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. | VOLUME THE FIRST. |
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 | Reliques of Ancient English Poetry |  |
1. VOLUME THE FIRST.
Sir Philip Sydney's Defence of Poetry.
ANCIENT SONGS AND BALLADS, &c.
SERIES THE FIRST.
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.
BOOK II.
I. ADAM BELL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGH, AND WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLY
—were three noted outlaws, whose skill in archery rendered them formerly as famous in the North of England, as Robin Hobin and his fellows were in the midland counties. Their place of residence was in the forest of Englewood, not far from Carlisle, (called corruptly in the ballad English-wood, whereas Engle, or Ingle-wood signifies Wood for firing.) At what time they lived does not appear. The author of the common ballad on “The pedigree, education, and marriage, of Robin Hood,” makes them contemporary with Robin Hood's father, in order to give him the honour of beating them: viz.
And he shot in a lusty long-bow
Two north-country miles and an inch at a shot,
As the Pindar of Wakefield does know:
And William a Clowdéslee
To shoot with our Forester for forty mark;
And our Forester beat them all three.
Collect. of Old Ballads. 1727. 1 vol. p. 67.
This seems to prove that they were commonly thought to have lived before the popular Hero of Sherwood.
Our northern archers were not unknown to their southern countrymen, their excellence at the long-bow is often alluded to by our ancient poets. Shakespeare, in his comedy of “Much adoe about nothing,” Act 1. makes Benedicke confirm his resolves of not yielding to love, by this protestation, “If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat , and shoot at me, and he that hits me, let him be clapt on the shoulder and called Adam:” meaning Adam Bell, as Theobald rightly observes, who refers to one or two other passages in our old poets wherein he is mentioned. The Oxford editor has also well conjectured that “Abraham Cupid” in Romeo and Juliet, A. 2. s. 1. should be “Adam Cupid,” in allusion to our archer. Ben Johnson has mentioned Clym o' the Clough in his Alchemist, Act 1. sc. 2. And Sir William Davenant, in a mock poem of his, called “The long vacation in London,” describes the Attorneys and Proctors, as making matches to meet in Finsbury fields.
“Where arrowes stick with mickle pride; . . . .
“Like ghosts of Adam Bell and Clymme.
“Sol sets for fear they'l shoot at him.”
Works, p. 291. fol. 1673.
I have only to add further concerning the principal Hero of this Ballad, that the Bells were noted rogues in the North so late as the time of Q. Elizabeth. See in Rymer's Fædera, a letter from lord William Howard to some of the officers of state, wherein he mentions them.
As for the following stanzas, they will be judged from the style, orthography, and numbers, to be very ancient: they are given from an old black-letter quarto, Imprinted at London in Lothburye by Wyllyam Copland (no date):
Part the First.
Amonge the levès grene,
Wheras men hunt east and west
Wyth bowes and arrowes kene;
Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene;
As by thre yemen of the north countrèy,
By them it is I meane.
The other Clym of the Clough,
The thyrd was William of Cloudesly,
An archer good ynough.
These yemen everychone;
They swore them brethren upon a day,
To Englyshe wood for to gone.
That of myrthe loveth to here:
Two of them were singele men,
The third had a wedded fere.
Muche more than was hys care:
He sayde to hys brethren upon a day,
To Carleil he wold fare;
And with hys chyldren thre.
By my trouth, sayde Adam Bel,
Not by the counsell of me:
And from thys wylde wode wende,
If the justice may you take,
Your lyfe were at an ende.
By pryme to you agayne,
Truste not els, but that I am take,
Or else that I am slayne.
And to Carleil he is gon:
There he knocked at his owne windòwe
Shortlye and anone.
And my chyldren thre?
Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbànde,
Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
And syghed wonderous sore,
Thys place hath ben besette for you
Thys halfe yere and more.
I wold that in I were:
Now fetche us meate and drynke ynoughe,
And let us make good chere.
Lyke a true wedded wyfe;
And pleased hym with that she had,
Whome she loved as her lyfe.
A lytle besyde the fyre,
Whych Wyllyam had found of charytyè
More than seven yere.
Evel mote she spede therefoore;
For she had not set no sote on ground
In seven yere before.
As fast as she could hye:
Thys night is come unto thys town
Wyllyam of Cloudeslyè.
And so was the shirife also:
Thou shalt not trauaill hither, dame, for nought,
Thy meed thou shalt have or thou go.
Of scarlate, and of graine:
She toke the gyft, and home she wente,
And couched her doune agayne.
In all the haste they can;
And came thronging to Wyllyames house,
As fast as they might gone.
About on every syde:
Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes,
That they ther-ward they hyed.
And loked all aboute,
She was ware of the justice and shirife bothe,
Wyth a full great route.
Ever wo may thou be!
Goe into my chamber, husband, she sayd,
Swete Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
Hys bow and hys chyldren thre,
And wente into hys strongest chamber,
Where he thought surest to be.
Took a pollaxe in her hande:
He shal be deade that here commeth in
Thys dore, whyle I may stand.
That was of trusty tre,
He smot the justise on the brest,
That hys arowe brest in three.
Thys day thy cote dyd on!
If it had ben no better then myne,
It had gone nere thy bone.
Thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.
A curse on hys hart, sayd fair Alyce,
That my husband councelleth so.
Syth it wyll no better be,
And brenne we therin William, he saide,
Hys wyfe and chyldren thre.
The fyre flew up on hye:
Alas! then cryed fayre Alice,
I se we here shall dy.
That was in hys chamber hie,
And wyth shetes let downe his wyfe,
And eke hys chyldren thre.
My wyfe and my chyldren thre:
For Christès love do them no harme,
But wreke you all on me.
Tyll hys arrowes were all agoe,
And the fyre so fast upon hym fell,
That hys bowstryng brent in two.
Good Wyllyam of Cloudeslè:
Than was he a wofull man, and sayde,
Thys is a cowardes death to me.
With my sworde in the route to renne,
Then here among myne enemyes wode
Thus cruelly to bren.
And among them all he ran,
Where the people were most in prece,
He smot downe many a man.
So fersly on them he ran:
Then they threw wyndowes, and dores on him,
And so toke that good yemàn.
And in depe dongeon cast:
Now Cloudeslè, sayd the hye justice,
Thou shalt be hanged in hast.
Now shal I for the make;
And the gates of Carleil shal be shutte:
No man shal come in therat.
Nor yet shal Adam Bell,
Though they came with a thousand mo,
Nor all the devels in hell.
To the gates first gan he gon,
And commaundeth to be shut full close
Lightilè everychone.
As fast as he coulde hye;
A payre of new gallous there he set up
Besyde the pyllorye.
“What meaneth that gallow-tre?”
They sayde to hange a good yeamàn,
Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
And kept fayre Alyces swyne;
Oft he had seene Cloudeslè in the wodde,
And geuend hym there to dyne.
And lightly to the woode dyd gone;
There met he with these wightye yemen
Shortly and anone.
Ye tary here all to longe;
Cloudeslè is taken, and dampned to death,
All readye for to honge.
That ever we see thys daye!
He had better with us have taryed,
So ofte as we dyd hym praye.
Under the shadowes grene,
And have kepte both hym and us in reste,
Out of trouble and teene.
A great hart sone had he slayne:
Take that, chylde, he sayde, to thy dynner,
And bryng me myne arrowe agayne.
Tary we no lenger here;
We shall hym borowe by God his grace,
Though we bye it full dere.
In a mery mornyng of maye.
Here is a fyt of Cloudeslye,
And another is for to saye.
Part the Second.
All in the mornyng tyde,
They founde the gates shut them untyll
About on every syde.
That ever we were made men!
These gates be shut so wonderous wel,
We may not come here in.
Wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng;
Let us saye we be messengers,
Streyght come nowe from our king.
Now let us wysely werke,
We wyl saye we have the kynges seales;
I holde the porter no clerke.
With strokes great and strong:
The porter herde suche noyse therat,
And to the gate he throng.
That maketh all thys dinne?
We be tow messengers, sayde Clim of the Clough,
Be come ryght from our kyng.
To the justice we must it bryng;
Let us in our message to do,
That we were agayne to the kyng.
Be hym that dyed on a tre,
Tyll a false thefe be hanged up,
Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
And swore by Mary fre,
And if that we stande long wythout,
Lyk a these honge thou shalt be.
What, Lurden, art thou wode?
The porter went it had ben so,
And lyghtly dyd off hys hode.
For that ye shall come in.
He opened the gate full shortlye;
An euyl openyng for him.
Therof we are full faine;
But Christ he knowes, that harowed hell,
How we shall com out agayne.
Ryght wel then shoulde we spede,
Then might we come out wel ynough
When we se tyme and nede.
And wrange hys necke in two,
And cast hym in a depe dongeon,
And toke hys keys hym fro.
Se brother the keys are here,
The worst porter to merry Carleile
The have had thys hundred yere.
Into the towne wyll we go,
For to delyuer our dere brothèr,
That lyeth in care and wo.
And loked theyr stringes were round ,
They beset that stound.
A paire of new galowes thei see,
And the justice with a quest of squyers,
Had judged theyr fere to de.
Fast bound both fote and hand;
And a stronge rop about hys necke,
All readye for to hange.
Cloudeslès clothes should he have,
To take the measure of that yemàn,
Therafter to make hys grave.
As betweyne thys and pryme,
He that maketh thys grave for me
Hymselfe may lye therin.
I shall the hange with my hande.
Full wel herd this his brethren two,
There styll as they dyd stande.
And saw hys brethren twaine
Redy the justice for to slaine.
Yet hope I well to fare,
If I might have my handes at wyll
Ryght lytle wolde I care.
To Clym of the Clough so free,
Brother, se ye marke the justyce wel;
Lo! yonder ye may him se:
Strongly wyth arrowe kene;
A better shote in mery Carleile
Thys seven yere was not sene.
Of no man had the dread;
The one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe,
That both theyr sides gan blede.
When the justice fell to the grounde,
And the sherife fell hym by;
Eyther had his deathes wounde.
They durst no lenger abyde:
There lyghtly they loosed Cloudeslè,
Where he with ropes lay tyde.
Hys axe fro hys hand he wronge,
On eche syde he smote them downe,
Hym thought he taryed to long.
Thys daye let us lyve and de,
If ever you have nede, as I have now,
The same shall you finde by me.
Theyr stringes were of silke ful sure,
That they kept the stretes on every side;
That batayle did long endure.
Lyke hardy men and bolde,
Many a man to the ground they thrue,
And many a herte made colde.
Men preced to them full fast,
They drew theyr swordès then anone,
And theyr bowes from them cast.
Wyth swordes and bucklers round;
By that it was myd of the day,
They made mani a wound.
And the belles bacwàrd dyd ryng,
Many a woman sayde, Alas!
And many theyr handes dyd wryng.
Wyth hym a ful great route:
These yemen dred hym full sore,
Of theyr lyves they stode in doute.
With a pollaxe in hys hande;
Many a strong man wyth him was,
There in that stowre to stande.
Hys bucler he brast in two,
Full many a yeman with great evyll,
Alas! they cryed for wo.
Kepe we the gates fast, they bad,
That these traytours therout not go.
For so fast they downe were layde,
Were gotten without, abraide.
Myne office I here forsake,
And yf you do by my counsell
A new porter do ye make.
And bad them well to thryve,
And all that letteth any good yeman
To come and comfort his wyfe.
And lyghtly, as lefe on lynde;
The lough and be mery in theyr mode,
Theyr foes were ferr behynd.
Under the trusty tre,
There they found bowes full good,
And arrowes full great plentye.
And Clym of the Clough so fre,
I would we were in mery Carleile,
Before that fayre meynè.
And eate and dranke full well.
A second fyt of the wightye yeomen,
Another I wyll you tell.
3. Part the Third.
Under the green-wode tre,
They thought they herd a woman wepe,
But her they mought not se.
That ever I sawe thys day!
For nowe is my dere husband slayne:
Alas! and wel-a-way!
Or with eyther of them twayne,
To shew to them what him befell,
My hart were out of payne.
Lookt under the grene wood linde,
He was ware of his wife, and chyldren three,
Full wo in harte and mynde.
Under this trusti tre:
I wende yesterday, by swete saynt John,
Thou shulde me never have se.
My harte is out of wo.”
Dame, he sayde, be mery and glad,
And thanke my brethren two.
I-wis it is no bote:
The meate, that we must supp withall,
It runneth yet fast on fote.
These noble archares thre;
Eche of them slew a hart of greece,
The best that they cold se.
Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudeslye;
By cause ye so bouldly stode by me
When I was slayne full nye.
Wyth suche meate as they had;
And thanked God of ther fortune:
They were both mery and glad.
Certayne wythouten lease,
Cloudeslè sayd, We wyll to our kyng,
To get us a charter of peace.
In a nunnery here besyde;
My tow sonnes shall wyth her go,
And there they shall abyde.
For hym have I no care:
And he shall breng you worde agayn,
How that we do fare.
As fast as they myght he,
Tyll they came to the kynge's pallàce,
Where they woulde nedes be.
Unto the pallace gate,
Of no man wold they aske no leave,
But boldly went in therat.
Of no man had they dreade:
The porter came after, and dyd them call,
And with them gan to chyde.
I pray you tell to me:
You myght thus make offycers shent:
Good syrs, of whence be ye?
Certayne withouten lease;
And hether we be come to our kyng
To get us a charter of peace.
As it was the lawe of the lande,
The kneled downe without lettyng,
And eche held up his hand.
That ye wyll graunt us grace;
For we have slayne your fat falow dere
In many a sondry place.
Anone that you tell me?
They sayd, Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.
That men have tolde of to me?
Here to God I make an avowe,
Ye shal be hanged all thre.
As I am kynge of this lande.
He commandeth his officers every one,
Fast on them to lay hande.
And arested them all thre:
So may I thryve, sayd Adam Bell,
Thys game lyketh not me.
That yee graunt us grace,
Insomuche as frelè to you we comen,
As frelè fro you to passe,
Tyll we be out of your place;
And yf we lyve this hundreth yere,
We wyll aske you no grace.
Ye shall be hanged all thre.
That were great pitye, then sayd the quene,
If any grace myght be.
To be your wedded wyfe,
The fyrst boone that I wold aske,
Ye would graunt it me belyfe:
Then, good lorde, graunt it me.
Now aske it, madam, sayd the kynge,
And graunted it shall be.
These yemen graunt ye me.
Madame, ye myght have asked a boone,
That shuld have been worth them all three.
Parkes and forestes plentè.
But none soe pleasant to my pay, shee sayd;
Nor none so lefe to me.
Your askyng graunted shal be;
But I had lever have geven you
Good market townes thre.
And sayde, Lord, gramarcyè
I dare undertake for them,
That true men they shal be.
That comfort they may se.
