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RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY: CONSISTING OF OLD HEROIC BALLADS, SONGS, AND OTHER PIECES OF OUR EARLIER POETS; TOGETHER WITH SOME FEW OF LATER DATE. BY THOMAS PERCY, LORD BISHOP OF DROMORE. EDITED BY J. V. PRICHARD.

Dedication.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Elizabeth, Countess of Northumberland: IN HER OWN RIGHT BARONESS PERCY, LUCY, POYNINGS, FITZPAYNE, BRYAN, AND LATIMER.

MADAM,

THOSE writers who solicit the protection of the noble and the great are often exposed to censure by the impropriety of their addresses: a remark that will perhaps be too readily applied to him who, having nothing better to offer than the rude Songs of ancient Minstrels, aspires to the patronage of the Countess of Northumberland, and hopes that the barbarous productions of unpolished ages can obtain the approbation or the notice of her, who adorns courts by her presence, and diffuses elegance by her example. But this impropriety, it is presumed, will disappear, when it is declared that these poems are presented to your Ladyship, not as labours of art, but as effusions of nature, showing the first efforts of ancient genius, and exhibiting the customs and opinions of remote ages, — of ages that had been almost lost to memory, had not the gallant deeds of your illustrious Ancestors preserved them from oblivion. No active or comprehensive mind can forbear some attention to the reliques of antiquity: it is prompted by natural curiosity to survey the progress of life and manners, and to inquire by what gradations barbarity was civilized, grossness refined, and ignorance instructed; but this curiosity, Madam, must be stronger in those who, like your Ladyship, can remark in every period the influence of some great Progenitor, and who still feel in their effects the transactions and events of distant centuries. By such Bards, Madam, as I am now introducing to your presence, was the infancy of genius nurtured and advanced; by such were the minds of unlettered warriors softened and enlarged; by such was the memory of illustrious actions preserved and propagated; by such were the heroic deeds of the Earls of Northumberland sung at festivals in the hall of ALNWICK and those Songs which the bounty of your ancestors rewarded, now return to your Ladyship by a kind of hereditary right; and, I flatter myself, will find such reception as is usually shown to poets and historians by those whose consciousness of merit makes it their interest to be long remembered.

I am, Madam, Your Ladyship’s most humble and most devoted servant, THOMAS PERCY, MDCCLXV.

Advertisement to the Edition of 1876.

As early as the year 1794, when only the fourth edition of the Reliques had appeared, the Rev. Thomas Percy, acting as assistant- editor to his uncle, the Bishop of Dromore, hinted at the difficulty attendant upon such a composition as a collection of poems from a mutilated and incorrect manuscript. At that date Bishop Percy, his nephew, and a few friends were alone enabled to pass this judgment. To-day, however, the concealed manuscript is the property of the British Museum, its masterly edition [1] by Messrs. Hales and Furnivall rests in the hands of the public, and our knowledge of the original poems enables us to appreciate the extraordinary ingenuity displayed by the Bishop in his manipulation of the forty-five numbers extracted from his Folio Manuscript; nor is our admiration for his poetic genius other than redoubled by the discovery. The Folio Manuscript itself, which has been too closely connected in the general mind with the Reliques, considering that the latter contains only about one-sixth of the contents of the former, is a narrow book, about fifteen and a half inches long by five and a half wide, which has been torn and cut, and is deficient in many parts. It consists of a mass of some two hundred Sonnets, Ballads, Historical Songs, and Metrical Romances, transcribed, we are assured, “from defective copies, or the imperfect recitation of illiterate singers; so that a considerable portion of the song or narrative is sometimes omitted, and miserable trash or nonsense not unfrequently introduced into pieces of considerable merit.”[2] Mr. Furnivall fixes the date of the handwriting to the year 1650, or thereabouts, and observes, “The dialect of the copies of the MS. seems to have been Lancashire.”[3] Who this copier may have been still remains a mystery. Percy’s suggestion that it was Thomas Blount has been dismissed as incredible. Concerning the treatment of the text in Percy’s selections, we have Mr. Furnivall’s word that the Reverend Editor “looked upon it as a young woman from the country with unkempt locks, whom he had to fit for fashionable society.”[4] Be that as it may, the Reliques have admirably served their purpose; they have passed through at least thirty editions in various parts of the world; they rank among those works which have supported popularity for more than a century, and they may make their vaunt of having aroused the “Wizard of the North” to exclaim, “The first time I could scrape a few shillings together,— which were not common occurrences with me,— I bought unto myself a copy of the beloved volumes; nor do I believe I ever read a book half so frequently, or with half the enthusiasm.”[5] The endeavour of the present Editor has been in no way critical, nor has his end in view been the satisfaction of the “judicious antiquary” so much as the desire to effect a correct reproduction of the Reliques as put forth during Percy’s life. Consequently, the four earliest editions have been carefully collated with the Folio Manuscript, and with Professor Child’s English and Scottish Ballads (edit. 1857, Boston). The result is, a refinement and correction of the text, an improvement in the punctuation, and an enlarged Glossary. A comprehensive Index has also been prepared. The original three volumes appear in two, though Percy’s arrangement of Books remains unaltered and consecutive. A few explanatory foot-notes, the fruit of late research, increase the already copious stock, but the paternity of all such is distinctly noted. The work, then, of revision and addition merely aims at heightening the intrinsic merit of the early editions and at assisting in making the Reliques of 1875 an improved re-cast.

THE EDITOR, Oct., 1875.

NOTES

1. Bishop Percy’s Folio Manuscript. Ballads and Romances. Edited by C. W. Hales, M.A., and F. J. Furnivall, M.A. 4 vols. (Trubner & CO.

1868.)

2. Advertisement to the fourth edition of the Reliques, 1794. 3. Percy’s Folio MS. i., xiii. 4. Percy’s Folio MS. i., xvi. 5. Lockhart’s Life of Scott, chap.i.

Preface.

