfied,
who will compare the printed collections of French, Italian
Songs, &c. with those in our language.
Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a
dozen mad songs for these volumes. The three first are
originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last
is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable
intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together,
that the reader may the better examine their comparative
merits. He may consider them as so many trials of
skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals
to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably
written about the beginning of the last century; the
third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards
the end; and the fifth within this present century.
This is given from the editor's folio MS. compared with
two or three old printed copies.—With regard to the author
of this old rhapsody, in Walton's Compleat Angler, cap. 3. is
a song in praise of angling, which the author says was made
at his request “by Mr.
William Basse, one that has
made the choice songs of the
Hunter in his career,
and of
Tom of Bedlam, and many others of note.”
p. 84. See Mr. Hawkins's curious Edition, 8vo. of this
excellent old Piece.
Forth from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.
Feares and cares oppresse my soule:
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.
Through the world I wander night and day
To seeke my straggling senses,
In an angrye moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:
When me he spyed,
Away he hyed,
For time will stay for no man:
In vaine with cryes
I rent the skyes,
For pity is not common.
Cold and comfortless I lye:
Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye!
Harke! I heare Apollo's teame,
The carman 'gins to whistle;
Chast Diana bends her bowe,
The boare begins to bristle.
Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackles,
To knocke off my troublesome shackles;
Bid Charles make ready his waine
To fetch me my senses againe.
Last night I heard the dog-star bark;
Mars met Venus in the darke;
Limping Vulcan het an iron barr,
And furiouslye made at the god of war:
Mars with his weapon laid about,
But Vulcan's temples had the gout,
For his broad horns did so hang in his light,
He could not see to aim his blowes aright:
Mercurye the nimble post of heaven,
Stood still to see the quarrell;
Gorrel-bellyed Bacchus, gyant-like,
Bestryd a strong-beere barrell.
To mee he dranke,
I did him thanke,
But I could get no cyder;
He dranke whole butts
Till he burst his gutts,
But mine were ne'er the wyder.
Poore naked Tom is very drye:
A little drinke for charitye!
Harke, I hear Acteons horne!
The huntsmen whoop and hallowe:
Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Jowler,
All the chase do followe.
The man in the moone drinkes clarret,
Eates powder'd beef, turnip, and carret,
But a cup of old Malaga sacke
Will fire the bushe at his backe.