I graunt you grace, then sayd our king,
Washe, felos, and to meate go ye.
Certayne without lesynge,
There came messengers out of the north
With letters to our kyng.
They knelt downe on theyr kne;
Sayd, Lord, your officers grete you well,
Of Carleile in the north cuntrè.
And my sherife also?
Syr, they be slayne without leasynge,
And many an officer mo.
Anone thou tell to me?
“Adam Bell, and Clime of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.”
My hart is wonderous fore;
I had lever than a thousande pounde,
I had knowne of thys before:
And that forthynketh me:
But had I knowne all thys before,
They had been hanged all thre.
Himselfe he red it tho,
And founde how these outlawes had slain
Thre hundred men and mo:
And the mayre of Carleile towne;
Of all the constables and catchipolles
Alyve were scant left one:
And the sergeaunte of the law,
And forty fosters of the fe,
These outlawes had yslaw:
Of all they chose the best;
So perelous out-lawes, as they were,
Walked not by easte nor west.
In harte he syghed sore:
Take up the tables anone he bad,
For I may eat no more.
To the buttes wyth hym to go:
I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd,
In the north have wrought this wo.
And the quenes archers also;
So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen;
With them they thought to go.
For to assay theyr hande;
There was no shote these yemen shot,
That any prycke myght stand.
By him that for me dyed,
I hold hym never no good archar,
That shoteth at buttes so wyde.
I pray thee tell to me?”
At suche a but, syr, he sayd,
As men use in my countrè.
With his two brethèrene:
There they set up two hasell roddes
Full twenty score betwene.
That yonder wande cleveth in two.
Nor none that can so do.
Or that I farther go.
Cloudesly with a bearyng arowe
Clave the wand in two.
For sothe that ever I se.
And yet for your love, sayd Wyllyam,
I wyll do more maystery.
He is to me full deare;
I wyll hym tye to a stake;
All shall se, that be here;
And go syxe score hym fro,
And I my selfe with a brode aròw
Shall cleve the apple in two.
By hym that dyed on a tre,
But yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde,
Hanged shalt thou be.
In syght that men may se,
By all the sayntes that be in heaven,
I shall hange you all thre.
That wyll I never forsake.
And there even before the kynge
In the earth he drove a stake:
And bad hym stand styll thereat;
And turned the childes face him fro,
Because he should not sterte.
And then his bowe he bent:
Syxe score paces they were out mete,
And thether Cloudeslè went.
Hys bowe was great and longe,
He set that arrowe in his bowe,
That was both styffe and stronge.
That they still wold stand,
For he that shoteth for such a wager,
Behoveth a stedfast hand.
That his lyfe saved myght be,
And whan he made hym redy to shote,
There was many weeping ee.
His sonne he did not nee.
Over Gods forbode, sayde the kinge,
That thou shold shote at me.
And my bowe shalt thou bere,
And over all the north countrè
I make the chyfe rydère.
By God, and by my fay;
Come feche thy payment when thou wylt,
No man shall say the nay.
Of clothyng, and of fe:
And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre,
For they are so semely to se.
Of my wyne seller he shall be;
And when he commeth to mans estate,
Shal better avaunced be.
Me longeth her sore to se:
She shall be my chefe gentlewoman,
To governe my nurserye.
To some byshop wyl we wend,
Of all the synnes, that we have done,
To be assoyld at his hand.
As fast as they might he ;
And after came and dwelled with the kynge,
And dyed good men all thre.
God send them eternall blysse.
And all, that with a hand-bowe shoteth,
That of heven they never mysse.
Bottles formerly were of leather; though perhaps a wooden bottle might be here meant. It is still a diversion in Scotland to hang up a cat in a small cask or firkin, half filled with soot: and then a parcel of clowns on horseback try to beat out the ends of it, in order to shew their dexterity in escaping before the contents fall upon them.
So Ascham in his Toxophilus gives a precept; “The Stringe must be rounde:” (p. 149. Ed. 1761.) otherwise, we may conclude from mechanical principles, the Arrow will not fly true.
II. THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE.
The Grave-digger's song in Hamlet, A. 5. is taken from three stanzas of the following poem, though greatly altered and disguised, as the same were corrupted by the ballad-singers of Shakespeare's time; or perhaps so designed by the poet himself, the better to paint the character of an illiterate clown. The original is preserved among Surrey's Poems, and is attributed to Lord Vaux, by George Gascoigne, who tells us, it “was thought by some to be made upon his death-bed;” a popular error which he laughs at. (See his Epist. to Yong Gent. prefixed to his Posies 1575. 4to.) It is also ascribed to Lord Vaux in a manuscript copy preserved in the British Musuem . This Lord was remarkable for his skill in drawing feigned manners, &c. for so I understand an ancient writer. “The Lord Vaux his commendation lyeth chiefly in the facilitie of his meetre, and the aptnesse of his descriptions such as he taketh upon him to make, namely in sundry of his Songs, wherein he showeth the counterfait action very lively and pleasantly.” Arte of Eng. Poesie, 1589. p. 51. See another Song by this Poet in vol. 2. p. 45.
In youth that I thought swete:
Methinkes they are not mete.
My fansies all are fled;
And tract of time begins to weave
Gray heares upon my hed.
Hath clawde me with his crowch,
And lusty ‘Youthe’ awaye he leapes,
As there had bene none such.
Me, as she did before:
My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have bene of yore.
‘All’ youthly idle rime;
And day by day to me she cries,
Leave off these toyes in tyme.
The surrowes in my face
Say, Limping age will ‘lodge’ him now,
Where youth must geve him place.
To me I se him ride,
The cough, the cold, the gasping breath,
Doth bid me to provide
And eke a shrowding shete,
A house of clay for to be made,
For such a guest most mete.
That knoles the carefull knell,
And bids me leave my ‘wearye’ warke,
Ere nature me compell.
That youth doth laugh to scorne,
Of me that ‘shall bee cleane’ forgot,
As I had ‘ne'er’ been borne.
Whose badge I long did weare:
To them I yelde the wanton cup,
That better may it beare.
By whose balde signe I know,
‘What’ youthful yeres did sow.
These croked cares had wrought,
And shipped me into the lande,
From whence I first was brought.
Have ye none other trust:
As ye of claye were cast by kinde,
So shall ye ‘turne’ to dust.
Harl. MSS. num. 1703. §25. The readings gathered from that copy are distinguished here by inverted commas. The text is printed from the “Songs, &c. of the Earl of Surrey and others. 1557. 4to.”
III. JEPHTHAH JUDGE OF ISRAEL.
In Shakespeare's Hamlet, A. II. sc. 7. the Hero of the Play takes occasion to banter Polonius with some scraps of an old Ballad, which has never appeared yet in any collection: for which reason, as it is but short, it will not perhaps be unacceptable to the Reader; who will also be diverted with the pleasant absurdities of the composition. It was retrieved from utter oblivion by a lady, who wrote it down from memory as she had formerly heard it sung by her father. I am indebted for it to the friendship of Mr. Steevens.
The Banter of Hamlet is as follows:“
“O Jephta, Judge of Israel,” what a treasure hadst thou?
Polonius.
What a treasure had he, my Lord?
Ham.
Why, “One faire daughter, and no more, the which he loved passing well.”
Pol.
Still on, my daughter.
Ham.
Am not I i'th' right, old Jephta?
Polon.
If you call me Jephta, my Lord; I have a daughter, that I love passing well.
Ham.
Nay, that followes not.
Polon.
What followes then, my Lord?
Ham.
Why, “As by lot, God wot:” and then you know, “It came to passe, As most like it was.” The first row of the Pont chanson will shew you more.”
First fol. Edit. p. 263.
Jephta was judge of Israel?
He had one only daughter and no mo,
The which he loved passing well:
And, as by lott,
God wot,
It so came to pass,
As Gods will was,
That great wars there should be,
And none should be chosen chief but he.
And chieftain of the company,
A solemn vow to God he made;
If he returnd with victory,
At his return
To burn
The first live thing,
[OMITTED]
That should meet with him then,
Off his house, when he shoud return agen.
And he returnd with victory;
His dear and only daughter first of all
Came to meet her father foremostly:
And all the way
She did play
On tabret and pipe
Full many a stripe,
With note so high,
For joy that her father is come so nigh.
Coming on most foremostly,
He wrung his hands, and tore his hair,
And cryed out most piteously;
Oh! its thou, said he,
That have brought me very low,
That I know not what to do.
The which must be replenished:
[OMITTED]
“What thou hast spoke
Do not revoke:
What thou hast said,
Be not affraid;
Altho' it be I;
Keep promises to God on high.
That I may go to the wilderness,
Three months there with my friends to stay;
There to bewail my virginity;
And let there be,
Said she,
Some two or three
Young maids with me.”
So he sent her away,
For to mourn, for to mourn, till her dying day.
IV. A SONG TO THE LUTE IN MUSICKE.
Shakespear has made this sonnet the subject of some pleasant ridicule in his Romeo and Juliet, A. IV. Sc. 5. where he introduces Peter putting this Question to the Musicians.
“
. . . . why “Silver Sound”? why “Musicke with her silver sound?” what say you, Simon Catling?
1. Mus.
Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Pet.
Pretty! what say you, Hugh Rebecke?
2. Mus.
I say, silver sound, because Musicians sound for silver.
Pet.
Pretty too! what say you, James Sound-post.
3. Mus.
Faith, I know not what to say.
Pet.
. . . I will say for you: It is “Musicke with her silver sound,” because Musicians have no gold for sounding.”
First folio Ed. p. 73.
This ridicule is not so much levelled at the song itself (which for the time it was written is not inelegant) as at those forced and unnatural explanations often given by us painful editors and expositors of ancient authors.
This copy is printed from an old quarto MS in the Cotton Library, [Vesp. A. 25.] entitled “Divers things of Hen. viij's time;” with some corrections from The Paradise of Dainty Devises, 1596.
And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse,
There musicke with her silver sound
With spede is wont to send redresse:
Of trobled mynds, in every sore,
Swete musicke hathe a salve in store.
In woe yt cheres our hevy sprites;
Be-strawghted heads relyef hath founde,
By musickes pleasaunt swete delightes:
Our senses all, what shall I say more?
Are subjecte unto musicks lore.
The lyfe, the soul therein doth joye:
For, as the Romayne poet sayes,
In seas, whom pyrats would destroy,
A dolphin saved from death most sharpe
Arion playing on his harpe.
Even as the sterne dothe rule the shippe!
O musicke, whom the gods assinde
To comforte manne, whom cares would nippe!
Sense thow both man and beste doest move,
What beste ys he, wyll the disprove?
V. KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR-MAID
—is a story often alluded to by our old Dramatic Writers. Shakespear in his Romeo and Juliet, A. II. Sc. 1. makes Mercutio say,
—“Her [Venus's] purblind son and heir,“Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so true,
“When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid.”
As the 13th Line of the following ballad seems here particularly alluded to, it is not improbable but Shakespeare wrote it shot so trim, which the players or printers, not perceiving the allusion, might alter to true. The former, as being the more humorous expression, seems most likely to have come from the mouth of Mercutio.
In the 2d Part of Hen. IV. A. 5. Sc. 3. Falstaff is introduced affectedly saying to Pistoll,
“O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news?“Let king Cophetua know the truth thereof.”
These lines Dr. Warburton thinks were taken from an old bombast play of King Cophetua. No such play is, I believe, now to be found; but it does not therefore follow
It is probably in allusion to the same play that Ben Jonson says in his Comedy of Every man in his humour, A. 3. sc. 4.
“I have not the heart to devour thee, an' I might be made as rich as King Cophetua.” At least there is no mention of King Cophetua's riches in the present ballad, which is the oldest I have met with on the subject.
It is printed from Rich. Johnson's “Crown Garland of Goulden Roses.” 1612. 12mo. (where it is intitled simply, A Song of a Beggar and a King:) corrected by another copy.
A princely wight did raine,
Who had to name Cophetua,
As poets they did faine:
From natures lawes he did decline,
For sure he was not of my mind,
He cared not for women-kinde,
But did them all disdaine.
But, marke, what hapned on a day,
As he out of his window lay,
He saw a beggar all in gray,
The which did cause his paine.
From heaven downe did hie;
He drew a dart and shot at him,
In place where he did lye:
Which soone did pierse him to the quicke,
And when he felt the arrow pricke,
Which in his tender heart did sticke,
He looketh as he would dye.
What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
That I to love must subject be,
Which never thereto would agree,
But still did it defie?
And laid him on his bed,
A thousand heapes of care did runne
Within his troubled head:
For now he meanes to crave her love,
And now he seekes which way to proove
How he his fancie might remoove,
And not this beggar wed.
But Cupid had him so in snare,
That this poor begger must prepare
A salve to cure him of his care,
Or els he would be dead.
He thought for to devise
How he might have her companye,
That so did 'maze his eyes.
In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
For surely thou shalt be my wife,
Or else this hand with bloody knife
The Gods shall sure suffice.
Then from his bed he soon arose,
And to his pallace gate he goes;
Full little then this begger knowes
When she the king espies.
The beggers all gan cry:
Vouchsafe to give your charity
Our childrens food to buy.
The king to them his pursse did cast,
And they to part it made great haste;
This silly woman was the last
That after them did hye.
The king he cal'd her back againe,
And unto her he gave his chaine;
And said, With us you shal remaine
Till such time as we dye:
And honoured for my queene;
With thee I meane to lead my life,
As shortly shall be seene:
Our wedding shall appointed be,
And every thing in its degree:
Come on, quoth he, and follow me,
Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.
Penelophon , O king, quoth she:
With that she made a lowe courtsèy;
A trim one as I weene.
Unto the king's pallàce:
The king with courteous comly talke
This begger doth imbrace:
The begger blusheth scarlet red,
And straight againe as pale as lead,
But not not a word at all she said,
She was in such amaze.
At last she spake with trembling voyce,
And said, O king, I doe rejoyce
That you wil take me for your choyce,
And my degree's so base.
The king commanded strait
The noblemen both all and some
Upon the queene to wait.
And she behavde herself that day,
As if she had never walkt the way;
She had forgot her gowne of gray,
Which she did weare of late.
The proverbe old is come to passe,
The priest, when he begins his masse,
Forgets that ever clerke he was,
He knowth not his estate.
Though long time fancie-fed,
Compelled by the blinded boy
The begger for to wed:
He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
To do the same was glad and faine,
Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
In storie, as we read.
Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
But pitty now thy servant heere,
Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
As to that king it did.
During their princely raine;
And in a tombe were buried both,
As writers sheweth plaine.
The lords they tooke it grievously,
The ladies tooke it heavily,
The commons cryed pitiously,
Their death to them was paine.
Their fame did sound so passingly,
That it did pierce the starry sky,
And throughout all the world did flye
To every princes realme.