THE reader is here presented with select remains of our ancient English Bards and Minstrels, an order of men who were once greatly respected by our ancestors, and contributed to soften the roughness of a martial and unlettered people by their songs and by their music. The greater part of them are extracted from an ancient folio MS. in the Editor’s possession, which contains near two hundred Poems, Songs, and Metrical Romances. This manuscript was written about the middle of the last century; but contains compositions of all times and dates, from the ages prior to Chaucer, to the conclusion of the reign of Charles I.[1] This manuscript was shown to several learned and ingenious friends, who thought the contents too curious to be consigned to oblivion, and importuned the possessor to select some of them, and give them to the press. As most of them are of great simplicity, and seem to have been merely written for the people, he was long in doubt whether, in the present state of improved literature, they could be deemed worthy the attention of the public. At length the importunity of his friends prevailed, and he could refuse nothing to such judges as the author of The Rambler and the late Mr. Shenstone. Accordingly, such specimens of ancient poetry have been selected as either show the gradation of our language, exhibit the progress of popular opinions, display the peculiar manners and customs of former ages, or throw light on our earlier classical poets. They are here distributed into VOLUMES, each of which contains an independent SERIES of poems, arranged chiefly according to the order of time, and showing the gradual improvements of the English language and poetry from the earliest ages down to the present. Each VOLUME, or SERIES, is divided into three BOOKS, to afford so many pauses or resting-places to the reader, and to assist him in distinguishing between the productions of the earlier, the middle, and the latter times. In a polished age like the present, I am sensible that many of these reliques of antiquity will require great allowances to be made for them. Yet have they, for the most part, a pleasing simplicity, and many artless graces, which, in the opinion of no mean critics,[2] have been thought to compensate for the want of higher beauties, and if they do not dazzle the imagination, are frequently found to interest the heart. To atone for the rudeness of the more obsolete poems, each volume concludes with a few modern attempts in the same kind of writing; and to take off from the tediousness of the longer narratives, they are everywhere intermingled with little elegant pieces of the lyric kind. Select ballads in the old Scottish dialect, most of them of the first-rate merit, are also interspersed among those of our ancient English minstrels; and the artless productions of these old rhapsodists are occasionally confronted with specimens of the composition of contemporary poets of a higher class, — of those who had all the advantages of learning in the times in which they lived, and who wrote for fame and for posterity. Yet perhaps the palm will be frequently due to the old strolling Minstrels, who composed their rhymes to be sung to their harps, and who looked no further than for present applause and present subsistence. The reader will find this class of men occasionally described in the following volumes, and some particulars relating to their history in an Essay subjoined to this Preface. It will be proper here to give a short account of the other Collections that were consulted, and to make my acknowledgments to those gentlemen who were so kind as to impart extracts from them; for while this Selection was making, a great number of ingenious friends took a share in the work, and explored many large repositories in its favour. The first of these that deserved notice was the Pepysian Library at Magdalen College, Cambridge. Its founder, Samuel Pepys, Esq.[3] Secretary of the Admiralty in the reigns of Charles II. and James II., had made a large collection of ancient English ballads, near 2000 in number, which he has left pasted in five volumes in folio; besides garlands and other smaller miscellanies. This Collection, he tells us, was “begun by by Mr. Selden; improved by the addition of many pieces elder thereto in time; and the whole continued down to the year 1700; when the form peculiar till then thereto, viz. of the black-letter with pictures, seems (for cheapness’ sake) wholly laid aside for that of the white-letter without pictures.” In the Ashmole Library at Oxford is a small collection of ballads made by Anthony Wood in the year 1676, containing somewhat more than 200. Many ancient popular poems are also preserved in the Bodleian Library. The archives of the Antiquarian Society at London contain a multitude of curious political poems in large folio volumes, digested under the several reigns of Henry VIII., Edward VI., Mary, Elizabeth, James I., &c. In the British Museum is preserved a large treasure of ancient English poems in MS., besides one folio volume of printed ballads. From all these some of the best pieces were selected; and from many. private Collections, as well printed as manuscript, particularly from one large folio volume which was lent by a lady. Amid such a fund of materials the Editor is afraid he has been sometimes led to make too great a parade of his authorities. The desire of being accurate has perhaps seduced him into too minute and trifling an exactness; and in pursuit of information he may have been drawn into many a petty and frivolous research. It was, however, necessary to give some account of the old copies; though often, for the sake of brevity, one or two of these only are mentioned, where yet assistance was received from several. The Editor has endeavoured to be as faithful as the imperfect state of his materials would admit. For these old popular rhymes being many of them copied only from illiterate transcripts, or the imperfect recitation of itinerant ballad-singers, have, as might be expected, been handed down to us with less care than any other writings in the world. And the old copies, whether MS. or printed, were often so defective or corrupted, that a scrupulous adherence to their wretched readings would only have exhibited unintelligible nonsense, or such poor meagre stuff as neither came from the bard nor was worthy the press; when, by a few slight corrections or additions, a most beautiful or interesting sense hath started forth, and this so naturally and easily, that the Editor could seldom prevail on himself to indulge the vanity of making a formal claim to the improvement; but must plead guilty to the charge of concealing his own share in the amendments under some such general title as a “Modern Copy,” or the like. Yet it has been his design to give sufficient intimation where any considerable liberties[4] were taken with the old copies, and to have retained, either in the text or margin, any word or phrase which was antique, obsolete, unusual, or peculiar; so that these might be safely quoted as of genuine and undoubted antiquity. His object was to please both the judicious antiquary and the reader of taste; and he hath endeavoured to gratify both without offending either. The plan of the work was settled in concert with the late elegant Mr. Shenstone, who was to have borne a joint share in it, had not death unhappily prevented him.[5] Most of the modern pieces were of his selection and arrangement, and the Editor hopes to be pardoned if he has retained some things out of partiality to the judgment of his friend. The old folio MS. above mentioned was a present from Humphrey Pitt, Esq., of Prior’s-Lee, in Shropshire,[6] to whom this public acknowledgment is due for that and many other obliging favours. To Sir David Dalrymple, Bart., of Hales, near Edinburgh, the Editor is indebted for most of the beautiful Scottish poems with which this little miscellany is enriched, and for many curious and elegant remarks with which they are illustrated. Some obliging communications of the same kind were received from John MacGowan, Esq., of Edinburgh; and many curious explanations of Scottish words in the glossaries from John Davidson, Esq., of Edinburgh, and from the Rev. Mr. Hutchinson, of Kimbolton. Mr. Warton, who has twice done so much honour to the Poetry Professor’s chair at Oxford, and Mr. Hest, of Worcester College, contributed some curious pieces from the Oxford libraries. Two ingenious and learned friends at Cambridge deserve the Editor’s warmest acknowledgments: to Mr. Blakeway, late Fellow of Magdalen College, he owes all the assistance received from the Pepysian Library; and Mr. Farmer, Fellow of Emanuel, often exerted in favour of this little work that extensive knowledge of ancient English literature for which he is so distinguished.[7] Many extracts from ancient MSS. in the British Museum and other repositories were owing to the kind services of Thomas Astle, Esq., to whop the public is indebted for the curious Preface and Index annexed to the Harleian Catalogue.[8] The worthy librarian of the Society of Antiquaries, Mr. Norris, deserved acknowledgment for the obliging manner in which he gave the Editor access to the volumes under his care. In Mr. Garrick’s curious collection of old Plays are many scarce pieces of ancient poetry, with the free use of which he indulged the Editor in the politest manner. To the Rev. Dr. Birch he is indebted for the use of several ancient and valuable tracts. To the friendship of Dr. Samuel Johnson he owes many valuable hints for the conduct of the work. And if the glossaries are more exact and curious than might be expected in so slight a publication, it is to be ascribed to the supervisal of a friend who stands at this time the first in the world for northern literature, and whose learning is better known and respected in foreign nations than in his own country. It is perhaps needless to name the Rev. Mr. Lye, editor of Junius’s Etymologicum, and of the Gothic Gospels. The names of so many men of learning and character the Editor hopes will serve as an amulet, to guard him from every unfavourable censure for having bestowed any attention on a parcel of Old Ballads. It was at the request of many of these gentlemen, and of others eminent for their genius and taste, that this little work was undertaken. To prepare it for the press has been the amusement of now and then a vacant hour amid the leisure and retirement of rural life, and hath only served as a relaxation from graver studies. It has been taken up at different times, and often thrown aside for many months, during an interval of four or five years. This has occasioned some inconsistencies and repetitions, which the candid reader will pardon. As great care has been taken to admit nothing immoral and indecent, the Editor hopes he need not be ashamed of having bestowed some of his idle hours on the ancient literature of our own country, or in rescuing from oblivion some pieces (though but the amusements of our ancestors) which tend to place in a striking light their taste, genius, sentiments, or manners.

- Except in one paragraph, and in the notes subjoined, this preface is given with little variation from the first edition in MDCCLXV.

NOTES.

1. Chaucer quotes the old romance of “Libius Disconius” and also some others, which are Songs found in this MS. — see the Essay in vol ii. below. It also contains several songs relating to the Civil War in the last century, but not one that alludes to the Restoration. 2. Mr. Addison, Mr. Dryden, and the witty Lord Dorset, Etc.— see the Spectator, No. 70. To these might be added many eminent judges now alive. The learned Selden appears also to have been fond of collecting these old things.—See below. 3. A life of our curious collector, Mr. Pepys, may be seen in “The Continuation of Mr. Collier’s Supplement to his great Dictionary, 1716, at the end of vol. iii. folio. Art. PEP.” 4. Such liberties have been taken with all those pieces which have three asterisks subjoined, thus ***. 5. That the Editor hath not here underrated the assistance he received from his friend, will appear from Mr. Shenstone’s own letter to the Rev. Mr. Graves, dated March 1st, 1761.— See his Works, vol. iii. letter ciii. It is doubtless a great loss to this work that Mr. Shenstone never saw more than about a third of one of these volumes, as prepared for the press. 6. Who informed the Editor that this MS. had been purchased in a library of old books, which was thought to have belonged to Thomas Blount, author of the Jocular Tenures,1679, 4to, and of many other publications enumerated in Wood’s Athena, ii. 73; the earliest of which is The Art of making Devises, 1646, 4to, wherein he is described to be “of the Inner Temple.” If the collection was made by this lawyer (who also published the Law Dictionary, 1671, folio), it should seem, from the errors and defects with which the MS. abounds, that he had employed his clerk in writing the transcripts, who was often weary of his task. 7. To the same learned and ingenious friend, since Master of Emanuel College, the Editor is obliged for many corrections and improvements in his second and subsequent editions; as also to the Rev. Mr. Bowie, of Idmistone, near Salisbury, editor of the curious edition of Don Quixote, with Annotations, In Spanish, in 6 vols. 4to; to the Rev. Mr. Cole, formerly of Blecheley, near Fenny-Stratford, Bucks; to the Rev. Mr. Lambe, of Noreham, in Northumberland (author of a learned History of Chess, 1764, 8vo, and editor of a curious Poem on the Battle of Flodden Field, with learned notes 1774, 8vo); and to G. Paton, Esq., of Edinburgh. He is particularly indebted to two friends, to whom the public, as well as himself, are under the greatest obligations: to the Honourable Danes Barrington, for his very learned and curious Obervations on the Statutes, 4to; and to Thomas Tyrwhitt, Esq., whose most correct and elegant edition of Chancer’s Canterbury Tales, 5 vols. 8vo, is a standard book, and shows how an ancient English classic should be published. The Editor was also favoured with many valuable remarks and corrections from the Rev. Geo. Ashby, late Fellow of St John’s College, in Cambridge, which are not particularly pointed out, because they occur so often. He was no less obliged to Thomas Butler, Esq., F.A.S., agent to the Duke of Northumberland, and Clerk of the Peace for the county of Middlesex, whose extensive knowledge of ancient writings, records, and history has been of great use to the Editor in hie attempts to illustrate the literature or manners of our ancestors. Some valuable remarks were procured by Samuel Legge, Esq., author of that curious work the Curialia, 4to; but this impression was too far advanced to profit by them all; which hath also been the case with a series of learned and ingenious annotations inserted in the Gentleman’s Magazine for August, 1793; April, June, July, and October, 1794; and which it is hoped will be continued. 8. Since keeper of the Records in the Tower.

An Essay On The Ancient Minstrels In England.

I. The MINSTRELS (A)[1] were an order of men in the Middle Ages, who subsisted by the arts of poetry and music, and sang to the harp verses composed by themselves, or others.[2] They also appear to have accompanied their songs with mimicry and action, and to have practised such various means of diverting as were much admired in those rude times, and supplied the want of more refined entertainment (B). These arts rendered them extremely popular and acceptable in this and all the neighbouring countries, where no high scene of festivity was esteemed complete that was not set off with the exercise of their talents, and where, so long as the spirit of chivalry subsisted, they were protected and caressed, because their songs tended to do honour to the ruling passion of the times, and to encourage and foment a martial spirit.

The Minstrels seem to have been the genuine successors of the ancient Bards ©, who, under different names, were admired and revered from the earliest ages among the people of Gaul, Britain, Ireland, and the North, and indeed by almost all the first inhabitants of Europe, whether of Celtic or Gothic race;[3] but by none more than by our own Teutonic ancestors,[4] particularly by all the Danish tribes[5]. Among these they were distinguished by the name of SCALDS, a word which denotes “smoothers and polishers of language[6]. The origin of their art was attributed to ODIN, or WODEN, the father of their gods, and the professors of it were held in the highest estimation. Their skill was considered as something divine; their persons were deemed sacred; their attendance was solicited by kings; and they were everywhere loaded with honours and rewards. In short, Poets and their art were held among them in that rude admiration which is ever shown by an ignorant people to such as excel them in intellectual accomplishments. As these honours were paid to Poetry and Song from the earliest times in those countries which our Anglo-Saxon ancestors inhabited before their removal into Britain, we may reasonably conclude that they would not lay aside all their regard for men of this sort immediately on quitting their German forests. At least, so long as they retained their ancient manners and opinions they would still hold them in high estimation. But as the Saxons, soon after their establishment in this island, were converted to Christianity, in proportion as literature prevailed among them this rude admiration would begin to abate, and poetry would be no longer a peculiar profession. Thus the POET and the MINSTREL early with us became two persons (D). Poetry was cultivated by men of letters indiscriminately, and many of the most popular rhymes were composed amidst the leisure and retirement of monasteries. But the minstrels continued a distinct order of men for many ages after the Norman Conquest, and got their livelihood by singing verses to the harp at the houses of the great (E). There they were still hospitably and respectfully received, and retained manny of the honours shown to their predecessors, the BARDS and SCALDS (F). And though, as their art declined, many of them only recited the compositions of others, some of them still composed songs themselves, and all of them could probably invent a few stanzas on occasion. I have no doubt but most of the old heroic ballads in this collection were composed by this order of men, for although some of the larger metrical romances might come from the pen of the monks or others, yet the smaller narratives were probably composed by the minstrels who sang them. From the amazing variations which occur in different copies of the old pieces, it is evident they made no scruple to alter each other’s productions; and the reciter added or omitted whole stanzas according to his own fancy or convenience. In the early ages, as was hinted above, the profession of oral itinerant Poet was held in the utmost reverence among all the Danish tribes; and therefore we might have concluded that it was not unknown or unrespected among their Saxon brethren in Britain, even if history had been altogether silent on this subject. The original country of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors is well known to have lain chiefly in the Cimbric Chersonese, in the tracts of land since distinguished by the name of Jutland, Angelen, and Holstein[7]. the Jutes and Angles in particular, who composed two-thirds of the conquerors of Britain, were a Danish people, and their country at this day belongs to the crown of Denmark;[8] so that when the Danes again infested England, three or four hundred years after, they made war on the descendants of their own ancestors[9]. From this near affinity we might expect to discover a strong resemblance between both nations in their customs, manners, and even language; and in fact we find them to differ no more than would naturally happen between a parent country and its own colonies, that had been severed in a rude, uncivilized state, and had dropt all intercourse for three or four centuries; especially if we reflect that the colony here settled had adopted a new religion, extremely opposite in all respects to the ancient Paganism of the mother-country; and that even at first, along with the original Angli, had been incorporated a large mixture of Saxons from the neighbouring parts of Germany; and afterwards, among the Danish invaders, had come vast multitudes of adventurers from the more northern parts of Scandinavia. But all these were only different tribes of the same common Teutonic stock, and spoke only different dialects of the same Gothic language.[10] From this sameness of original and similarity of manners we might justly have wondered if a character so dignified and distinguished among the ancient thanes as the Scald or Bard had been totally unknown or unregarded in this sister nation. And indeed this argument is so strong, and at the same time the early annals of the Anglo-Saxons are so scanty and defective (G), that no objections from their silence could be sufficient to overthrow it. For if these popular bards were confessedly revered and admired in those very countries which the Anglo-Saxons inhabited before their removal into Britain, and if they were afterwards common and numerous among the other descendants of the same Teutonic ancestors, can we do otherwise than conclude that men of this order accompanied such tribes as migrated hither; that they afterwards subsisted here, though perhaps with less splendour than in the North; and that there never was wanting a succession of them to hand down the art, though some particular conjunctures may have rendered it more respectable at one time than another? And this was evidently the case. For though much greater honours seem to have been heaped upon the Northern Scalds, in whom the characters of historian, genealogist, poet, and musician were all united, than appear to have been paid to the Minstrels and Harpers (H) of the Anglo-Saxons, whose talents were chiefly calculated to entertain and divert, while the Scalds professed to inform and instruct, and were at once the moralists and theologues of their Pagan countrymen; yet the Anglo-Saxon Minstrels continued to possess no small portion of public favour, and the arts they professed were so extremely acceptable to our ancestors, that the word Glee, which peculiarly denoted their art, continues still in our own language to be of all others the most expressive of that popular mirth and jollity, that strong sensation of delight, which is felt by unpolished and simple minds (I).

II. Having premised these general considerations, I shall now proceed to collect from history such particular incidents as occur on this subject; and, whether the facts themselves are true or not, they are related by authors who lived too near the Saxon times, and had before them too many recent monuments of the Anglo-Saxon nation, not to know what was conformable to the genius and manners of that people; and therefore we may presume that their relations prove at least the existence of the customs and habits they attribute to our forefathers before the Conquest, whatever becomes of the particular incidents and events themselves. If this be admitted, we shall not want sufficient proofs to show that Minstrelsy and Song were not extinct among the Anglo-Saxons, and that the professor of them here, if not quite so respectable a personage as the Danish Scald, was yet highly favoured and protected, and continued still to enjoy considerable privileges.