Shakespeare (who alludes to this ballad in his “Loves Labour lost,” Act IV. Sc. 1.) gives the Begger's name Zenelophon, according to all the old editions: but this seems to be a corruption; for Penelophon, in the text, sounds more like the name of a Woman.—The story of the King and the Beggar is also alluded to in K. Rich. II. Act V. Sc. 7.
VI. TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT THEE
—is supposed to have been originally a Scottish Ballad. The reader here has an ancient copy in the English idiom, with an additional Stanza (the 2d.) never before printed. This curiosity is preserved in the Editor's folio MS. but not without corruptions, which are here removed by the assistance of the Scottish Edit. Shakespear in his Othello, A. 2. has quoted one stanza, with some variations, which are here adopted: The old MS. readings are however given in the margin.
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,
That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell my wife, who loves no strife,
She sayd unto me quietlie,
Rise up, and save cow Crumbockes life,
Man, put thine old cloake about thee.
O Bell, why dost thou flyte ‘and scorne’?
Thou kenst my cloak is very thin:
It is so bare and overworne
A cricke he thereon cannot renn:
Then Ile noe longer borrowe nor lend,
‘For once Ile new appareld bee,
To-morrow Ile to towne and spend,’
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
She.
Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,
Shee has been alwayes true to the payle,
Still has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,
And other things she will not fayle;
I wold be loth to see her pine,
Good husband, councell take of mee,
It is not for us to go soe fine,
Then take thine old cloake about thee.
My cloake it was a very good cloake,
Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,
But now it is not worth a groat;
I have had it four and forty yeare:
Sometime it was of cloth in graine,
'Tis now but a sigh-clout as you may see,
It will neither hold out winde nor raine;
Ill have a new cloake about mee.
She.
It is four and fortye yeeres agoe
Since th'one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe
Of children either nine or ten;
Wee have brought them up to women and men;
In the feare of God I trow they bee;
And why wilt thou thyself misken?
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
He.
O Bell my wife, why dost thou floute!
Now is nowe, and then was then:
Seeke now all the world throughout,
Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen.
They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or ‘gray,’
Soe far above their owne degree:
Once in my life Ile ‘doe as they,’
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
King Stephen was a worthy peere,
His breeches cost him but a crowne,
He held them sixpence all too deere;
Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne.
He was a wight of high renowne,
And thouse but of a low degree:
Itt's pride that putts the countrye downe,
Then take thine old cloake about thee.
He.
‘Bell my wife she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;
And oft, to live a quiet life,
I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man:’
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,
Unlesse he first give oer the plea:
Where I began I now mun leave,
And take mine old cloake about mee.
VII. WILLOW, WILLOW, WILLOW.
It is from the following stanzas that Shakespeare has taken his song of the Willow, in his Othello, A. 4. s. 3. though somewhat varied and applied by him to a female character. He makes Desdemona introduce it in this pathetic and affecting manner,
“She was in love; and he, she lov'd, forsook her,
“And she prov'd mad. She had a Song of Willow.
“An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune;
“And she dyed singing it.”
This is given from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, thus intitled, “A lovers complaint, being forsaken of his “love. To a pleasant tune.”
[Part the First.]
O willow, willow, willow!
With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee:
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.
Come willow, &c.
I am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone;
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
O willow, &c.
She renders me nothing but hate for my love.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
Her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my mone.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
The salt tears fell from him, which drowned his face:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
The salt tears fell from him, which softned the stones.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd!
O willow, &c.
She was borne to be faire; I, to die for her love.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
Sing willow, &c.
My true love rejecting without all regard.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
For women are trothles, and flote in an houre.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
He that 'plaines of his false love, mine's falser than she.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
A Garland for lovers forsaken most meete.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd!
Part the Second.
O willow, willow, willow!
Against her too cruell, still still I complaine,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd!
O willow, &c.
To suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
A sign of her falsenesse before me doth stand:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
O willow, &c.
Of all that doe knowe her, to blaze her untrue.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
“Here lyes one, drank poyson for potion most sweet.”
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
And carelesly smiles at the sorrowes I prove;
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
Cause once well I loved her, and honoured her name:
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, &c.
It rays'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare;
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
O willow, &c.
It now brings me anguish, then brought me reliefe.
O willow, &c.
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
O willow, willow, willow!
Thou dost loath me, I love thee, though cause of my death.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlànd.
VIII. SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE.
This ballad is quoted in Shakespeare's second Part of Henry IV. A. 2. s. 4. The subject of it is taken from the ancient romance of K. Arthur (commonly called Morte Arthur) being a poetical translation of Chap. cviii, cix, cx, in Pt. 1st, as they stand in Ed. 1634. 4to. In the older Editions the Chapters are differently numbered.—This song is given from a printed copy, corrected in part by the folio MS.
In the same play of 2 Hen. IV. Silence hums a scrap of one of the old ballads of Robin Hood. It is taken from the following stanza of Robin Hood and the Pindar of Wakefield.
Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John:
With that they espy'd the jolly Pindàr
As he sate under a thorne.
That ballad may be found on every stall, and therefore is not here reprinted.
And was approved king,
By force of armes great victoryes wanne,
And conquest home did bring.
With fifty good and able
Knights, that resorted unto him,
And were of his round table:
Wherto were many prest,
Wherein some knights did then excell
And far surmount the rest.
Who was approved well,
He for his deeds and feates of armes,
All others did excell.
In play, and game, and sportt,
He said he wold goe prove himselfe
In some adventrous sort.
And met a damsell faire,
Who told him of adventures great,
Whereto he gave good eare.
For that cause came I hither.
Thou seemst, quoth she, a knight full good,
And I will bring thee thither,
That now is of great fame:
Therfore tell me what wight thou art,
And what may be thy name.
Quoth she, it likes me than:
Here dwelles a knight who never was
Yet matcht with any man:
And four, that he did wound;
Knights of king Arthurs court they be,
And of his table round.
And also to a tree,
Whereon a copper bason hung,
And many shields to see.
And Tarquin soon he spyed:
Who drove a horse before him fast,
Whereon a knight lay tyed.
Bring me that horse-load hither,
And lay him downe, and let him rest;
Weel try our force together:
Soe far as thou art able,
Done great despite and shame unto
The knights of the Round Table.
Quoth Tarquin speedilye,
Both thee and all thy fellowship
I utterly defye.
Defend thee by and by.
They sett their speares unto their steeds,
And each att other flye.
As though there had been thunder)
And strucke them each amidst their shields,
Wherewith they broke in sunder.
The knights were both astound:
To avoyd their horses they made haste
And light upon the ground.
Their swords they drew out than,
With mighty strokes most eagerlye
Eache at the other ran.
For breath they both did stand,
And leaning on their swordes awhile,
Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,
Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.
Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight
That ever I did know;
Soe that thou be not hee,
I will deliver all the rest,
And eke accord with thee.
But sith it must be soe,
What knight is that thou hatest thus?
I pray thee to me show.
He slew my brother deere;
Him I suspect of all the rest:
I would I had him here.
I am Lancelot du Lake,
Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
King Hauds son of Schuwake;
Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho,
One of us two shall end our lives
Before that we do go.
Then welcome shalt thou bee:
Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
For now defye I thee.
Like unto wild boares rushing,
And with their swords and shields they ran
At one another slashing:
Tarquin began to yield;
For he gave backe for wearinesse,
And lowe did beare his shield.
He leapt upon him then,
He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
And rushing off his helm,
And, when he had soe done,
From prison threescore knights and four
Delivered everye one.
IX. CORYDON'S FAREWELL TO PHILLIS
—is an attempt to paint a lover's irresolution, but so poorly executed, that it would not have been admitted into this collection, if it had not been quoted in Shakespeare's Twelfth-night, A. 2. sc. 3.—It is found in a little ancient miscellany intitled, “The golden Garland of princely “delights.” 12mo. bl. let.
In the same scene of the Twelfth Night, Sir Toby sings a scrap of an old ballad, which is preserved in the Pepys Collection. [Vol. 1. p. 33. 496.] but as it is not only a poor dull performance, but also very long, it will be sufficient here to give the first stanza:
Of reputation great by fame;
He took to wife a faire womàn,
Susanna she was callde by name:
A woman fair and vertuous;
Lady, lady:
Why should we not of her learn thus
To live godly?
If this song of Corydon, &c. has not more merit, it is at least an evil of less magnitude.
Mine eyes do shew, my life is almost done.
Nay I will never die, so long as I can spie
There be many mo, though that she doe goe,
There be many mo, I fear not:
Why then let her goe, I care not.
I will not spend more time in wooing you:
But I will seek elsewhere, if I may find love there:
Shall I bid her goe? what and if I doe?
Shall I bid her goe and spare not?
O no, no, no, I dare not.
Sweet, kiss me once; sweet kisses time beguile:
I have no power to move. How now am I in love?
Wilt thou needs be gone? Go then, all is one.
Wilt thou needs be gone? Oh, hie thee!
Nay stay, and do no more deny me.
Bids oft adieu to her, that holds my heart.
But seeing I must lose thy love, which I did choose,
Goe thy way for me, since that may not be.
Goe thy ways for me. But whither?
Goe, oh, but where I may come thither.
She is as fair, as she is cruel-hearted.
She would not be intreated, with prayers oft repeated.
If she come no more, shall I die therefore?
If she come no more, what care I?
Faith, let her goe, or come, or tarry.
X. GERNUTUS THE JEW OF VENICE.
In the “Life of Pope Sixtus V. translated from the Ialian of Greg. Leti, by the Rev. Mr. Farneworth, folio,” is a remarkable passage to the following effect:
“It was reported in Rome, that Drake had taken and plundered St. Domingo in Hispaniola, and carried off an immense booty. This account came in a private letter to Paul Secchi, a very considerable merchant in the city, who had large concerns in those parts, which he had insured. Upon receiving this news, he sent for the insurer Sampson Ceneda, a Jew, and acquainted him with it. The Jew, whose interest it was to have such a report thought false, gave many reasons why it could not possibly be true, and at last worked himself into such a passion, that he said, I'll lay you a pound of my flesh it is a lye. Secchi, who was of a fiery hot temper, replied, I'll lay you a thousand crowns against a pound of your flesh that it is true. The Jew accepted the wager, and articles were immediately executed betwixt them, That if Secchi won, he should himself cut the flesh with a sharp knife
The Editor of that book is of opinion, that the scene between Shylock and Antonio in the Merchant of Venice is taken from this incident. But Mr. Warton, in his ingenious “Observations on the Faerie Queen, vol. 1. page 128.” has referred it to the following ballad. Mr. Warton thinks this ballad was written before Shakespeare's play, as being not so circumstantial, and having more of the nakedness of an original. Besides, it differs from the play in many circumstances, which a meer copyist, such as we may suppose the ballad-maker to be, would hardly have given himself the trouble to alter. Indeed he expressly informs us, that he had his story from the Italian writers.
See the Connoisseur, Vol. 1. No. 16.After all, one would be glad to know what authority Leti had for the foregoing fact, or at least for connecting it with the taking of St. Domingo by Drake; for this expedition did not happen till 1585, and it is very certain that a play of the Jewe, “representing the greedinesse of worldly chusers, and bloody minds of usurers,” had been exhibited at the play-house called the Bull, before the year 1579, being mentioned in Steph. Gosson's Schoole of abuse , which was printed in that year.
As for Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, the earliest edition known of it is in quarto 1600; though it had been exhibited before the year 1598, being mentioned together with eleven other of his plays in Meres's Wits Treasury, &c. 1598. 12mo. fol. 282.
The following is printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection , intitled, “A new Song, shewing the crueltie of Gernutus, a Jewe, who lending to a merchant an hundred crowns, would have a pound of his fleshe, because he could not pay him at the time appointed. To the tune of Black and yellow.”
The First Part.
A cruel Jew did dwell,
Which lived all on usurie,
As Italian writers tell.
Which never thought to dye,
Nor ever yet did any good
To them in streets that lie.
That liveth many a day,
Yet never once doth any good,
Until men will him slay.
That lyeth in a whoard;
Which never can do any good,
Till it be spread abroad.
He cannot sleep in rest,
For feare the thiefe will him pursue
To plucke him from his nest.
How to deceive the poore;
His mouth is almost ful of mucke,
Yet still he gapes for more.
For every weeke a penny,
Yet bring a pledge, that is double worth,
If that you will have any.
Or else you loose it all:
This was the living of the wife,
Her cow she did it call.
A marchant of great fame,
Which being distressed in his need,
Unto Gernutus came:
For twelve month and a day,
To lend to him an hundred crownes:
And he for it would pay
And pledges he should have.
No, (quoth the Jew with flearing lookes)
Sir, aske what you will have.
For one year you shall pay;
You may doe me as good a turne,
Before my dying day.
For to be talked long:
You shall make me a bond, quoth he,
That shall be large and strong:
Of your owne fleshe a pound.
If you agree, make you the bond,
And here is a hundred crownes.
And so the bond was made.
When twelve month and a day drew on
That backe it should be payd,
And money came not in;
Which way to take, or what to doe
To thinke he doth begin:
With cap and bended knee,
And sayde to him, Of curtesie
I pray you beare with mee.
The money for to pay:
And little good the forfeyture
Will doe you, I dare say.
Commaund it to your minde:
In thinges of bigger waight then this
You shall me ready finde.
Gernutus doth not slacke
To get a sergiant presently;
And clapt him on the backe:
And sued his bond withall;
And when the judgement day was come,
For judgement he did call.
With many a weeping eye,
For other means they could not find,
But he that day must dye.
“Of the Jews crueltie; setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the Judge towards the Marchant. To the tune of Blacke and yellow.”
The Second Part
Five hundred for to pay;
And some a thousand, two or three,
Yet still he did denay.
They offered, him to save.
Gernutus sayd, I will no gold,
My forfeite I will have.
And that shall be my hire.
Let me of you desire
As yet you let him live:
Do so, and lo! an hundred crownes
To thee here will I give.
For this it shall be tride,
For I will have my pound of fleshe
From under his right side.
His crueltie to see,
For neither friend nor foe could helpe
But he must spoyled bee.
With whetted blade in hand ,
To spoyle the bloud of innocent,
By forfeit of his bond.
In him the deadly blow:
Stay (quoth the judge) thy crueltie;
I charge thee to do so.
Which is of flesh a pound:
See that thou shed no drop of bloud,
Nor yet the man confound.
Thou here shalt hanged be:
Likewise of flesh see that thou cut
No more than longes to thee:
To the value of a mite,
Thou shalt be hanged presently,
As is both law and right.
And wotes not what to say;
Quoth he at last, Ten thousand crownes,
I will that he shall pay;
The judge doth answere make;
You shall not have a penny given;
Your forfeyture now take.
But for to have his owne.
No, quoth the judge, doe as you list,
Thy judgement shall be showne.