Even so early as the first invasion of Britain by the Saxons an incident is recorded to have happened which, if true, shows that the Minstrel or Bard was not unknown among this people, and that their princes themselves could, upon occasion, assume that character. Colgrin, son of that Ella who was elected king or leader of the Saxons in the room of Hengist,[11] was shut up in York, and closely besieged by Arthur and his Britons. Badulph, brother of Colgrin, wanted to gain access to him, and to apprize him of a reinforcement which was coming from Germany. He had no other way to accomplish his design but to assume the character of a Minstrel. He therefore shaved his head and beard, and, dressing himself in the habit of that profession, took his harp in his hand. In this disguise he walked up and down the trenches without suspicion, playing all the while upon his instrument as a Harper. By little and little he advanced near to the walls of the city, and making himself known to the sentinels, was in the night drawn up by a rope. Although the above fact comes only from the suspicious pen of Geoffrey of Monmouth (K), the judicious reader will not too hastily reject it, because if such a fact really happened, it could only be known to us through the medium of the British writers: for the first Saxons, a martial but unlettered people, had no historians of their own, and Geoffrey, with all his fables, is allowed to have recorded many true events that have escaped other annalists. We do not, however, want instances of a less fabulous era, and more indubitable authority; for later history affords us two remarkable facts (L), which I think clearly show that the same arts of poetry and song, which were so much admired among the Danes, were by no means unknown or neglected in this sister nation; and that the privileges and honours which were so lavishly bestowed upon the northern Scalds were not wholly withheld from the Anglo-Saxon Minstrels. Our great King Alfred, who is expressly said to have excelled in music,[12] being desirous to learn the true situation of the Danish army, which had invaded his realm, assumed the dress and character of a minstrel (M); when, taking his harp, and one of the most trusty of his friends disguised as a servant[13] (for in the early times it was not unusual for a minstrel to have a servant to carry his harp), he went with the utmost security into the Danish camp; and, thought he could not but be known to be a Saxon by his dialect, the character he had assumed procured him a hospitable reception. He was admitted to entertain the king at table, and stayed among them long enough to contrive that assault which afterwards destroyed them. This was in the year 878. About sixty years after,[14] a Danish king made use of the same disguise to explore the camp of our king Athelstan. With his harp in his hand, and dressed like a minstrel (N), Aulaff,[15] king of the Danes, went among the Saxon tents; and taking his stand near the king’s pavilion, began to play, and was immediately admitted. There he entertained Athelstan and his lords with his singing and his music, and was at length dismissed with an honourable reward, though his songs must have discovered him to have been a Dane (O). Athelstan was saved from the consequences of this stratagem by a soldier, who had observed Aulaff bury the money which had been given him, either from some scruple of honour, or motive of superstition. This occasioned a discovery. Now if the Saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of their own, Alfred’s assuming so new and unusual a character would have excited suspicions among the Danes. On the other hand, if it had not been customary with the Saxons to show favour and respect to the Danish Scalds, Aulaff would not have ventured himself among them, especially on the eve of a battle (P). From the uniform procedure, then, of both these kings we may fairly conclude that the same mode of entertainment prevailed among both people, and that the Minstrel was a privileged character with each. But, if these facts had never existed, it can be proved from undoubted records, that the Minstrel was a regular and stated officer in the court of our Anglo-Saxon kings; for in Domesday-book, Joculator Regis, the King’s Minstrel is expressly mentioned in Gloucestershire; in which county it should seem that he had lands assigned him for his maintenance (Q).

III. We have now brought the inquiry down to the Norman Conquest; and as the Normans had been a late colony from Norway and Denmark, where the Scalds had arrived to the highest pitch of credit before Rollo’s expedition into France, we cannot doubt but this adventurer, like the other northern princes, had many of these men in his train who settled with him in his new duchy of Normandy, and left behind them successors in their art: so that, when his descendant, William the Bastard, invaded this kingdom in the following century,[16] that mode of entertainment could not but be still familiar with the Normans. And that this is not mere conjecture will appear from a remarkable fact, which shows that the arts of Poetry and Song were still as reputable among the Normans in France as they had been among their ancestors in the north; and that the profession of Minstrel, like that of Scald, was still aspired to by the most gallant soldiers. In William’s army was a valiant warrior, named Taillefer, who was distinguished no less for the minstrel arts ® than for his courage and intrepidity. This man asked leave of his commander to begin the onset, and obtained it. He accordingly advanced before the army, and with a loud voice animated his countrymen with songs in praise of Charlemagne and Roland, and other heroes of France; then rushing among the thickest of the English, and valiantly fighting, lost his life.

Indeed, the Normans were so early distinguished for their minstrel-talents, that an eminent French writer (S) makes no scruple to refer to them the origin of all modern poetry, and shows that they were celebrated for their songs near a century before the Troubadours of Provence, who are supposed to have led the way to the poets of Italy, France, and Spain.[17] We see, then, that the Norman Conquest was rather likely to favour the establishment of the minstrel profession in this kingdom, than to suppress it: and although the favour of the Norman conquerors would be probably confined to such of their own countrymen as excelled in the minstrel arts; and in the first ages after the Conquest no other songs would be listened to by the great nobility, but such as were composed in their own Norman-French; yet as the great mass of the original inhabitants were not extirpated, these could only understand their own native Gleemen or Minstrels, who must still be allowed to exist, unless it can be proved that they were all proscribed and massacred, as, it is said, the Welsh Bards were afterwards by the severe policy of King Edward I. But this we know was not the case; and even the cruel attempts of that monarch, as we shall see below, proved ineffectual(S2). The honours shown to the Norman or French Minstrels by our princes and great barons, would naturally have been imitated by their English vassals and tenants, even if no favour or distinction had ever been shown here to the same order of men in the Anglo-Saxon and Danish reigns. So that we cannot doubt but the English Harper and Songster would, at least in a subordinate degree, enjoy the same kind of honours, and be received with similar respect, among the inferior English gentry and populace. I must be allowed, therefore, to consider them as belonging to the same community, as subordinate members at least of the same college; and therefore, in gleaning the scanty materials for this slight history, I shall collect whatever incidents I can find relating to minstrels and their art, and arrange them, as they occur in our own annals, without distinction; as it will not be always easy to ascertain, from the slight mention of them by our regular historians, whether the artists were Norman or English. For it need not be remarked, that subjects of this trivial nature are but incidentally mentioned by our ancient annalists, and were fastidiously rejected by other grave and serious writers; so that, unless they were accidentally connected with such events as became recorded in history, they would pass unnoticed noticed through the lapse of ages, and be as unknown to posterity as other topics relating to the private life and amusements of the greatest nations. On this account it can hardly be expected that we should be able to produce regular and unbroken annals of the minstrel art and its professors, or have sufficient information whether every minstrel or harper composed himself, or only repeated the songs he chanted. Some probably did the one, and some the other; and it would have been wonderful indeed, if men whose peculiar profession it was, and who devoted their time and talents to entertain their hearers with poetical compositions, were peculiarly deprived of all poetical genius themselves, and had been under a physical incapacity of composing those common popular rhymes which were the usual subjects of their recitation. Whoever examines any considerable quantity of these, finds them in style and colouring as different from the elaborate production of the sedentary composer at his desk or in his cell, as the rambling harper or minstrel was remote in his modes of life and habits of thinking from the retired scholar or the solitary monk (T). It is well known that on the Continent, whence our Norman nobles came, the bard who composed, the harper who played and sang, and even the dancer and the mimic, were all considered as of one community, and were even all included under the common name of Minstrels[18]. I must therefore be allowed the same application of the term here, without being expected to prove that every singer composed, or every composer chanted, his own song; much less that every one excelled in all the arts which were occasionally exercised by some or other of this fraternity.

IV. After the Norman Conquest, the first occurrence which I have met with relating to this order of men is the founding of a priory and hospital by one of them; scil. the Priory and Hospital of St. Bartholomew, in Smithfield, London, by Royer or Raherus, the King’s Minstrel, in the third year of King Henry I., A.D. 1102. He was the first Prior of his own establishment, and presided over it to the time of his death (T2).

In the reign of King Henry II. we have upon record the name of Galfrid, or Jeffrey, a harper, who in 1180 received a corrody, or annuity, from the abbey of Hide, near Winchester; and, as in the early times every harper was expected to sing, we cannot doubt but this reward was given to him for his music and his songs; which, if they were for the solace of the monks there, we may conclude would be in the English language (U). Under his romantic son, King Richard I., the minstrel profession seems to have acquired additional splendour. Richard, who was the great hero of chivalry, was also the distinguished patron of poets and minstrels. He was himself of their number, and some of his poems are still extant.[19] They were no less patronized by his favourites and chief officers. His Chancellor, William Bishop of Ely, is expressly mentioned to have invited singers and minstrels from France, whom, he loaded with rewards; and they in return celebrated him as the most accomplished person in the world (U2). This high distinction and regard, although confined perhaps in the first instance to poets and songsters of the French nation, must have had a tendency to do honour to poetry and song among all his subjects, and to encourage the cultivation of these arts among the natives; as the indulgent favour shown by the monarch or his great courtiers to the Provencal Troubadour, or Norman Rymour, would naturally be imitated by their inferior vassals to the English Gleeman or Minstrel. At more than a century after the Conquest, the national distinctions must have begun to decline, and both the Norman and English languages would be heard in the houses of the great (U3); so that probably about this era, or soon after, we are to date that remarkable intercommunity and exchange of each other’s compositions, which we discover to have taken place at some early period between the French and English Minstrels; the same set of phrases, the same species of characters, incidents, and adventures, and often the same identical stories, being found in the old metrical romances of both nations (V). The distinguished service which Richard received from one of his own minstrels, in rescuing him from his cruel and tedious captivity, is a remarkable fact, which ought to be recorded for the Honour of poets and their art. This fact I shall relate in the following words of an ancient writer[20]:— “The Englishmen were more than a whole yeare without hearing any tydings of their King, or in what place he was kept prisoner. He had trained up in his court a Rimer or Minstrill,[21] called Blondel de Nesle, who (so saith the manuscript of Old Poesies[22]; and an auncient manuscript French Chronicle) being so long without the sight of his Lord, his life seemed wearisome to him, and he became confounded with melancholly. Knowne it was that he came backe from the Holy Land; but none could tell in what countrey he arrived. Whereupon this Blondel, resolving to make search for him in many countries, but he would heare some newes of him; after expense of divers dayes in travaile, he came to a towne[23] (by good hap) neere to the castell where his maister King Richard was kept. Of his host he demanded to whom the castell appertained, and the host told him that it belonged to the Duke of Austria. Then he enquired whether there were any prisoners therein detained or no; for alwayes he made such secret questionings wheresoever he came. And the hoste gave answer, there was one onely prisoner, but he knew not what he was, and yet he had bin detained there more than the space of a yeare. When Blondel heard this, he wrought such meanes, that he became acquainted with them of the castell, as Minstrels doe easily win acquaintance any where[24] but see the king he could not, neither understand that it was he. One day he sat directly before a window of the castell, where King Richard was kept prisoner, and began to sing a song in French, which King Richard and Blondel had sometime composed together. When King Richard heard the song, he knew it was Blondel that sung it; and when Blondel paused at halfe of the song, the King began the other half, and completed it.[25] Thus Blondel won knowledge of the King his maister, and returning home into England, made the Barons of the countrie acquainted where the King was.” This happened about the year 1193. The following old Provencal lines are given as the very original song;[26] which I shall accompany with an imitation offered by Dr. Burney, ii. 237:—

BLONDEL.

Domna vostra beutas Elas bellas faissos Els bels oils amoros Els gens cors ben taillats Don sieu empresenats De vostra amor que mi lia.

Your beauty, lady fair, None views without delight; But still so cold an air No passion can excite: Yet this I patient see While all are shunn’d like me.

RICHARD.

Si bel trop affansia Ja de vos non portrai Que major honorai Sol en votre deman Que sautra des beisan Tot can de vos volria.

No nymph my heart can wound If favour she divide, And smiles on all around Unwilling to decide: I’d rather hatred bear Than love with others share.

The access which Blondel so readily obtained in the privileged character of a Minstrel, is not the only instance upon record of the same nature (V2). In this very reign of King Richard I., the young heiress of D’Evreux, Earl of Salisbury, had been carried abroad and secreted by her French relations in Normandy. To discover the place of her concealment, a knight of the Talbot family spent two years in exploring that province, at first under the disguise of a Pilgrim; till having found where she was confined, in order to gain admittance he assumed the dress and character of a Harper, and being a jocose person, exceedingly skilled in “the Gests of the antients”[27] (so they called the romances and stories which were the delight of that age), he was gladly received into the family. Whence he took an opportunity to carry off the young lady, whom he presented to the king; and he bestowed her on his natural brother, William Longespee (son of fair Rosamond), who became in her right Earl of Salisbury (V3). The next memorable event which I find in history reflects credit on the English minstrels: and this was their contributing to the rescue of one of the great Earls of Chester, when besieged by the Welsh. This happened in the reign of King John, and is related to this effect.[28] Hugh, the first Earl of Chester, in his charter of foundation of St. Werburg’s Abbey in that city, had granted such a privilege to those who should come to Chester fair, that they should not be then apprehended for theft or may other misdemeanour, except the crime were committed during the fair. This special protection occasioning a multitude of loose people to resort to that fair, was afterwards of signal benefit to one of his successors. For Ranulph, the last Earl of Chester, marching into Wales with a slender attendance, was constrained to retire to his castle of Rothelan (or Rhuydland), to which the Welsh forthwith laid siege. In this distress he sent for help to the Lord de Lacy, Constable of Chester: “Who, making use of the Minstrel’s of all sorts, then met at Chester fair; by the allurement of their musick, got together a vast number of such loose people, as, by reason of the before specified priviledge, were then in that city; whom he forthwith sent under the conduct of Dutton (his steward),” a gallant youth, who was also his son-in-law. The Welsh, alarmed at the approach of this rabble, supposing then to be a regular body of armed and disciplined veterans, instantly raised the siege and retired. For this good service, Ranulph is said to have granted to De Lacy, by charter, the patronage and authority over the minstrels and the loose and inferior people: who, retaining to himself that of the lower artificers, conferred on Dutton the jurisdiction of the minstrels and harlots:[29] and under the descendants of this family the minstrels enjoyed certain privileges and protection for many ages. For even so late as the reign of Elizabeth, when this profession had fallen into such discredit that it was considered in law as a nuisance, the minstrels under the jurisdiction of the family of Dutton are expressly excepted out of all acts of parliament made for their suppression; and have continued to be so excepted ever since (W). The ceremonies attending the exercise of thus jurisdiction are thus described by Dugdale,[30] as handed down to his time, viz. “That at midsummer fair there, all the Minstrels of that countrey resorting to Chester do attend the heir of Dutton, from his lodging to St. John’s church (he being then accompanied by many gentlemen of the countrey), one of ‘the Minstrels’ walking before him in a surcoat of his arms depicted on taffeta; the rest of his fellows proceeding (two and two) and playing on their several sorts of musical instruments. And after divine service ended, give the like attendance on him back to his lodging; where a cover being kept by his [Mr. Dutton’s] steward, and all the Minstrels formally called, certain orders and laws are usually made for the better government of that Society, with penalties on those who transgress.” In the same reign of King John we have a remarkable instance of a minstrel, who to his other talents superadded the character of Soothsayer, and by his skill in drugs and medicated potions was able to rescue a knight from imprisonment. This occurs in Leland’s Narrative of the GESTES of Guarine (or Warren) and his sons, which he “excerptid owte of an olld Englisch boke yn ryme,”[31] and is as follows:- Whitington Castle in Shropshire, which together with the coheiress of the original proprietor had been won in a solemn turnament by the ancestor of the Guarines,[32] had, in the reign of King John, been seized by the Prince of Wales, and was afterwards possessed by Morice, a retainer of that prince, to whom the king, out of hatred to the true heir, Falco Guarine (with whom he had formerly had a quarrel at chess[33]), not only confirmed the possession, but also made him governor of the Marches, of which Fulco himself had the custody in the time of King Richard. The Guarines demanded justice of the king, but obtaining no gracious answer, renounced their allegiance and fled into Britagne. Returning into England, after various conflicts, “Fulco resortid to one John of Raumpayne, a Sothsayer and Jocular and Minstrelle, and made hym his spy to Morice at Whitington.” The privileges of this character we have already seen, and John so well availed himself of them, that in consequence of the intelligence which he doubtless procured, “Fulco and his brethtrene laide waite for Morice, as he went toward Salesbyri, and Fulco then wounded hym: and Bracy,” a knight, who was their friend and assistant, “cut off Morice[‘s] hedde.” This Sir Bracy being in a subsequent rencounter sore wounded, was taken and brought to King John; from whose vengeance he was, however, rescued by this notable minstrel; for “John Rampayne founde the meanes to cast them, that kepte Bracy, into a deadely slepe; and so he and Bracy cam to Fulco to Whitington,” which on the death of Morice had been restored to him by the Prince of Wales. As no further mention occurs of the minstrel, I might here conclude this narrative; but I shall just add, that Falco was obliged to flee into France, where, assuming the name of Sir Amice, he distinguished himself in justs and turnaments; and, after various romantic adventures by sea and land, having in the true style of chivalry rescued “certayne ladies owt of prison,” he finally obtained the king’s pardon, and the quiet possession of Whitington Castle. In the reign of King Henry III. we have mention of Master Ricard, the king’s harper, to whom in his thirty-sixth year (1252) that monarch gave not only forty shillings and a pipe of wine, but also a pipe of wine to Beatrice his wife[34]. The title of Magister, or Master, given to this minstrel, deserves notice, and shows his respectable situation.