Or cancell me your bond.
O cruell judge, then quoth the Jew,
That doth against me stand!
He biddeth them fare-well.
‘Then’ all the people prays'd the Lord,
That ever this heard tell.
For trueth I dare well say,
That many a wretch as ill as hee
Doth live now at this day;
Of many a wealthey man,
And for to trap the innocent
Deviseth what they can.
And every Christian too,
And send to them like sentence eke
That meaneth so to do.
Since the first Edition of this book was printed,
the Editor hath had reason to believe that both Shakespeare
and the Author of this Ballad, are indebted for their Story of the Jew (however they came by it) to
an Italian Novel, which was first printed at Milan in the
year 1554, in a book intitled, Il Pecorone, nel quale si
That Shakespeare had his Plot from the Novel itself, is evident from his having some incidents from it, which are not found in the Ballad: And I think it will also be found that he borrowed from the Ballad some hints, that were not suggested by the Novel. (See above, Pt. 2d. ver. 25, &c. where instead of that spirited description of the whetted blade, &c. the Prose Narrative coldly says, “The Jew had prepared a razor, &c.” See also some other passages in the same piece.) This however is spoken with diffidence, as I have at present before me only the Abridgment of the Novel which Mr. Johnson has given us at the End of his Commentary on Shakespeare's Play. The Translation of the Italian Story at large, is not easy to be met with, having I believe never been published, though it was printed some years ago with this title,—“The Novel, from which the Merchant of Venice written by Shakespear is taken, translated from the Italian. To which is added a Translation of a Novel from the Decamerone of Boccaccio. London, Printed for M. Cooper. 1755. 8vo.”
Her Cow, &c. seems to have suggested to Shakespeare Shylock's argument for usury taken from Jacob's management of Laban's sheep, Act 1. to which Antonio replies,
“Or are your gold and silver Ewes and rams?
“I cannot tell, I make it breed as fast.”
The passage in Shakespeare bears so strong a resemblance to this, as to render it probable that the one suggested the other.
See Act IV. sc. 2. Bass.“Why doest thou whet thy knife so earnestly? &c.”
XI. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
This beautiful sonnet is quoted in the Merry Wives of Windsor, A. 3. sc. 1. and is ascribed (together with the Reply) to Shakespeare himself by all the modern
And yet there is good reason to believe that (not Shakespeare, but) Christopher Marlow, wrote the song, and Sir Walter Raleigh the “Nymph's reply:” For so we are positively assured by Isaac Walton, a writer of some credit, who has inserted them both in his Compleat Angler , under the character of “that smooth song, which was made by Kit. Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and . . . an Answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days. . . . Old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good.”—It also passed for Marlow's in the opinion of his contemporaries; for the editor of the “Muses Library” has reprinted a poem from England's Helicon, 1600, subscribed Ignoto, and thus intitled, “In Imitation of C. Marlow,” beginning thus,
“And we will revel all the year,
“In plains and groves, &c.”
Upon the whole I am inclined to attribute them to Marlow, and Raleigh; not-withstanding the authority of Shakespeare's Book of Sonnets. For it is well known that as he took no care of his own compositions, so was he utterly regardless what spurious things were fathered upon him. Sir
The following sonnet appears to have been (as it deserved) a great favourite with our earlier poets: for besides the imitation above-mentioned, another is to be found among Donne's poems, intitled “The Bait,” beginning thus,
“And we will some new pleasures prove
“Of golden sands, &c.
As for Chr. Marlow, who was in high repute for his Dramatic writings, he lost his life by a stab received in a brothel, before the year 1593.
See A. Wood, I. 138.And we wil all the pleasures prove
That hils and vallies, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Imbrodered all with leaves of mirtle;
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
With coral clasps, and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
For thy delight each May mornìng:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The Nymph's Reply.
And truth in every shepherd's toung,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And all complain of cares to come.
To wayward winter reckoning yield:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
Had joyes no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
XII. TITUS ANDRONICUS'S COMPLAINT.
The reader has here an ancient ballad on the same subject as the play of Titus Andronicus, and it is probable
Let the Reader weigh these circumstances and some others wherein he will find them unlike, and then pronounce for himself. —After all, there is reason to conclude that this play was rather improved by Shakespeare with a few fine touches of his pen, than originally writ by him; for not to mention that the style is less figurative than his others generally are, this tragedy is mentioned with discredit in the Induction to Ben Jonson's Bartholomew-fair, in 1614, as one that had then been exhibited “five and twenty, or thirty years:” which, if we take the lowest number, throws it back to the year 1589, at which time Shakespeare was but 25: an
The following is given from a Copy in “The Golden Garland” intitled as above; compared with three others, two of them in black letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled “The Lamentable and Tragical History of Titus Andronicus, &c.—To the tune of Fortune.”—Unluckily none of these have any dates.
That in defence of native country fights,
Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Rome,
Yet reapt disgrace at my returning home.
My name beloved was of all my peeres;
Full five and twenty valiant sonnes I had,
Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad.
Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent;
Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre
We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre.
Before we did returne to Rome againe:
Of five and twenty sonnes, I brought but three
Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see.
And did present my prisoners to the king,
The queene of Goths, her sons, and eke a moore,
Which did such murders, like was nere before.
Which bred in Rome debate and deadlie strife;
The moore, with her two sonnes did growe soe proud,
That none like them in Rome might bee allowd.
That she consented to him secretlye
For to abuse her husbands marriage bed,
And soe in time a blackamore she bred.
Consented with the moore of bloody minde
Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes,
In cruell sort to bring them to their endes,
Both care and griefe began then to increase:
Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter bright,
Which joy'd, and pleased best my aged sight:
To Cesars sonne, a young and noble man:
Who in a hunting by the emperours wife,
And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life.
Into a darksome den from light of skies:
The cruell moore did come that way as then
With my three sonnes, who fell into the den.
For to accuse them of that murderous deed;
And when my sonnes within the den were found,
In wrongfull prison they were cast and bound.
The empresses two sonnes of savage kind
My daughter ravished without remorse,
And took away her honour, quite perforce.
Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre,
They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell
How that dishonoure unto her befell.
Whereby their wickednesse she could not write;
Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe
The bloudye workers of her direfull woe.
Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud,
That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes:
Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes.
With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face:
For my Lavinia I lamented more,
Then for my two and twenty sonnes before.
With griefe mine aged heart began to breake;
We spred an heape of sand upon the ground,
Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found.
She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand:
“The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperèsse
“Are doers of this hateful wickednèsse.”
I curst the houre, wherein I first was bred,
I wisht this hand, that fought for countrie's fame,
In cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame.
Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free
I should unto the king my right hand give,
And then my three imprisoned sonnes should live.
Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed,
But for my sonnes would willingly impart,
And for their ransome send my bleeding heart.
They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe,
And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes,
Which filld my dying heart with fresher moanes.
And with my tears writ in the dust my woe:
I shot my arrowes towards heaven hie,
And for revenge to hell did often crye.
Like furies she and both her sonnes were clad,
(She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they)
To undermine and heare what I would say.
Untill my friendes did find a secret place,
Where both her sonnes unto a post were bound,
And just revenge in cruell sort was found.
Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran:
And then I ground their bones to powder small,
And made a paste for pyes streight therewithall.
And at a banquet servde in stately wise:
Before the empresse set this loathsome meat;
So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat.
The empresse then I slewe with bloudy knife,
And stabb'd the emperour immediatelie,
And then myself: even soe did Titus die.
Alive they sett him halfe into the ground,
Whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd.
And soe God send all murderers may be serv'd.
The earliest known, is King John in two parts 1591. 4to. bl. let. This play be afterwards entirely new wrote, as we now have it.
If the ballad was written before the play, I should suppose this to be only a metaphorical expression, taken from that in the Psalms, “They shoot out their arrows, even bitter words.” Ps. 64. 3.
XIII. TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.
The first stanza of this little sonnet, which an eminent critic justly admires for its extreme sweetness, is found in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, A. 4. sc. 1. Both the stanzas are preserved in Beaum. and Fletcher's Bloody Brother, A. 5. sc. 2. Sewel and Gildon have printed it among Shakespeare's smaller Poems, but they have done the same by twenty other pieces that were never writ by him; their book being a wretched heap of inaccuracies and mistakes. It is not found in Jaggard's old edition of Shakespear's Sonnets reprinted by Lintot.
That so sweetlye were forsworne;
And those eyes, the breake of day,
Lights, that do misleade the morne:
But my kisses bring againe,
Seales of love, but seal'd in vaine.
Which thy frozen bosom beares,
On whose tops the pinkes that growe,
Are of those that April wears:
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.
XIV. KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS.
The Reader has here an ancient ballad on the Subject of King Lear, which (as a sensible female critic has well observed ) bears so exact an analogy to the argument of Shakespeare's play, that his having copied it could not be doubted, if it were certain, that it was written before the tragedy. Here is found the hint of Lear's madness, which the old chronicles do not mention, as also the extravagant cruelty exercised on him by his daughters: In the death of
It may be proper to observe, that Shakespeare was not the first of our Dramatic Poets who fitted the Story of LEIR to the Stage. His first 4to Edition is dated 1608; but three years before that had been printed a play intitled, “The true Chronicle History of Leir and his three daughters Gonorill, Ragan, and Cordella, as it hath been divers and sundry times lately acted. 1605. 4to.”—This is a very poor and dull performance, but happily excited Shakespeare to undertake the subject, which he has given with very different incidents. It is remarkable, that neither the circumstances of Leir's madness; nor his retinue of a select number of knights; nor the affecting deaths of Cordelia and Leir, are found in that first dramatic piece: in all which Shakespeare concurs with this ballad.
But to form a true Judgment of Shakespeare's Merit, the curious Reader should cast his eye over that previous Sketch: which he will find printed at the end of the Twenty Plays of Shakespeare, republished from the quarto impressions by George Steevens, Esq; with such elegance and exactness, as lead us to expect a fine edition of all the works of our great Dramatic Poet.
The following Ballad is given from an ancient copy in the “Golden Garland,” bl. let. intitled, “A lamentable song of the Death of King Leir, and his three daughters. To the Tune of When flying fame.”
With princely power and peace;
And had all things with hearts content,
That might his joys increase.
Three daughters fair had he,
So princely seeming beautiful,
As fairer could not be.
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could shew the dearest love:
For to my age you bring content;
Quoth he, then let me hear
Which of you three in plighted troth
The kindest will appear.
Dear father, mind, quoth she,
Before your face, to do you good,
My blood shall render'd be:
And for your sake my bleeding heart
Shall here be cut in twain,
Ere that I see your reverend age
The smallest grief sustain.
Dear father, for your sake,
The worst of all extremities
I'll gently undertake:
And serve your highness night and day
With diligence and love;
Discomforts may remove.
The aged king reply'd;
But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
How is thy love ally'd?
My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
Which to your grace I owe,
Shall be the duty of a child,
And that is all I'll show.
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small,
When as no more I find:
Henceforth I banish thee my court,
Thou art no child of mine;
Nor any part of this my realm
By favour shall be thine.
Than well I can demand,
To whom I equally bestow
My kingdome and my land,
My pompal state and all my goods,
That lovingly I may
With those thy sisters be maintain'd
Until my dying day.
By these two sisters here:
The third had causeless banishment,
Yet was her love more dear:
For poor Cordelia patiently
Went wandring up and down,
Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
Through many an English town:
She gentler fortunes found;
Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
The fairest on the ground:
Where when the king her virtues heard,
And this fair lady seen,
With full consent of all his court
He made his wife and queen.
With his two daughters staid;
Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
Full soon the same decay'd;
And living in queen Ragan's court,
The eldest of the twain,
She took from him his chiefest means,
And most of all his train.
To wait with bended knee:
And after scarce to three:
Nay, one she thought too much for him,
So took she all away,
In hope that in her court, good king,
He would no longer stay.
In giving all I have
Unto my children, and to beg
For what I lately gave?
I'll go unto my Gonorell;
My second child, I know,
Will be more kind and pitiful,
And will relieve my woe.
Where when she heard his moan
Return'd him answer, That she griev'd,
That all his means were gone:
But no way could relieve his wants;
Yet if that he would stay
Within her kitchen, he should have
What scullions gave away.
He made his answer then;
In what I did let me be made
Example to all men.
Unto my Ragan's court;
She will not use me thus, I hope,
But in a kinder sort.
To drive him thence away:
When he was well within her court
(She said) he would not stay.
Then back again to Gonorell,
The woeful king did hie,
That in her kitchen he might have
What scullion boys set by.
Which she had promis'd late:
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.
Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
He wandred up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggars food,
That lately wore a crown.
His youngest daughters words,
That said the duty of a child
Was all that love affords:
But doubting to repair to her,
Whom he had banish'd so,
He bore the wounds of woe:
And tresses from his head,
And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
With age and honour spread:
To hills and woods and watry founts,
He made his hourly moan,
Till hills and woods, and sensless things,
Did seem to sigh and groan.
He passed o're to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
To find some gentler chance:
Most virtuous dame! which when she heard
Of this her father's grief,
As duty bound, she quickly sent
Him comfort and relief:
In brave and gallant sort,
She gave in charge he should be brought
To Aganippus' court;
Whose royal king, with noble mind
So freely gave consent,
To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.
To repossesse king Leir,
And drive his daughters from their thrones
By his Cordelia dear:
Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
Was in the battel slain:
Yet he good king, in his old days,
Possest his crown again.
Who died indeed for love
Of her dear father, in whose cause
She did this battel move;
He swooning fell upon her breast,
From whence he never parted:
But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.
The end of these events,
The other sisters unto death
They doomed by consents:
And being dead, their crowns they left
Unto the next of kin:
Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
And disobedient sin.
See Jeffery of Monmouth, Holingshed, &c. who relate Leir's history in many respects the same as the ballad.
XV. YOUTH AND AGE
—is found in the little collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets, intitled the passionate Pilgrime , the greatest part of which seem to relate to the amours of Venus and Adonis, being little effusions of fancy, probably written, while he was composing his larger Poem on that subject. The following seems intended for the mouth of Venus, weighing the comparative merits of youthful Adonis and aged Vulcan. In the “Garland of good will” it is reprinted, with the addition of IV. more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner pen.
Cannot live together;
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care:
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather,
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare:
Youth is full of sport,
Ages breath is short;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee,
O, my love, my love is young:
Age, I do defie thee;
Oh sweet shepheard, hie thee,
For methinks thou stayst too long.
XVI. THE FROLICKSOME DUKE, OR THE TINKER's GOOD FORTUNE.
The following ballad is upon the same subject, as the Induction to Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew: whether it may be thought to have suggested the hint to the Dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine.
The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy; and is thus related by an old English writer. “The said Duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister to the king of Portugall, at Bruges in Flanders, which was solemnised in the deepe of winter; when as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither hawke nor hunt, and
This ballad is given from a black letter Copy in the Pepys Collection, which is intitled as above, “To the tune of, Fond boy.”