V. The Harper, or Minstrel, who was so necessary an attendant on a royal personage, that Prince Edward (afterwards King Edward I.), in his crusade to the Holy Land, in 1271, was not without his harper, who must have been officially very near his person; as we are told by a contemporary historian[35] that, in the attempt to assassinate that heroic prince, when he had wrested the poisoned knife out of the Sarazen’s hand, and killed him with his own weapon; the attendants, who had stood apart while he was whispering to their master, hearing the struggle, ran to his assistance, and one of them, to wit, his harper, seizing a tripod, or trestle, struck the assassin on the head and beat out his brains.[36] And though the prince blamed him for striking the man after he was dead, yet his near access shows the respectable situation of this officer; and his affectionate zeal should have induced Edward to entreat his brethren, the Welsh bards, afterwards with more lenity.

Whatever was the extent of this great monarch’s severity towards the professors of music and of song in Wales; whether the executing by martial law such of them as fell into his hands was only during the heat of conflict, or was continued afterwards with more systematic rigour;[37] yet in his own court the minstrels appear to have been highly favoured; for when, in 1306, he conferred the order of knighthood on his son and many others of the young nobility, a multitude of minstrels were introduced to invite and induce the new knights to make some military vow (X). Under the succeeding reign of King Edward II. such extensive privileges were claimed by these men, and by dissolute persons assuming their character, that it became a matter of public grievance, and was obliged to be reformed by an express regulation in A.D. 1315 (Y). Notwithstanding which, an incident is recorded in the ensuing year, which shows that minstrels still retained the liberty of entering at will into the royal presence, and had something peculiarly splendid in their dress. It is thus related by Stowe (Z): “In the year 1310, Edward the Second did solemnize his feast of Pentecost at Westminster, in the great hall: where sitting royally at the table with his peers about him, there entered a woman adorned like a Minstrel, sitting on a great horse trapped, as Minstrels then used; who rode round about the tables, shewing pastime; and at length came up to the King’s table and laid before him a letter, and forthwith turning her horse, saluted every one and departed.” The subject of this letter was a remonstrance to the king on the favours heaped by him on his minions, to the neglect of his knights and faithful servants. The privileged character of a minstrel was employed on this occasion, as sure of gaining an easy admittance; and a female the rather deputed to assume it, that, in ease of detection, her sex might disarm the king’s resentment. This is offered on a supposition that she was not a real minstrel; for there should seen to have been women of this profession (AA), as well as of the other sex; and no accomplishment is so constantly attributed to females, by our ancient bards, as their singing to, and playing on, the harp (AA2). In the fourth year of King Richard II., John of Gaunt erected at Tutbury, in Staffordshire, a Court of Minstrels, similar to that annually kept at Chester, and which, like a Court-Leet or Court- Baron, had a legal jurisdiction, with full power to receive suit and service from the men of this profession within five neighbouring counties, to enact laws and determine their controversies; and to apprehend and arrest such of them as should refuse to appear at the said court, annually held on the 10th of August. For this they had a charter, by which they were empowered to appoint a King of the Minstrels, with four officers to preside over them (BB). These were every year elected with great ceremony; the whole form of which, as observed in 1680, is described by Dr. Plot:[38] in whose time, however, they appear to have lost their singing talents, and to have confined all their skill to wind and string music.[39] The minstrels seem to have been in many respects upon the same footing as the heralds; and the King of the Minstrels, like the King- at-Arms, was both here and on the continent an usual officer in the courts of princes. Thus we have in the reign of King Edward I. mention of a King Robert, and others. And in 16 Edward II. is a grant to William de Morlee, “the King’s Minstrel, styled Roy de North”[40], of houses which had belonged to another king, John le Boteler (BB2). Rymer hath also printed a licence granted by King Richard II. in 1387, to John Caumz, the King of his Minstrels, to pass the seas, recommending him to the protection and kind treatment of all his subjects and allies.[41] In the subsequent reign of King Henry IV. we meet with no particulars relating to the Minstrels in England, but we find in the Statute Book a severe law passed against their brethren, the Welsh Bards; whom our ancestors could not distinguish from their own Rimours, Minstralx; for by these names they describe them (BB3). This act plainly shows, that far from being extirpated by the rigorous policy of Ring Edward I., this order of men were still able to alarm the English Government, which attributed to them “many diseases and mischiefs in Wales,” and prohibited their meetings and contributions. When his heroic son, King Henry V., was preparing his great voyage for France, in 1415, an express order was given for his minstrels, fifteen in number, to attend him[42] and eighteen are afterwards mentioned, to each of whom he allowed xiid. a-day, when that sum must have been of more than ten times the value it is at present.[43] Yet when he entered London in triumph after the battle of Agincourt, he, from a principle of humility, slighted the pageants and verses which were prepared to hail his return; and, as we are told by Holingshed,[44] would not suffer “any Dities to be made and song by Minstrels, of his glorious victorie; for that he would whollie have the praise and thankes altogether given to God” (BB4). But this did not proceed from any disregard for the professors of music or of song; for at the feast of Pentecost, which he celebrated in 1410, having the Emperor and the Duke of Holland for his guests, he ordered rich gowns for sixteen of his minstrels, of which the particulars are preserved by Rymer.[45] And having before his death orally granted an annuity of 100 shillings to each of his minstrels, the grant was confirmed in the first year of Isis son King Henry VI., A.D. 1428, and payment ordered out of the Exchequer.[46] The unfortunate reign of King Henry VI. affords no occurrences respecting our subject; but in his thirty-fourth year, A.D. 1456, we have in Rymer[47] a commission for impressing boys or youths, to supply vacancies by death among the king’s minstrels: in which it is expressly directed that they shall be elegant in their limbs, as well as instructed in the minstrel art, wherever they can be found, for the solace of his majesty. In the following reign, King Edward IV. (in his ninth year, 1409), upon a complaint that certain rude husbandmen and artificers of various trades had assumed the title and livery of the king’s minstrels, and under that colour and pretence had collected money in divers parts of the kingdom, and committed other disorders, the king grants to Walter Holiday, Marshal, and to seven others his own minstrels, whom he names, a Charter,[48] by which he creates, or rather restores, a Fraternity or perpetual Gild (such as, he understands, the brothers and sisters of the fraternity of Minstrels had in times past), to be governed by a Marshal, appointed for life, and by two Wardens, to be chosen annually; who are empowered to admit brothers and sisters into the said Gild, and are authorized to examine the pretentions of all such as attempted to exercise the minstrel profession; and to regulate, govern, and punish them throughout the realm (those of Chester excepted). This seems to have some resemblance to the Earl Marshal’s court among the Heralds, and is another proof of the great affinity and resemblance which the Minstrels bore to the members of the College of Arms. It is remarkable that Walter Holiday, whose name occurs as Marshal in the foregoing Charter, had been retained in the service of the two preceding Monarchs, King Henry V.[49] and VI.[50] Nor is this the first time he is mentioned as Marshal of the king’s minstrels, for in the third year of this reign, 1464, he had a grant from King Edward of ten marks per annum during life, directed to him with that title.[51] But besides their Marshal, we have also in this reign mention of a Serjeant of the Minstrels, who upon a particular occasion was able to do his royal master a singular service, wherein his confidential situation and ready access to the king at all hours is very apparent: for “as he [King Edward IV.] was in the north contray in the mooneth of Septembre, as he lay in his bedde, one named Alexander Carlile, that was Sariaunt of the Mynstrellis, cam to him in grete hast, and badde hym aryse, for he hadde enemyes cummyng for to take him, the which were within vi. or vii. mylis, of the which tydinges the king gretely marveylid,”[52] &c. this happened in the sane year, 1460, wherein the king granted or confirmed the Charter for the Fraternity or Gild above mentioned: yet this Alexander Carlile is not one of the eight minstrels to whom that Charter is directed.[53] The same Charter was renewed by King Henry VIII. in 1520, to John Gilman, his then Marshal, and to seven others his minstrels:[54] and on the death of Gilman, he granted in 1520 this office of Marshal of his Minstrels to Hugh Wodehouse,[55] whom I take to have borne the office of his Serjeant over them.[56]

VI. In all the establishments of royal and noble households, we find an ample provision made for the Minstrels, and their situation to have been both honourable and lucrative. In proof of this it is sufficient to refer to the Houshold-Book of the Earl of Northumberland, A.D. 1512 (CC). And the rewards they received so frequently recur in ancient writers, that it is unnecessary to crowd the page with them here (CC2).

The name of Minstrel seems, however, to have been gradually appropriated to the Musician only, especially in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; yet we occasionally meet with applications of the term in its more enlarged meaning, as including the Singer, if not the Composer, of heroic or popular rhymes.[57] In the time of King Henry VIII. we find it to have been a common entertainment to hear verses recited, or moral speeches learned for that purpose, by a set of men who got their livelihood by repeating them, and who intruded without ceremony into all companies; not only in taverns, but in the houses of the nobility themselves. This we learn from Erasmus, whose argument led him only to describe a species of these men who did not sing their compositions; but the others that did, enjoyed, without doubt, the same privileges (DD). For even long after, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it was usual “in places of assembly” for the company to be “desirous to heere of old adventures and valiaunces of noble knights in times past, as those of King Arthur and his knights of the round-table, Sir Bevys of Southampton, Guy of Warwicke, and others like,” in “short and long meetres, and by breaches or divisions (sc. FITS)[58], to be more commodiously sung to the harpe,” as the reader may be informed, by a courtly writer, in 1589.[59] Who himself had “written for pleasure, a little brief Romance or historicall Ditty . . . of the Isle of Great Britaine,” in order to contribute to such entertainment. And he subjoins this caution: “Such as have not premonition hereof” (viz. that his poem was written in short metre, &c., to be sung to the harp in such places of assembly) “and consideration of the causes alleged, would peradventure reprove and disgrace every Romance, or short historical ditty, for that they be not written in long meeters or verses Alexandrins,” which constituted the prevailing versification among the poets of that age, and which no one now can endure to read. And that the recital of such romances, sung to the harp, was at that time the delight of the common people, we are told by the same writer,[60] who mentions that “common Rimers” were fond of using rhymes at short distances, “in small and popular Musickes song by these Cantabanqui” [the said common rhymers,] “upon benches and barrels’ heads,” &c., “or else by blind Harpers, or such like Taverne Minstrels, that give a FIT of mirth for a groat; and their matter being for the most part stories of old time, as the tale of Sir Topas, the reportes of Bevis of Southampton, Guy of Warwieke, Adam Bell and Clymme of the Clough, and such other old romances, or historicall rimes,” &c.; “also they be used in Carols and Rounds, and such like or lascivious Poemes, which are commonly more commodiously uttered by these Buffons, or Vices, in Playes, then by any other person. Such were the rimes of Skelton (usurping the name of a Poet Laureat), being in deede but a rude railing rimer, and all his doings ridiculous.”[61] But although we find here that the Minstrels had lost much of their dignity, and were sinking into contempt and neglect: yet that they still sustained a character far superior to anything we can conceive at present of the singers of old ballads, I think may he inferred from the following representation. When Queen Elizabeth was entertained at Killingworth Castle by the Earl of Leicester in 1575, among the many devices and pageants which were contrived for her entertainment, one of the personages introduced was to have been that of an ancient Minstrel; whose appearance and dress are so minutely described by a writer there present,[62] and give us so distinct an idea of the character, that I shall quote the passage at large (EE). “A Person very meet seemed he for the purpose, of a xlv years old, apparelled partly as he would himself. His cap off; his head seemly rounded Tonsterwise[63]; fair kembed, that with a sponge daintily dipt in a little capon’s greace, was finely smoothed, to make it shine like a mallard’s wing. His beard smugly shaven; and yet his shirt after the new trink, with ruffs fair starched, sleeked and glistering like a pair of new shoes, marshalled in good order with a setting stick, and strut, that every ruff stood up like a wafer. A side [i.e. long] gown of Kendal green, after the freshness of the year now, gathered at the neck with a narrow gorget, fastened afore with a white clasp and a keeper close up to the chin; but easily, for heat to undo when he list. Seemly begirt in a red caddis girdle; from that a pair of capped Sheffield knives hanging a’ two sides. Out of his bosom drawn forth a lappet of his napkin,[64] edged with a blue lace, and marked with a true love, a heart, and a D for Damian, for he was but a bachelor yet. “His gown had side [i.e. long] sleeves down to mid-leg, slit from the shoulder to the hand, and lined with white cotton. His doublet-sleeves of black worsted: upon them a pair of poynets, [65] of tawny chamlet laced along the wrist with blue threaden points, a wealt towards the hand of fustian-a-napes. A pair of red neather stocks. A pair of pumps on his feet, with a cross cut at the toes for corns; not new indeed, yet cleanly blackt with soot, and shining as a shoing horn. “About his neck a red ribband suitable to his girdle. His wrest,[66] tied to a green lace and hanging by. Under the gorget of his gown a fair flaggon chain (pewter[67] for) silver, as a Squire Minstrel of Middlesex, that travelled the country this summer season, unto fairs and worshipful mens houses. From his chain hung a scutchon, with metal and colour, resplendant upon his breast of the ancient arms of Islington.” This minstrel is described as belonging to that village. I suppose such as were retained by noble families wore the arms of their patrons hanging down by a silver chain[68] as a kind of badge. From the expression of Squire Minstrel above, we may conclude there were other inferior orders, as Yeomen Minstrels, or the like. This minstrel, the author tells us a little below, “after three lowly courtsies, cleared his voice with a hem… and… wiped his lips with the hollow of his hand for ‘filing his napkin, tempered a string or two with his wrest, and after a little warbling on his Harp for a prelude, came forth with a solemn song, warranted for story out of King Arthur’s acts,” &c.— This song the reader will find printed in this work, vol. ii. book ii. no. 3. Towards the end of the sixteenth century this class of men had lost all credit and were sunk so low in the public opinion, that in the 39th year of Elizabeth[69] a statute was passed, by which “Minstrels, wandering abroad,” were included among “rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars,” and were adjudged to be punished as such. This act seems to have put an end to the profession (EE2).

VII. I cannot conclude the account of the ancient English Minstrels, without remarking that they are most of them represented to have been of the North of England. There is scarce an old historical song or ballad (FF) wherein a minstrel or harper appears, but he is characterized, by way of eminence, to have been “of the North Countrye:”[70] and indeed the prevalence of the northern dialect in such compositions shows that this representation is real.[71] On the other hand, the scene of the finest Scottish ballads is laid in the south of Scotland, which should seem to have been peculiarly the nursery of Scottish minstrels. In the old song of Maggy Lawder, a piper is asked, by way of distinction, “Come ze frae the Border?”[72] The martial spirit constantly kept up and exercised near the frontier of the two kingdoms, as it furnished continual subjects for their songs, so it inspired the inhabitants of the adjacent counties on both sides with the powers of poetry. Besides, as our southern metropolis must have been ever the scene of novelty and refinement, the northern countries, as being most distant, would preserve their ancient manners longest, and of course the old poetry, in which those manners are peculiarly described.

The reader will observe in the more ancient ballads of this collection, a caste of style and measure very different from that of contemporary poets of a higher class; many phrases and idioms, which the minstrels semi to have appropriated to themselves, and a very remarkable licence of varying the accent of words at pleasure, in order to humour the flow of the verse, particularly in the rhymes; as

Countrěe harpčr battčl mňrning Laděe singčr damsčl lověng

instead of coůntry, lŕdy, hŕrper, sěnger, &c. This liberty is but sparingly assumed by the classical poets of the same age, or even by the latter composers of heroical ballads; I mean, by such as professedly wrote for the press. For it is to be observed, that so long as the minstrels subsisted, they seem never to have designed their rhymes for literary publication, and probably never committed them to writing themselves: what copies are preserved of them were doubtless taken down from their mouths. But as the old Minstrels gradually wore out, a new race of Ballad-writers succeeded, an inferior sort of minor poets, who wrote narrative songs merely for the press. Instances of both may be found in the reign of Elizabeth. The two latest pieces in the genuine strain of the old minstrelsy that I can discover are nos. iii. and iv. of book iii. in this volume. Lower than these I cannot trace the old mode of writing.

The old minstrel ballads are in the northern dialect, abound with antique words and phrases, are extremely incorrect, and run into the utmost licence of metre; they have also a romantic wildness, and are in the true spirit of chivalry. The other sort are written in stricter measure, have a low or subordinate correctness, sometimes bordering on the insipid, yet often well adapted to the pathetic; these are generally in the southern dialect, exhibit a more modern phraseology, and are commonly descriptive of more modem manners. To be sensible of the difference between them, let the reader compare in this volume No. iii. of book iii. with No. xi. of book ii. Towards the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign (as is mentioned above) the genuine old minstrelsy seems to have been extinct, and thenceforth the ballads that were produced were wholly of the latter kind, and these came forth in such abundance, that in the reign of James I. they began to be collected into little miscellanies, under the name of Garlands, and at length to be written purposely for such collections (FF 2). P.S. By way of Postscript, should follow here the discussion of the question whether the term Minstrels was applied in English to Singers, and Composers of Songs, &c., or confined to Musicians only. But it is reserved for the concluding note (GG).