One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.
O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:
Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose,
And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.
Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
He desir'd to know what apparel he'd ware:
The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd,
And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.
Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
And it seem'd for to swell him ‘no’ little with pride;
For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?
Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.
Did observe his behaviour in every case.
To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,
Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:
Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.
He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
In a rich chair ‘or bed,’ lin'd with fine crimson red,
With a rich golden canopy over his head:
As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,
With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker then ever before.
And restore him his old leather garments again:
'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;
Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought
For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
But his highness he said, Thou'rt a jolly bold blade,
Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.
Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;
Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,
Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,
Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,
Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.
Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?
Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,
I was never before in so happy a case.
XVII. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
Dispersed thro' Shakespeare's plays are innumerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the Reader's candour.
One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher.
Walkt forth to tell his beades;
And he met with a lady faire
Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see.
From many another one?
O by his cockle hat, and staff,
And by his sandal shoone .
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turfe,
And at his heels a stone.
He languisht, and he dyed,
Lamenting of a ladyes love,
And 'playning of her pride.
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.
And art thou dead and gone!
And didst thou dye for love of me!
Break, cruel heart of stone!
Some ghostly comfort seek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Ne teares bedew thy cheek.
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth,
That e'er wan ladyes love.
I'll evermore weep and sigh;
For thee I only wisht to live,
For thee I wish to dye.
Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow againe.
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
Grieve not for what is past.
I pray thee, say not soe:
For since my true-love dyed for mee,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.
Will he ne'er come again?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.
The comliest youth was he!—
But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas, and woe is me!
Men were deceivers ever:
One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.
And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy.
I pray thee say not soe:
My love he had the truest heart:
O he was ever true!
And didst thou dye for mee?
Then farewell home; for ever-more
A pilgrim I will bee.
My weary limbs I'll lay,
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
That wraps his breathless clay.
Beneath this cloyster wall:
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
And drizzly rain doth fall.
O stay me not I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.
And dry those pearly tears;
For see beneath this gown of gray
Thy owne true-love appears.
These holy weeds I sought;
And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.
Is not yet past away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.
Once more unto my heart:
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.
These are the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim. The chief places of devotion being beyond sea, the pilgrims were wont to put cockle-shells in their hats to denote the intention or performance of their devotion. Warb. Shakespe Vol. 8. p. 224.
BOOK III.
I. THE MORE MODERN BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE.
At the beginning of this volume we gave the old original Song of Chevy Chace. The reader has here the more improved edition of that fine Heroic ballad. It will afford
“That ever he slain should be:
“For when his legs were hewn in two,
“He knelt and fought on his knee.”
So again the stanza which describes the fall of Montgomery is somewhat more elevated in the ancient copy,
“He on Montgomery set:
“The swan-feathers his arrow bore
“With his hearts blood were wet.”
WE might also add, that the circumstances of the battle are more clearly conceived, and the several incidents more distinctly marked in the old original, than in the improved copy. It is well known that the ancient English weapon was the long bow, and that this nation excelled all others in archery; while the Scottish warriours chiefly depended on the use of the spear: this characteristic difference never escapes our ancient bard, whose description of the first onset (p. 9.) is to the following effect.
“The proposal of the two gallant earls to determine the dispute by single combat being over-ruled; the English, says he, who stood with their bows ready bent, gave a general discharge of their arrows, which slew seven score spearmen of the enemy: but notwithstanding so severe a loss, Douglas like a brave captain kept his ground. He had divided his forces into three columns, who as soon as the English had discharged the first volley, bore down upon them with their spears, and breaking through their ranks reduced them to close fighting. The archers upon this dropt their bows and had recourse to their swords, and there followed so sharp a conflict, that multitudes on both sides lost their lives.” In the midst of this general engagement, at length the two great earls meet, and after a spirited rencounter agree to breathe; upon which a parley ensues, that would do honour to Homer himself.
Nothing can be more pleasingly distinct and circumstantial than this: whereas the modern copy, tho' in general it has great merit, is here unluckily both confused and obscure. Indeed the original words seem here to have been totally misunderstood. “Yet bydys the yerl Douglas upon the bent,” evidently signifies, “Yet the earl Douglas abides in the field:” Whereas the more modern bard seems to have understood by bent, the inclination of his mind, and accordingly runs quite off from the subject ,
“Earl Douglas had the bent.”
ONE may also observe a generous impartiality in the old original bard, when in the conclusion of his tale he represents both nations as quitting the field without any reproachful reflection on either: tho' he gives to his own countrymen the credit of being the smaller number.
“Went away but fifty and three;
“Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland,
“But even five and fifty.”
He attributes flight to neither party, as hath been done in the modern copies of this ballad, as well Scotch as English. For, to be even with our latter bard, who makes the Scots to flee, some reviser of North Britain has turned his own arms against him, and printed an Edition at Glasgow, in which the lines are thus transposed,
“Went hame but fifty-three:
“Of twenty hundred Englishmen
“Scarce fifty-five did flee.”
And to countenance this change he has suppressed the two stanzas between ver. 241. and ver. 249.—From this Edition I have reformed the Scottish names in pag. 263. which in the modern English ballad appeared to be corrupted.
When I call the present admired ballad modern, I only mean that it is comparatively so; for that it could not be writ much later than the time of Q. Elizabeth, I think may be made appear; nor yet does it seem to be older than the beginning of the last century . Sir Philip Sidney, when he complains
THIS much premised, the reader that would see the general beauties of this ballad set in a just and striking light, may consult the excellent criticism of Mr. Addison . With regard to its subject: it has already been considered in page 3d. The conjectures there offered will receive confirmation from a passage in the Memoirs of Cary Earl of Monmouth, 8 vo. 1759. p. 165. Whence we learn that it was an ancient custom with the borderers of the two kingdoms when they were at peace, to send to the Lord Wardens of the opposite Marches for leave to hunt within their districts. If leave was granted, then towards the end of summer they would come and hunt for several days together “with their grey-hounds for deer:” but if they took this liberty unpermitted, then the Lord Warden of the border so invaded, would not fail to interrupt their sport and chastise their boldness. He mentions a remarkable instance that happened while he was Warden, when some Scotch Gentlemen coming to hunt in defiance of him, there must have ensued such an action as this of Chevy Chace, if the intruders had been proportionably numerous and well-armed; for upon their being attacked by his men at arms, he tells us, “some hurt was done, tho'
The following text is given from a copy in the Editor's folio MS. compared with two or three others printed in black letter.—In the second volume of Dryden's Miscellanies may be found a translation of Chevy Chace into Latin Rhymes. The translator, Mr. Henry Bold of New College, undertook it at the command of Dr. Compton, bishop of London; who thought it no derogation to his episcopal character, to avow a fondness for this excellent old ballad.
See the preface to Bold's Latin Songs, 1685. 8 vo.Our lives and safetyes all;
A woful hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chace befall;
Earl Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborne,
The hunting of that day.
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summers days to take;
To kill and beare away.
In Scotland where he lay:
He wold prevent his sport.
The English earl, not fearing this,
Did to the woods resort
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of neede
To aime their shafts aright.
To chase the fallow deere:
On Monday they began to hunt,
Ere day-light did appeare;
An hundred fat buckes slaine;
Then having din'd, the drovers went
To rouze them up againe.
Well able te endure;
Theire backsides all, with speciall care,
That day were guarded sure.
The nimble deere to take ,
And with their cryes the hills and dales
An echo shrill did make.
To view the slaughter'd deere;
Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised
This day to meete me here:
No longer wold I stay.
With that, a brave younge gentleman
Thus to the earle did say:
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speares
All marching in our sight;
Fast by the river Tweede:
Then cease your sport, Earl Percy said,
And take your bowes with speede:
Your courage forth advance;
For never was there champion yet,
In Scotland or in France,
But if my hap it were,
I durst encounter man for man,
With him to break a speare.
Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company,
Whose armour shone like gold:
That hunt soe boldly heere,
That, without my consent, doe chase
And kill my fallow-deere?
Was noble Percy hee;
Who sayd, We list not to declare,
Nor shew whose men wee bee:
Thy cheefest harts to slay.
Then Douglas swore a solemne oathe,
And thus in rage did say,
One of us two shall dye:
I know thee well, an earl thou art;
Lord Percy, so am I.
And great offence to kill
Any of these our harmlesse men,
For they have done no ill.
And set our men aside.
Accurs'd bee hee, Lord Percy sayd,
By whome this is denyed.
Witherington was his name,
Who said, I wold not have it told
To Henry our king for shame,
And I stood looking on.
You bee two earls, sayd Witherington,
And I a squire alone:
While I have power to stand:
While I have pow'r to weeld my sword,
Ile fight with heart and hand.
Their hearts were good and trew;
At the first flight of arrowes sent,
Full threescore Scots they slew.
The 4 stanzas here inclosed in Brackets, which are borrowed chiefly from the ancient Copy, are offered to the Reader instead of the following unmeaning lines, which are those of the Author, viz.
Earl Douglas had the bent;
Two captaines mov'd with mickle pride,
Their speares to shivers went.
As Chieftain stout and good.
As valiant Captain, all unmov'd
The shock he firmly stood.
As Leader ware and try'd,
And soon his spearmen on their foes
Bare down on every side.
They dealt full many a wound:
But still our valiant Englishmen
All firmly kept their ground:
They grasp'd their swords so bright:
And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
On shields and helmets light.]
Noe slackness there was found;
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.
And likewise for to heare,
The cries of men lying in their gore,
And scattered here and there.
Like captaines of great might:
Like lyons wood, they layd on load,
And made a cruell fight:
With swords of temper'd steele;
Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling down did feele.
In faith I will thee bring,
Where thou shalt high advanced bee
By James our Scottish king:
And thus report of thee,
Thou art the most couragious knight,
That ever I did see.
Thy proffer I doe scorne;
I will not yeelde to any Scott,
That ever yet was borne.
Out of an English bow,
Which strucke Earl Douglas to the heart,
A deepe and deadlye blow:
Fight on, my merry men all;
For why, my life is at an end;
Lord Percy sees my fall.
The dead man by the hand;
And said, Earl Douglas, for thy life
Wold I had lost my land.
With sorrow for thy sake;
For sure, a more renowned knight
Mischance did never take.
Which saw Earl Douglas dye,
Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percy:
Who, with a speare most bright,
Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight;
Without all dread or feare;
And thro' Earl Percy's body then
He thrust his hatefull speare;
He did his body gore,
The speare went through the other side
A large cloth-yard, and more.
Whose courage none could staine:
An English archer then perceiv'd
The noble earl was slaine;
Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long
Up to the head drew hee:
So right the shaft he sett,
The grey goose-wing that was thereon,
In his hearts blood was wett.
Till setting of the sun;
For when they rung the evening-bell ,
The battel scarce was done.
Sir John of Egerton ,
Sir Robert Ratcliff
This was a family much distinguished in Northumberland. Edw. Radcliffe, mil. was sheriff of that county in 17 of Hen. 7. and others of the same surname afterwards. (See Fuller, p. 313.) Sir George Ratcliff, Knt. was one of the commissioners of inclosure in 1552. (See Nicholson, p. 330.)—Of this family was the late Earl of Derwentwater, who was beheaded in 1715. The Editor's folio MS. however, reads here, Sir Robert Harcliffe and Sir William.
The Harcleys were an eminent family in Cumberland. See Fuller p. 224. Whether this may be thought to be the same name, I do not determine.
Sir James that bold baròn :
Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby
This might be intended to celebrate one of the ancient possessors of Raby Castle in the county of Durham. Yet it is written Rebbye, in the fol. MS. and looks like a corruption of Rugby or Rokeby, an eminent family in Yorkshire, see p. 14, 33. It will not be wondered that the Percies should be thought to bring followers out of that county, where they themselves were originally seated, and had always such extensive property and influence.
Whose prowesse did surmount.
As one in doleful dumpes ;
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumpes.
Sir Hugh Mountgomery;
Sir Charles Murray , that from the feeld
One foote would never flee.
His sisters sonne was hee;
Sir David Lamb , so well esteem'd,
Yet saved cold not be.
Did with Earl Douglas dye:
Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
Scarce fifty-five did flye.
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chase,
Under the greene wood tree.
Their husbands to bewayle;
But all wold not prevayle.
They bare with them away:
They kist them dead a thousand times,
When they were cladd in clay.
Where Scotlands king did raigne,
That brave Earl Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine:
Scotland can witnesse bee,
I have not any captaine more
Of such account as hee.
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chase:
Sith it will no better bee;
I trust I have, within my realme,
Five hundred as good as hee:
But I will vengeance take:
For brave Earl Percy's sake.
After, at Humbledowne;
In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
With lords of great renowne:
Did many thousands dye:
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,
Made by the Earl Percy.
In plentye, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foule debate
'Twixt noblemen may cease.
In the present Edition, instead of the unmeaning lines here censured, an insertion is made of four Stanzas modernized from the ancient Copy.
A late Writer has started a notion that the more modern Copy “was written to be sung by a party of English, headed by a Douglas in the year 1524; which is the true reason, why at the same time that it gives the advantage to the English Soldiers above the Scotch, it gives yet so lovely and so manifestly superior a Character to the Scotch Commander above the English.”
See Say's Essay on the Numbers of Paradise Lost, 4to. 1745. p. 167.This appears to me a groundless conjecture: the language seems too modern for the date above-mentioned; and had it been printed even so early as Queen Elizabeth's reign, I think I should have met with some copy wherein the first line would have been,
as was the case with the Blind Beggar of Bednal Green; see the next Volume, p. 160.
The Chiviot Hills and circumjacent Wastes are at present void both of Deer and Woods: but formerly they had enough of both to justify the Descriptions attempted here and in the Ancient Ballad of Chevy-Chace. Leyland, in the reign of Hen. VIII. thus describes this County:—“In Northumberland, as I heare say, be no Forests, except Chivet Hills; where is much Brushe-Wood, and some Okke; Grownde ovargrowne with Linge, and some with Mosse. I have harde say that Chivet Hilles stretchethe xx miles. There is greate Plenté of Redde-Dere, and Roo Bukkes.” Itin. vol. 7. pag. 56.—This passage, which did not occur when pag. 22. 24. were printed off, confirm the accounts there given of the Stagge and the Roe.
THE surnames in the foregoing Ballad are altered, either by accident or design, from the old original Copy, and in common Editions extremely corrupted. They are here rectified, as much as they could be. Thus,
This name is restored (instead of Ogerton, com. Ed.) from the Editor's folio MS. The pieces in that MS. appear to have been collected, and many of them composed (among which might be this ballad) by an inhabitant of Cheshire; who was willing to pay a Compliment here to one of his countrymen, of the eminent Family De or Of Egerton (so the name was first written) ancestors of the present Duke of Bridgwater: and this he could do with the more propriety, as the Percies had formerly great interest in that county: At the fatal battle of Shrewsbury all the flower of the Cheshire gentlemen lost their lives fighting in the cause of Hotspur.
i. e. “I, as one in deep concern, must lament.” The construction here has generally been misunderstood.
II. DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
These fine moral stanzas were originally intended for a solemn funeral song in a play of James Shirley's, intitled “The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses:” no date, 8vo.— Shirley flourished as a Dramatic writer early in the reign of Charles I: but he outlived the Restoration. His death happened Oct. 29. 1666. Æt. 72.
This little poem was written long after many of those that follow, but is inserted here as a kind of Dirge to the foregoing piece. It is said to have been a favourite Song with K. Charles II.
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Scepter and crown
Must tumble down,
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they pale captives creep to death.
Then boast no more your mighty deeds,
Upon death's purple altar now
See where the victor victim bleeds:
All heads must come
To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
III. THE RISING IN THE NORTH.
The subject of this ballad is the great Northern Insurrection in the 12th year of Elizabeth, 1569; which proved
There had not long before been a secret negotiation entered into between some of the Scottish and English nobility, to bring about a marriage between Mary Q. of Scots, at that time a prisoner in England, and the Duke of Norfolk, a nobleman of excellent character, and firmly attached to the Protestant religion. This match was proposed to all the most considerable of the English nobility, and among the rest to the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, two noblemen very powerful in the North. As it seemed to promise a speedy and safe conclusion of the troubles in Scotland, with many advantages to the crown of England; they all consented to it, provided it should prove agreeable to Q. Elizabeth. The Earl of Leicester (Elizabeth's favourite) undertook to break the matter to her, but before he could find an opportunity, the affair had come to her ears by other hands, and she was thrown into a violent flame. The Duke of Norfolk, with several of his friends, was committed to the tower, and summons were sent to the Northern Earls instantly to make their appearance at court. It is said that the Earl of Northumberland, who was a man of a mild and gentle nature, was deliberating with himself whether he should not obey the message, and rely upon the queen's candour and clemency, when he was forced into desperate measures by a sudden report at midnight, Nov. 14. that a party of his enemies were come to seize on his person . The Earl was then at his house at Topcliffe in Yorkshire. When rising hastily out of bed, he withdrew to the Earl of Westmoreland, at Brancepeth, where the country came in to them, and pressed them to take arms in their own defence. They accordingly set up their standards, declaring their intent was to restore the ancient religion; to get the succession of the crown firmly settled, and to prevent the destruction of the
Such is the account collected from Stow, Speed, Camden, Guthrie, Carte, and Rapin; it agrees in most particulars with the following ballad, which was apparently the production of some northern minstrel, who was well affected to the two noblemen. It is here printed from two MS copies, one of them in the editor's folio collection. They contained considerable variations, out of which such readings were chosen as seemed most poetical and consonant to history.
Lithe and listen unto mee,
And I will sing of a noble earle,
The noblest earle in the north countrìe.
And after him walkes his faire ladìe :
I heare a bird sing in mine eare,
That I must either fight, or flee.
That ever such harm should hap to thee:
But goe to London to the court,
And fair fall truth and honestìe.
Alas! thy counsell suits not mee;
Mine enemies prevail so fast,
That at the court I may not bee.
And take thy gallant men with thee:
If any dare to doe you wrong,
Then your warrant they may bee.
The court is full of subtiltìe;
And if I goe to the court, lady,
Never more I may thee see.
And I myselfe will goe wi' thee:
At court then for my dearest lord,
His faithfull borrowe I will bee.
Far lever had I lose my life,
Than leave among my cruell foes
My love in jeopardy and strife.
Come thou hither unto mee,
To maister Norton thou must goe
In all the haste that ever may bee.
And beare this letter here fro mee;
And say that earnestly I praye,
He will ryde in my companìe.
And another while he ran;
Untill he came to his journeys end,
The little footpage never blan.
Down he knelt upon his knee;
Quoth he, My lord commendeth him,
And sends this letter unto thee.
Affore that goodlye companye,
I wis, if you the truthe wold know,
There was many a weeping eye.
A gallant youth thou seemst to bee;
What doest thou counsell me, my sonne,
Now that good earle's in jeopardy?
That earle he is a noble lord,
And whatsoever to him you hight,
I wold not have you breake your word.
Thy counsell well it liketh mee,
And if we speed and scape with life,
Well advanced thou shalt bee.
Gallant men I trowe you bee:
How many of you, my children deare,
Will stand by that good earle and mee?
Eight of them spake hastilie,
O father, till the daye we dye
We'll stand by that good earle and thee.
You showe yourselves right bold and brave;
And whethersoe'er I live or dye,
A fathers blessing you shal have.
Thou art mine eldest sonn and heire:
Somewhat lyes brooding in thy breast;
Whatever it bee, to mee declare.
Your head is white, your bearde is gray;
It were a shame at these your yeares
For you to ryse in such a fray.
Thou never learnedst this of mee:
When thou wert yong and tender of age,
Why did I make soe much of thee?
Unarm'd and naked will I bee;
And he that strikes against the crowne,
Ever an ill death may he dee.
And with him came a goodlye band
To join with the brave Earl Percy,
And all the flower o' Northumberland.
The earle of Westmorland was hee:
At Wetherbye they mustred their host,
Thirteen thousand faire to see.
The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye,
Three Dogs with golden collars brave
Were there sett out most royallye .
The Halfe-Moone shining all soe faire :
The Nortons ancyent had the crosse,
And the five wounds our Lord did beare.
After them some spoyle to make:
Those noble earles turn'd backe againe,
And aye they vowed that knight to take.
To Barnard castle then fled hee.
The uttermost walles were eathe to win,
The earles have wonne them presentlìe.
But thoughe they won them soon anone,
Long e'er they wan the innermost walles,
For they were cut in rocke of stone.
In all the speede that ever may bee,
And word is brought to our royall queene
Of the rysing in the North countrie.
And like a royall queene she swore ,
I will ordayne them such a breakfast,
As never was in the North before.
With horse and harneis faire to see;
She caused thirty thousand men be raised,
To take the earles i'th' North countrìe.
Th'earle Sussex and the lord Hunsdèn;
Untill they to Yorke castle came
I wiss, they never stint ne blan.
Thy dun bull faine would we spye:
And thou, the Earl o' Northumberland,
Now rayse thy half moone up on hye.
And the halfe moone vanished away:
The Earles, though they were brave and bold,
Against soe many could not stay.
They doom'd to dye, alas! for ruth!
Thy reverend lockes thee could not save,
Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.
They cruellye bereav'd of life:
And many a childe made fatherlesse,
And widowed many a tender wife.
The supporters of the Nevilles Earls of Westmoreland were Two Bulls Argent, ducally collar'd Gold, armed Or, &c. But I have not discovered the Device mentioned in the Ballad, among the Badges, &c. given by that House. This however is certain, that among those of the Nevilles Lords Abergavenny (who were of the same family) is a Dun Cow with a Golden Collar: and the Nevilles of Chyte in Yorkshire, (of the Westmoreland Branch) gave for their Crest in 1513, a Dog's (Grey-hound's) Head erased.—So that it is not improbable but Charles Neville, the unhappy Earl of Westmoreland here mentioned, might on this occasion give the above Device on his Banner.—After all our old Minstrel's verses here may have undergone some corruption; for in another Ballad in the same folio MS. and apparently written by the same hand, containing the Sequel of this Lord Westmoreland's History, his Banner is thus described, more conformable to his known Bearings:
“Wi' th'Gilden Hornes, hee beares soe hye.”
The Silver Crescent is a well-known Crest or Badge of the Northumberland family. It was probably brought home from some of the Cruzades against the Sarazens. In an ancient Pedigree in verse, finely illuminated on a Roll of Vellum, and written in the reign of Henry VII. (in possession of the family) we have this fabulous account given of its original.—The author begins with accounting for the name of Gernon or Algernon; often born by the Percies: who he says were
Which valliantly fyghtynge in the land of Persè[Persia]
At pointe terrible ayance the miscreants on nyght,
An hevynly mystery was schewyd hym, old bookys reherse;
In hys scheld did schyne a Mone veryfying her lyght,
Which to all the ooste yave a perfytte syght,
To vaynquys his enmys, and to deth them persue;
And therfore the Persès [Percies] the Cressant doth renew.
In the dark ages no Family was deemed considerable that did not derive its descent from the Trojan Brutus; or that was not distinguished by prodigies and miracles.
This is quite in character: her majesty would sometimes swear as her nobles, as well as box their ears.
IV. NORTHUMBERLAND BETRAYED BY DOUGLAS.
This ballad may be considered as the sequel of the preceding. After the unfortunate Earl of Northumberland
Lord Northumberland continued in the castle of Loughleven, till the year 1572; when James Douglas Earl of Morton being elected Regent, he was given up to the Lord Hunsden at Berwick, and being carried to York, suffered death. As Morton's party depended on Elizabeth for protection, an elegant Historian thinks “it was scarce possible for them to refuse putting into her hands, a person who had taken up arms against her. But as a sum of money was paid on that account, and shared between Morton and his kinsman Douglas, the former of whom during his exile in England had been much indebted to Northumberland's friendship, the abandoning this unhappy nobleman to inevitable destruction, was deemed an ungrateful and mercenary act.”
Robertson's Hist.So far history coincides with this ballad, which was apparently written by some northern bard, soon after the event. The interposal of the witch-lady (v. 53.) is probably his own invention: yet even this hath some countenance from history; for about 25 years before, the Lady Jane Douglas, Lady Glamis, sister of the earl of Angus, and nearly related to Douglas of Lough-leven, had suffered death for the pretended crime of witchcraft; who, it is presumed, is the lady alluded to in verse 133.
The following is printed (like the former) from two copies: one of them in the Editor's folio MS: Which also contains another ballad on the escape of the E. of Westmoreland, who got safe into Flanders, and is feigned in the ballad to have undergone a great variety of adventures.
And harrowe me with fear and dread?
How long shall I in bale abide,
In misery my life to lead?
It was my sore and heavye lott:
And I must leave my native land,
And I must live a man forgot.
A Scot he is much bound to mee:
He dwelleth on the border side,
To him I'll goe right privilìe.
With a heavy heart and wel-away,
When he with all his gallant men
On Bramham moor had lost the day.
They dealt with him all treacherouslye;
For they did strip that noble earle:
And ever an ill death may they dye.
To shew him where his guest did hide:
Who sent him to the Lough-levèn,
With William Douglas to abide.
He halched him right curteouslíe:
Say'd, Welcome, welcome, noble earle,
Here thou shalt safelye bide with mee.
Many a month and many a day;
To the regent the lord warden sent,
That bannisht earle for to betray.
And wrote a letter fair to see:
Saying, Good my lord, grant me my boon,
And yield that banisht man to mee.
With many a goodly gentleman:
The wylie Douglas then bespake,
And thus to flyte with him began:
And in your mind so sorrowfullyè?
To-morrow a shootinge will bee held
Among the lords of the North countryè.
And there will be great royaltìe:
And I am sworne into my bille,
Thither to bring my lord Percìe.
And here by my true faith, quoth hee,
If thou wilt ride to the worldes end,
I will ride in thy companìe.
Mary à Douglas was her name:
You shall bide here, good English lord,
My brother is a traiterous man.
As I tell you in privitìe:
For he has tane liverance of the earle ,
Into England nowe to 'liver thee.
The regent is a noble lord:
Ne for the gold in all Englànd,
The Douglas wold not break his word.
With me he did faire welcome find;
And whether weal or woe betide,
I still shall find him true and kind.
And friends again they wold never bee,
If they shold 'liver a banisht earle
Was driven out of his own countrie.
Nowe mickle is their traitorìe;
Then let my brother ride his ways,
And tell those English lords from thee,
Because you are in an isle of the sea ,
Then ere my brother come againe
To Edinbrow castle Ile carry thee.
He is well knowne a true Scots lord,
And he will lose both land and life,
Ere he with thee will break his word.
When I thinkíe on my own countrie,
When I thinke on the heavye happe
My friends have suffered there for mee.
And sore those wars my minde distresse;
Where many a widow lost her mate,
And many a child was fatherlesse.
Shold bring such evil happe with mee,
To cause my faire and noble friends
To be suspect of treacherie:
And lever had I dye this day,
Than thinke a Douglas can be false,
Or ever he will his guest betray.
Nor unto mee no credence yield;
Yet step one moment here aside,
Ile showe you all your foes in field.
Never dealt in privy wyle;
But evermore held the high-waye
Of truth and honours, free from guile.
Yet send your chamberlaine with mee;
Let me but speak three words with him,
And he shall come again to thee.
She showed him through the weme of her ring
How many English lords there were
Waiting for his master and him.
So royallyè on yonder greene?
O yonder is the lord Hunsdèn :
Alas! he'll doe you drie and teene.
That walkes so proudly him beside?
That is Sir William Drury , she sayd,
A keen captàine he is and tryed.
Betwixt yond English lords and mee?
Marry it is thrice fifty miles,
To sayl to them upon the sea.
Ne never sawe it with mine eye,
But as my book it sheweth mee,
And through my ring I may descrye.
And of her skille she learned mee;
She wold let me see out of Lough-leven
What they did in London citìe.
That looketh with sic an austerne face?
Yonder is Sir John Foster , quoth shee,
Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace.
And in his heart he was full of woe;
And he is gone to his noble lord,
Those sorrowful tidings him to show.
I may not believe that witch ladìe:
The Douglasses were ever true,
And they can ne'er prove false to mee.
The most part of these years three,
Ne no good games that I cold see.
As to the Douglas I have hight:
Betide me weale, betide me woe,
He ne'er shall find my promise light.
And gave it to that faire ladìe:
Sayes, It was all that I cold save,
In Harley woods where I could be .
Then farewell truth and honestìe;
And farewell heart and farewell hand;
For never more I shall thee see.
And all the saylors were on borde;
Then William Douglas took to his boat,
And with him went that noble lord.
Says, Gentle lady, fare thee well!
The lady fett a sigh soe deep,
And in a dead swoone down shee fell.
A sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe;
If ought befall yond lady but good,
Then blamed for ever I shall bee.
Come on, come on, and let her bee:
There's ladyes enow in Lough-leven
For to chear that gay ladìe.
Let me goe with my chamberlaine;
We will but comfort that faire lady,
And wee will return to you againe.
Come on, come on, and let her bee:
My sister is crafty, and wold beguile
A thousand such as you and mee.
Fifty mile upon the sea;
He sent his man to ask the Douglas,
When they shold that shooting see.
And that by thee and thy lord is seen:
You may hap to think it soon enough,
Ere you that shooting reach, I ween.
He thought his lord then was betray'd;
And he is to Earle Percy againe,
To tell him what the Douglas sayd.
Nor therefore let thy courage fail:
He did it but to prove thy heart,
To see if he cold make it quail.
Other fifty mile upon the sea,
Lord Percy call'd to the Douglas himselfe,
Sayd, What wilt thou nowe doe with mee?
And your horse goe swift as ship at sea:
Looke that your spurres be bright and sharp,
That you may prick her while she'll away.
What needest thou to flyte with mee?
For I was counted a horseman good
Before that ever I met with thee.
Who dealt with mee so treacherouslìe:
A false Armstrong he hath my spurres,
And all the geere that belongs to mee.
Other fifty mile upon the sea:
They landed him at Berwick towne,
The Douglas landed Lord Percìe.
It was, alas! a sorrowful sight:
Thus they betrayed that noble earle,
Who ever was a gallant wight.
There is no navigable stream between Lough-leven and the sea: but a ballad-maker is not obliged to understand Geography.
V. MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.
This excellent philosophical song appears to have been famous in the sixteenth century. It is quoted by Ben Jonson in his play of “Every man out of his humour,” first acted in 1599. A. 1. sc. 1. where an impatient person says,
“That beggery is the onely happinesse,
“To sing, “My minde to me a kingdome is,”
“When the lanke hungrie belly barkes for foode.”
It is here chiefly printed from a thin quarto Musick-book, intitled, “Bassus. Psalmes, Sonets and Songs of sadnes and pietie, made into Musicke of five parts: &c. By William Byrd, one of the Gent. of the Queenes Maiesties honorable Chappell.—Printed by Thomas East, &c.” 4to. no date: but Ames in his Typog. has mentioned another edit. of the same book, dated 1588, which I take to have been later than this of ours.
Some improvements and an additional stanza (sc. the 5th.) were had from two other ancient copies; one of them in black letter in the Pepys Collection, thus inscribed, “A sweet and pleasant sonet, entituled, “My Minde to me a Kingdom is. To the tune of, In Crete, &c.”
To these last were subjoined four other stanzas, as part of the same poem, and were accordingly so printed in our first edit. but as they are given separate by Byrd, as an independent piece, they are accordingly so printed here: See below, Song VII.
Such perfect joy therein I finde
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse,
That God or Nature hath assignde:
Though much I want, that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
I seek no more than may suffice:
Look what I lack my mind supplies.
Loe! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.
And hastie clymbers soonest fall:
I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all:
These get with toile, and keep with feare:
Such cares my mind could never beare.
No force to winne a victorie,
No wylie wit to salve a sore,
No shape to winne a lovers eye;
To none of these I yeeld as thrall,
For why my mind dispiseth all.
I little have, yet seek no more:
They are but poore, tho' much they have;
And I am rich with little store:
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lacke, I lend; they pine, I give.
I grudge not at anothers gaine;
I brooke that is anothers bane:
I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend;
I loth not life, nor dread mine end.
My conscience clere my chiefe defence:
I never seeke by brybes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence:
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!
VI. THE PATIENT COUNTESS.
The following tale is found in an ancient poem intitled Albion's England, written by W. Warner, a celebrated Poet in the reign of Q. Elizabeth, tho' his name and works are now equally forgotten. The reader will find some account of him in Vol. 2. p. 231. 232.
The following stanzas are printed from the author's improved edition of his work, printed in 1602. 4to. This seems to have been the third impression, for “The first and second Parts of Albion's England, &c.” made their first appearance in 1583, 4to; and were reprinted in 1597, under the title of “Albion's England; a continued
It is proper to premise, that the following lines were not written by the Author in stanzas, but in long Alexandrines of 14 syllables; which the narrowness of our page made it here necessary to subdivide.
But jelousie is hell;
Some wives by patience have reduc'd
Ill husbands to live well:
As did the ladie of an earle,
Of whom I now shall tell.
Was lov'd, and lived long
Full true to his fayre countesse; yet
At last he did her wrong.
Long fasting, and the heat
Did house him in a peakish graunge
Within a forest great.
And persons might afforde)
Browne bread, whig, bacon, curds and milke
Were set him on the borde.
Halfe backed with a hoope
Were brought him, and he sitteth down
Besides a sorry coupe.
Were wheat, their whig were perry,
Their bacon beefe, their milke and curds
Were creame, to make him merry.
With linen white as swanne,
Herselfe more white, save rosie where
The ruddy colour ranne:
Of arte made to excell)
The good man's daughter sturres to see
That all were feat and well;
The earle did marke her, and admire
Such beautie there to dwell.
And held him at a feast:
But as his hunger slaked, so
An amorous heat increast.
And welcome too; he sayd
The hearing of the mayd:
Of this, and many townes;
I also know that you be poore,
And I can spare you pownes.
That yonder lasse and I
May bargaine for her love; at least,
Doe give me leave to trye.
Who needs to know it? nay who dares
Into my doings pry?
For lucre were misled;
And then the gamesome earle did wowe
The damsell for his bed.
So coyish to be kist,
As mayds that know themselves belov'd,
And yieldingly resist.
She lastly did consent;
With whom he lodged all that night,
And early home he went.
In such a sort to hunt.
Whom when his lady often mist,
Contràry to his wont,
His amorous haunt elsewhere;
It greev'd her not a little, though
She seem'd it well to beare.
Some fault perhaps in me;
Somewhat is done, that so he doth:
Alas! what may it be?
He is a man, and men
Have imperfections; it behooves
Me pardon nature then.
Although hee now were chaste:
A man controuled of his wife,
To her makes lesser haste.
Prevayle to alter him;
I will be dutifull, and make
My selfe for daliance trim.
Did entertaine her lord,
As fairer, or more faultles none
Could be for bed or bord.
Did still pursue that game,
Suspecting nothing less, than that
His lady knew the same:
Wherefore to make him know she knew,
She this devise did frame:
The foresayd meanes in vaine,
She rideth to the simple graunge
But with a slender traine.
And then did looke about her:
The guiltie houshold knowing her,
Did wish themselves without her;
Yet, for she looked merily,
The lesse they did misdoubt her.
(Than blushing fairnes fairer)
Such beauty made the countesse hold
Them both excus'd the rather.
Thought she: and who (though loth)
So poore a wench, but gold might tempt?
Sweet errors lead them both.
Of proffer'd gold denied,
Or of such yeelding beautie baulkt,
But, tenne to one, had lied.
Her cause of coming thether;
My lord, oft hunting in these partes,
Through travel, night or wether,
I thanke you for the same;
For why? it doth him jolly ease
To lie so neare his game.
Beseeming such a guest,
I bring his owne, and come myselfe
To see his lodging drest.
In which were hangings brave,
Silke coverings, curtens, carpets, plate,
And al such turn should have.
She prayes them to have care
That nothing hap in their default,
That might his health impair:
This houshold is but three,
And for thy parents age, that this
Shall chiefely rest on thee;
He hither come no more.
So tooke she horse, and ere she went
Bestowed gould good store.
His countesse had done so;
Who now return'd from far affaires
Did to his sweet-heart go.
The late deformed cote,
But that the formall change of things
His wondring eies did note.
His proper goods; though late,
Scarce taking leave, he home returnes
The matter to debate.
With her his lodging tooke;
Sir, welcome home (quoth shee); this night
For you I did not looke.
His stuffe bestowed soe.
Forsooth, quoth she, because I did
Your love and lodging knowe:
Your lodging nothing lesse;
I held it for your health, the house
More decently to dresse.
Your lordship loveth me;
And greater hope to hold you such
By quiet, then brawles, ‘you’ see.
And to retaine your favour,
All done I did, and patiently
Expect your wonted 'haviour.
His gentle teares to fall:
When (kissing her a score of times)
Amend, sweet wife, I shall:
He said, and did it; ‘so each wife
‘Her husband may’ recall.
To check is a term in falconry, applied when a hawk stops and turns away from his proper pursuit: To check also signifies to reprove or abide. It is in this verse used in both senses
VII. THE GOLDEN MEAN.
The four stanzas following are commonly printed as part of the foregoing song, Num. V. My mind to me a kingdom is; and accordingly so stand in our first edition. But as they are found distinct and separate, after the manner of an independent poem, with different notes of music, in Birde's bassus, it was thought proper so to give them here.
I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw;
For care, I care not what it is;
I feare not fortunes fatall law:
My mind is such as may not move
For beautie bright or force of love.
I wander not to seeke for more;
In greatest stormes I sitte on shore,
And laugh at them that toile in vaine
To get what must be lost againe.
I faine not love where most I hate;
I breake no sleep to winne my will;
I wayte not at the mighties gate;
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich;
I feele no want, nor have too much.
Extreames are counted worst of all;
The golden meane betwixt them both,
Doth surest sit, and fears no fall:
This is my choyce, for why I finde,
No wealth is like a quiet minde.
VIII. DOWSABELL.
The following stanzas were written by Michael Drayton, a poet of some eminence in the reigns of Q. Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. They are inserted in
And thou shalt heare, with mirth and mickle glee,
A pretie tale, which when I was a boy,
My toothles grandame oft hath tolde to me.
The Author has professedly imitated the style and metre of some of the old metrical Romances; particularly that of Sir Isenbras , (alluded to in v. 3.) as the reader may judge from the following specimen:
[OMITTED]
Ye shall well heare of a knight,
That was in warre full wyght,
And doughtye of his dede:
His name was Syr Isenbras,
Man nobler then he was
Lyved none with breade.
He was lyvely, large, and longe,
With shoulders broade, and armes stronge,
That myghtie was to se:
All men hym loved that hym se,
For a gentyll knight was he:
Harpers loved him in hall,
With other minstrells all,
For he gave them golde and fee, &c.
This ancient Legend was printed in black letter, 4to, by Wyllyam Copland; no date.—In the Cotton Library (Calig. A. 2.) is a MS copy of the same Romance containing the greatest variations. They are probably two different translations of some French Original.
There won'd a knight, hight Cassemen,
As bolde as Isenbras:
Fell was he, and eger bent,
In battell and in tournament,
As was the good Sir Topas.
A daughter cleaped Dowsabel,
A mayden fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was y-cond the leyre
Of mickle curtesie.
And make the fine march-pine,
And with the needle werke:
His mattins on a holy-day,
And sing a psalme in kirke.
Might well beseeme a mayden queene,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
Y-wrought full featously.
As is the grasse that growes by Dove;
And lyth as lasse of Kent.
Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on Peakish Hull,
Or swanne that swims in Trent.
Went forth, when May was in her prime,
To get sweete cetywall,
The honey-suckle, the harlocke,
The lilly and the lady-smocke,
To deck her summer hall.
Y-picking of the bloomed breere,
She chanced to espie
A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
And pip'd full merrilie.
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feede about him round;
Whilst he full many a carroll sung,
Untill the fields and medowes rung,
And all the woods did sound.
Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne ,
Which helde prowd kings in awe:
But meeke he was as lamb mought be;
And innocent of ill as he
Whom his lewd brother slaw.
Which was of the finest loke,
That could be cut with sheere:
His mittens were of bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of cordiwin,
His hood of meniveere.
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
His breech of coyntrie blewe:
His browes as white as Albion rocks:
So like a lover true,
So merry as the popingay;
Which liked Dowsabel:
That would she ought, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought;
She in love-longing fell.
White as a lilly was her smocke,
She drew the shepheard nye:
But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,
That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,
To heare his melodye.
That have a jolly shepheards swayne,
The which can pipe so well:
Yea but, sayth he, their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away,
In love of Dowsabel.
Quoth she; looke thou unto thy sheepe,
Lest they should hap to stray.
Had I not seen fayre Dowsabell
Come forth to gather maye.
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she sayd:
With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
And on the ground him layd.
And leave my summer-hall undight,
And all for long of thee.
My coate, sayth he, nor yet my foulde
Shall neither sheepe, nor shepheard hould,
Except thou favour mee.
Then I should lose my mayden-head,
And all for love of men.
Sayth he, Yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde
To love us now and then.
As Colin was to Rosalinde,
Of curtesie the flower.
As ever mayden yet might be
Unto her paramour.
Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee,
And him she sweetely kist:
With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy,
Quoth he, ther's never shepheards boy
That ever was so blist.
Alluding to “Tamburlaine the great, or the Scythian Shepheard.” 1590. 8vo. an old ranting play ascribed to Marlowe.
IX. THE FAREWELL TO LOVE
I am free again.
Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours,
Bewitching pain,
Fly to fools, that sigh away their time:
My nobler love to heaven doth climb,
That time can ne'er corrupt nor death destroy,
Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,
And honoured by eternity and joy:
There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire,
Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.
X. ULYSSES AND THE SYREN
—affords a pretty poetical contest between Pleasure and Honour. It is found at the end of “Hymen's triumph: a “pastoral tragicomedie” written by Daniel, and printed among his works, 4to. 1623.—Daniel, who was a contemporary of Drayton's, and is said to have been poet laureat to Queen Elizabeth, was born in 1562, and died in 1619. Anne Countess of Dorset, Pembroke, and Montgomery (to whom Daniel had been Tutor) has inserted a small Portrait of him in a full-length Picture of herself, preserved at Appleby Castle in Cumberland.
This little poem is the rather selected for a specimen of Daniel's poetic powers, as it is omitted in the later edition of his works, 2 vol. 12mo. 1718.
Come, worthy Greeke, Ulysses come,
Possesse these shores with me,
And here we may be free.
Here may we sit and view their toyle,
That travaile in the deepe,
Enjoy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleepe.
Ulysses.
Faire nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,
Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toiles as these:
But here it dwels, and here must I
With danger seek it forth;
To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not men of worth.
Syren.
Ulysses, O be not deceiv'd
With that unreall name:
This honour is a thing conceiv'd,
And rests on others' fame.
Begotten only to molest
Our peace, and to beguile
(The best thing of our life) our rest,
And give us up to toyle!
Delicious nymph, suppose there were
No honour, or report,
Yet manlinesse would scorne to weare
The time in idle sport:
For toyle doth give a better touch
To make us feele our joy;
And ease findes tediousnes, as much
As labour yeelds annoy.
Syren.
Then pleasure likewise seemes the shore,
Whereto tendes all your toyle;
Which you forego to make it more,
And perish oft the while.
Who may disport them diversly,
Find never tedious day;
And ease may have variety,
As well as action may.
Ulysses.
But natures of the noblest frame
These toyles and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in ease:
Are recreated still:
When pleasure leaves a touch at last
To shew that it was ill.
Syren.
That doth opinion only cause,
That's out of custom bred;
Which makes us many other laws,
Than ever nature did.
No widdowes waile for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.
Ulysses.
But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest,
And these great spirits of high desire
Seem borne to turne them best:
To purge the mischiefes, that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace,
To be well chang'd for war.
Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here;
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be wonne that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not wonne:
For beauty hath created bin
T'undoo or be undone,
XI. CUPID'S PASTIME.
This beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I. is printed from the 4th edition of Davison's poems , &c. 1621. It is also found in a later miscellany, intitled, “Le Prince d'amour.” 1660. 8vo.—Francis Davison, editor of the poems above reserred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state, who suffered so much from the affair of Mary Q. of Scots. These poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [Walter], who was a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries, and by some dear friends “anonymoi.” Among them are found pieces by Sir J. Davis, the Countess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser, and other wits of those times.
In the fourth vol. of Dryden's Miscellanies, this poem is attributed to Sydney Godolphin, Esq; but erroneously, being probably written before he was born. One edit. of Davison's book was published in 1608. Godolphin was born in 1610, and died in 1642–3. Ath. Ox. II. 23.
That went to seek his straying sheep,
Within a thicket on a plaín
Espied a dainty nymph asleep.
Her careless arms abroad were cast;
Her quiver had her pillows place;
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
Nought durst he do; nought durst he say;
Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the god of love that way.
Whom if she wak'd he durst not see;
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended bee.
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,
But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
And spies the shepherd standing by:
Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain lets flye.
That to the ground he fell with pain:
Yet up again forthwith he start,
And to the nymph he ran amain.
She shot, and shot, but all in vain;
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded strength amidst his pain.
She blames her hand, she blames her skill;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'st not Cupids craft;
Revenge is joy; the end is smart.
Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
Love found an entry to her heart;
At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord! how this gentle nymph did start?
Away she throws both shaft and bow:
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherds haste too slow.
What other lovers do, did they:
The god of love sate on a tree,
And laught that pleasant sight to see.
XII. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
This little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eaton, in 1639. Æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, intitled Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, 1651. 12mo; compared with one or two other copies.
That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill:
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;
Not ty'd unto the world with care
Of princes ear, or vulgar breath:
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruine make oppressors great:
Or vice: Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertaines the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.
Of hope to rise, or feare to fall;
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
XIII. GILDEROY
—was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and storybooks of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richlieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have probably no other authority, than the records of Grub-street: At least the Gilderoy, who is the hero of Scottish Songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age; for in Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius, vol. 2. 1733. 8vo. is a copy of this ballad, which, tho' corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity: in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary Q. of Scots: ex. gr.
“That my love let me want:
“For cow and ew he brought to me,
“And ein whan they were scant.”
Those lines perhaps might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that seems to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruning-book.
Had roses tull his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doune:
It was, I weene, a comelie sight,
To see sae trim a boy;
He was my jo and hearts delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.
A breath as sweet as rose,
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes;
He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir tull him was coy,
Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day,
For my dear Gilderoy.
Baith in one toun together,
We scant were seven years beforn,
We gan to luve each other;
Our dadies and our mammies thay,
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day,
Twixt me and Gilderoy.
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark of holland fine,
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I receiv'd wi' joy,
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing,
Like me and Gilderoy.
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time,
Among the leaves sae green;
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy,
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair
My handsome Gilderoy.
Wi' me to lead his life,
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent,
To stir in feates of strife:
And he in many a venturous deed,
His courage bauld wad try,
And now this gars mine heart to bleed,
For my dear Gilderoy.
The tears they wat mine ee,
I gave tull him a parting luik,
“My benison gang wi' thee!
God speed the weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;
My heart is rent sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy.”
Was fear'd in every toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear,
Of many a lawland loun;
Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
He was sae brave a boy,
At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winsome Gilderoy.
To hang a man for gear,
To 'reave of life for ox or ass,
For sheep, or horse, or mare:
Had not their laws been made sae strick,
I neir had lost my joy,
Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek,
For my dear Gilderoy.
He mought hae banisht been,
Ah! what fair cruelty is this,
To hang sike handsome men:
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had sae white a hand,
As thee, my Gilderoy.
They bound him mickle strong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:
They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was sae trim a boy;
Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
My handsome Gilderoy.
I bare his corpse away,
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comelye clay;
And siker in a grave sae deep,
I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep,
My winsome Gilderoy.
XIV. WINIFREDA.
This beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine muses, is printed in some modern collections as a translation “from the ancient British language;” how truly I know not. See the Musical Miscellany, vol. 6. 1731. 8vo. Errata
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.
With pompous titles grace our blood?
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And to be noble we'll be good.
Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke:
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.
No mighty treasures we possess,
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mothers features,
To hear them lisp their mothers tongue.
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go a wooing in my boys.
XV. THE WITCH OF WOKEY
—was published in a small collection of poems intitled, Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony, &c. 1756. written by an ingenious Physician near Bath, who chose to conceal his name. The following contains some variations from the original copy, which it is hoped the author will pardon, when he is informed they came from the elegant pen of the late Mr. Shenstone.
Wokey-hole is a noted cavern in Somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories as the Sybil's Cave in Italy. Thro' a very narrow entrance, it opens into a large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height, or the thickness of the gloom, cannot be discovered by the light of torches. It goes winding a great way under ground, is crost by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions; which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem.
A base and wicked else arose,
The Witch of Wokey hight:
Oft have I heard the fearfull tale
From Sue, and Roger of the vale,
On some long winter's night.
Which seem'd and was ycleped hell,
This blear-eyed hag did hide:
Nine wicked elves, as legends faigne,
She chose to form her guardian trayne,
And kennel near her side.
While wolves its craggy sides possest,
Night-howling thro' the rock:
No wholesome herb could here be found;
She blasted every plant around,
And blister'd every flock.
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee;
Her eyne of deadly leer.
She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill;
She wreak'd on all her wayward will,
And marr'd all goodly chear.
No gaudy youth, gallant and young,
E'er blest her longing armes:
And hence arose her spight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,
By dint of hellish charmes.
Full bent to marr her fell despight,
And well he did, I ween:
Sich mischief never had been known,
And, since his mickle lerninge shown,
Sich mischief ne'er has been.
He crost the water, blest the brooke,
Then—pater noster done,
The ghastly hag he sprinkled o'er;
When lo! where stood a hag before,
Now stood a ghastly stone.
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtfull may appear,
I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
That has not seen the witch in stone,
With all her household gear.
With grieved heart, alas! I tell,
She left this curse behind:
That Wokey-nymphs forsaken quite,
Tho' sense and beauty both unite,
Should find no leman kind.
The sex have found it to this day,
That men are wondrous scant:
Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd,
With all that's good and virtuous join'd,
Yet hardly one gallant.
They might as well, like her, be stone,
As thus forsaken dwell.
Since Glaston now can boast no clerks;
Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks,
And, oh! revoke the spell.
Virtue's the gods' peculiar care;
I hear the gracious voice:
Your sex shall soon be blest agen,
We only wait to find sich men,
As best deserve your choice.
XVI. BRYAN AND PEREENE,
A West-Indian Ballad,
—is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island
of St. Christophers about two years ago. The editor owes the
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep,
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or at the purple dawn of day
Tadmor's marble wastes survey, &c.
alluding to the account of Palmyra published by some late ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first sight of those magnificent ruins by break of day .
The ship was safely moor'd,
Young Bryan thought the boat's-crew slow,
And so leapt over-board.
His heart long held in thrall,
And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.
He dwelt on English land,
Nor once in thought or deed would stray,
Tho' ladies sought his hand.
Right blythsome roll'd his een,
Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung,
He scant had twenty seen.
That grac'd his mistress true;
Such charms the old world seldom saw,
Nor oft I ween the new.
Like tendrils of the vine;
Her cheeks red dewy rose buds deck,
Her eyes like diamonds shine.
She cast her weeds away,
And to the palmy shore she hied,
All in her best array.
She there impatient stood;
The crew with wonder saw the lad
Repell the foaming flood.
Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas'd the token he survey'd,
And manlier beat the wave.
Rejoicing crowd the strand;
For now her lover swam in call,
And almost touch'd the land.
To clasp her lovely swain;
When, ah! a shark bit through his waste:
His heart's blood dy'd the main!
Streaming with purple gore,
And soon it found a living grave,
And ah! was seen no more.
Fetch water from the spring:
She falls, she swoons, she dies away,
And soon her knell they ring.
Ye fair, fresh flowerets strew,
So may your lovers scape his doom,
Her hapless fate scape you.
XVII. GENTLE RIVER, GENTLE RIVER.
Translated from the Spanish.
Although the English are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient Ballads, and retain perhap sa greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of their ancestors, than most other nations; they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit. They call them in their language Romances, and have collected them into volumes under the titles of El Romancero, El Cancionero
, &c. Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. But of all the Spanish ballads, none exceed in poetical merit those inserted in a little Spanish “History of the civil wars of Granada,” describing the dissensions which raged in that last seat of Moorish empire before it was conquered in the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, in 1491. In this History (or perhaps, Romance) a great number of heroic songs are inserted and appealed to as authentic vouchers for the truth of facts. In reality, the prose narrative seems to be drawn up for no other end, but to introduce and illustrate these beautiful pieces.The Spanish editor pretends (how truly I know not) that they are translations from the Arabic or Morisco language. Indeed the plain unadorned nature of the verse, and the native simplicity of language and sentiment, which runs through these poems, prove that they are ancient; or, at least, that they were written before the Castillians began to form themselves on the model of the Tuscan poets, and had imported from Italy that fondness for conceit and refinement, which has for these
As a specimen of the ancient Spanish manner, which very much resembles that of our old English Bards and Minstrels, the Reader is desired candidly to accept the two following poems. They are given from a small Collection of pieces of this kind, which the Editor some years ago translated for his amusement when he was studying the Spanish language. As the first is a pretty close translation, to gratify the curious it is accompanied with the original. The Metre is the same in all these old Spanish songs: and its plain unpolished nature strongly argues its great antiquity. It runs in short stanzas of four lines, of which the second and fourth alone correspond in their terminations; and in these it is only required that the vowels should be alike, the consonants may be altogether different, as
pone casa meten arcosYet has this kind of verse a sort of simple harmonious flow, which atones for the imperfect nature of the rhyme, and renders it not unpleasing to the ear. The same flow of numbers has been studied in the following versions. The first of them is given from two different originals, both of which are printed in the Hist. de las civiles guerras de Granada. Mad. 1694. One of them hath the rhymes ending in AA, the other in IA. They both of them begin with the same line,
Rio verde, rio verde ,which could not be translated faithfully;
Verdant river, verdant river,would have given an affected stiffness to the verse; the great merit of which is its easy simplicity; and therefore a more simple epithet was adopted, though less poetical or expressive.
Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore,
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow'd shore.
All beside thy sands so bright,
Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.
On thy fatal banks were slain:
Fatal banks that gave to slaughter
All the pride and flower of Spain.
Full of wounds and glory died:
There the fearless Urdiales
Fell a victim by his side.
Thro' the squadrons slow retires;
Proud Seville, his native city,
Proud Seville his worth admires.
Loudly shouts with taunting cry;
Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra,
Dost thou from the battle fly?
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof;
Oft I've in the lists of glory
Seen thee win the prize of proof.
Well thy blooming bride I know;
Seven years I was thy captive,
Seven years of pain and woe.
Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine:
Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow,
Which I drank when I was thine.
Back he sends an angry glare:
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin,
Vainly whizzing thro' the air.
Sent a deep and mortal wound:
Instant sunk the Renegado,
Mute and lifeless on the ground.
Brave Saavedra stands at bay:
Wearied out but never daunted,
Cold at length the warrior lay.
Stout resists the Paynim bands;
From his slaughter'd steed dismounted
Firm intrench'd behind him stands
Furious he repels their rage;
Loss of blood at length infeebles:
Who can war with thousands wage!
Close beneath its foot retir'd,
Fainting sunk the bleeding hero,
And without a groan expir'd.
In the Spanish original of the foregoing ballad, follow a few more stanzas, but being of inferior merit were not translated.
Renegado properly signifies an apostate; but it is sometimes used to express an infidel in general; as it seems to do above in ver. 21. &c.
The image of the Lion, &c. in ver. 37. is taken from the other Spanish copy, the rhymes of which end in IA, viz,
‘Como un leon rebolbia.’
XVIII. ALCANZOR AND ZAYDA,
A Moorish Tale,
Imitated from the Spanish.
The foregoing version was rendered as literal as the nature of the two languages would admit. In the following a wider compass hath been taken. The Spanish poem that was chiefly had in view, is preserved in the same history of the Civil wars of Granada, f. 22. and begins with these lines,
‘Passeando se anda, &c.’
Softly fall the dews of night;
Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,
Shunning every glare of light.
Whom he loves with flame so pure:
Loveliest she of Moorish ladies;
He a young and noble Moor.
Oft he paces to and fro;
Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.
Oft he sighs with heart-felt care.—
See, fond youth, to yonder window
Softly steps the timorous fair.
To the lost benighted swain,
When all silvery bright she rises,
Gilding mountain, grove, and plain.
To the fainting seaman's eyes,
When some horrid storm dispersing,
O'er the wave his radiance flies.
To her longing lover's sight
Steals half-seen the beauteous maiden
Thro' the glimmerings of the night.
Whispering forth a gentle sigh:
Alla keep thee, lovely lady;
Tell me, am I doom'd to die?
Which thy damsel tells my page,
That seduc'd by sordid riches
Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age?
Thy stern father brings along;
But canst thou, inconstant Zaida,
Thus consent my love to wrong?
Nor thus trifle with my woes;
Hide not then from me the secret,
Which the world so clearly knows.
While the pearly tears descend:
Here our tender loves must end.
Well are known our mutual vows;
All my friends are full of fury;
Storms of passion shake the house.
My stern father breaks my heart;
Alla knows how dear it costs me,
Generous youth, from thee to part.
Long have rent our house and thine;
Why then did thy shining merit
Win this tender heart of mine?
Spite of all their hateful pride,
Tho' I fear'd my haughty father
Ne'er would let me be thy bride.
Oft I've from my mother borne,
What I've suffered here to meet thee
Still at eve and early morn.
All, to force my hand combine;
This weak frame I must resign.
Can survive so great a wrong;
Well my breaking heart assures me
That my woes will not be long.
Farewell too my life with thee!
Take this scarf a parting token;
When thou wear'st it think on me.
Shall reward thy generous truth;
Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida
Died for thee in prime of youth.
Thus she did her woes impart:
Deep he sigh'd, then cry'd, O Zaida,
Do not, do not break my heart.
Canst thou hold my love so small?
No! a thousand times I'll perish!—
My curst rival too shall fall.
O break, forth, and fly to me!
These fond arms shall shelter thee.
Spies surround me, bars secure;
Scarce I steal this last dear moment,
While my damsel keeps the door.
Hark, I hear my mother chide!
I must go: farewell for ever!
Gracious Alla be thy guide!
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