NOTES 1. The larger notes and illustrations referred to by the letters (A) (B), &c., are to be found in the following section “NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS”. 2. Wedded to no hypothesis, the Author hath readily corrected any mistakes which have been proved to be in this Essay; and considering the novelty of the subject, and the time and place when and where he first took it up, many such had been excusable.— That the term minstrel was not confined, as some contend, to a mere musician in this country, any more than on the Continent, will be considered more fully in the last note (GG) in the following section “NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS”.. 3. Vide Pelloutier, Hist. des Celtes, tom. 1, l. 2, c. 6, 10. 4. Tacit. de Mor. Germ. cap. 2. 5. Vide Bartholin. De Causis contemptć a Danis Mortis, lib. i. cap. 10.— Wormij. Literatura Runic, ad finem.— See also “Northern Antiquities, or a Description of the Manners, Customs, &c., of the ancient Danes and other Northern Nations: from the French of M. Mallet.” London, printed for T. Carnan, 1770, 2 vols. 8vo. 6. Torfći, Prćfat. ad Orcad. Hist.— Pref. to “Five Pieces of Runic Poetry,” &c. 7. Vide Chronic. Saxon. ŕ Gibson, pp. 12, 13, 4to. —Bed. Histat. Eccles. ŕ Smith, lib. i. c. xv. —”Ealdsexe [Regio antiq. Saxonum] in cervice Cimbricć Chersonesi, Holstiam proprić dictam, Dithmasriam, Stormariam, et Wagriam, complectens.” Annot. in Bed. ŕ Smith, p. 52. Et vide Camdeni Britann. 8. Anglia Vetus, hodie etiam Anglen, sita est inter Saxones et Giotes [Jutos], habens oppidum capitale . . . Slesvic.” — Ethelwerd. lib i. 9. See Northern Antiquities, &c., vol. i. pp. 7, 8, 185, 259, 260,

261.

10. Ibid. Preface, p. xxvi. 11. See Rapin’s Hist. (by Tindal, fol. 1732, vol. 1, p. 36), who places the incident here related under the year 495. 12. By Bale and Spelman. — See note (M). 13. ibid. 14. Anno 938.—Vide Rapin, &c. 15. So I think the name should be printed, rather than Anlaff, the more usual form (the same traces of the letters express both names in MS.), Aulaff being evidently the genuine Northern name Olaff, or Olave, Lat. Olaus. In the old Romance of Horn-Childe, the name of the king his father is Allof, which is evidently Ollaf, with the vowels only transposed. 16. Rollo was invested in his new duchy of Normandy A.D. 912. William invaded England A.D. 1066. 17 Vide Hist. des Troubadours, 3 tom. passim; and vide Fableaux ou Contes des XII. et du XIII. Sičcle, traduits, &c., avec des Notes historiques et critiques, &c., par M. Le Grand, Paris, 1781. 5 tom. 12mo. 18. See notes (B) and (AA). 19. See a pathetic Song of his in Mr. Walpole’s Catalogue of Royal Authors, vol. i. p. 5. The reader will find a translation of it into modern French in Hist. Litteraire des Troubadours, 1774, 3 tom. 12mo. See vol. i. p. 58, where some more of Richard’s poetry is translated. In Dr. Burney’s Hist. of Music, vol. ii. p. 238, is a poetical version of it in English. 20. Mons. Favine’s Theatre of Honour and Knighthood, translated from the French. Lond. 1622, fol. tom. ii. p. 49. An elegant relation of the same event (from the French of Presid. Fauchet’s “Recueil,” &c,) may be seen in “Miscellanies in Prose and Verse by Anna Williams, Lond. 1766.” 4to, p. 46. It will excite the reader’s admiration to be informed that most of the pieces of that collection were composed under the disadvantage of a total deprivation of sight. 21. Favine’s words are, “Jongleur appelé Blondiaux de Nesle” (Paris, 1620, 4to, p. 110.) But Fauchet who has given the same story, thus expresses it. “Or ce roy ayant nourri un Menestrel appelé Blondel”, &c., liv. ii p. 92. “Des Anciens poetčs François.” He is however said to have been another Blondel, not Blondel (or Blondiaux) de Nesle; but this no way affects the cirsumstances of the story. 22. This the author or calls in another place “An ancient MS. of old Poesies, written about those very times.” — From this MS. Favine gives a good account of the taking of Richard by the Duke of Austria, who sold him to the emperor. As for the MS. chronicle, it is evidently the same that supplied Pauchet with this story. See his “Recueil de l’Origine de la langue et Poesie Francoise, Ryme, et Romans;” &c. Par. 1581. 23. Tribales.— “Retrudi cum prćcepit in Triballis: a quo carcere nullus ante dies istos exivit”—Lat. Chron. of Otho of Austria: apud Favin. 24. “Comme Menestrels s’accointent legerement.”—Favine. (Fauchet expresses it in the same manner.) 25. I give this passage corrected; as the English translator of Favine’s book appeared here to have mistaken the original —Scil. “Et quant Blondel eut dit la moitie de la Chanson, le Roy Richert se prist a dire l’autre moitie et l’acheva.”—Favine, p. 1106. Fauchet has also expressed it in nearly the same words—Recueil. p. 93. 26. In a little romance or novel, titled, “La Tour Tenebreuse, et les Jours Lumineux, Contes Angloises, accompagnez d’Histoirettes, & tirez d’une ancienne Chronique composee par Richard, surnomme Cur de Lion, Roy d’Angleterre,” &c. Paris, 1705, 12mo.— In the preface to this romance the editor has given another song of Blondel de Nestle, as also a copy of the song written by King Richard, and published by Mr. Walpole, mentioned above; yet the two last are not in Provençal like the sonnet printed here; but in the old French, called Langage Roman. 27. The words of the original, viz. “Citharisator homo jocosus in GESTIS antiquorum valde peritus,” I conceive to give the precise idea of the ancient Minstrel. — See note (V 2). That Gesta was appropriated to romantic stories, see note (I) part iv. 28. See Dugdale (Bar. i. 42, 101), who places it after 13 John, A.D. 1212.— See also Plot’s Staffordsh. Camden’s Britann. (Cheshire ) 29. See the ancient record in Blount’s Law Dictionary. (Art. Minstrel.) 30. Bar. i. p. 101. 31. Leland’s Collectanea, vol. i. pp. 261, 266, 267.3 32. This old feudal custom of marrying an heiress to the knight who should vanquish all his opponents in solemn contest, &c., appears to be burlesqued in the Turnament of Totenham (see below), as is well observed by the learned author of Remarks, &c., in Gent. Mag. for July, 1794, p. 613. 33. “John, sun to King Henry, and Fulco felle at variance at Chestes [r. Chesse]; and John brake Fulco’[s] hed with the Chest borde: and then Fulco gave him such a blow, that he had almost killid hym.”— Lel. Coll. i, p. 264. A curious picture of courtIy manners in that age! Notwithstanding this fray, we read in the next paragraph, that “King Henry dubbid Falco & 3 of hie brethrene Knightes at Winchester:”—Ibid. 34. Burney’s Hist. ii. p. 355.— Rot. Pip. An. 36 H. III. “Et in uno dollo vini empto & dato MAGISTRO RICARDO Citharistć Regis, xl. sol. per br. Reg. Et in uno dollo empto & dato Beatrici uxori ejusdem Ricardi ” 35. Walter Hemmingford (vixit temp. Edw. I.) in Chronic. cap. 35, inter V. Hist. Aug. Scriptores, vol. ii. Oxon. 1657, fol. p. 591. 36. “Accurrentes ad hćc Ministri ejus, qui a longe steterunt, invenerunt eum [scil. Nuntium] in terra mortuum, et apprehendit unus eorum tripodum, scilicet CITHAREDA SUUS, & percussit eum in capite, et effundit cerebrum ejus. Increpavitque eum Edwardus quod hominem mortuum percussisset.” Ibid. These Ministri must have been upon a very confidential footing, as it appears above in the same chapter, that they had been made acquainted with the contents of the letters which the assassin had delivered to the prince from his master. 37. See Gray’s Ode; and the Hist. of the Gwedir Family in “Miscellanies by the hon. Daines Barrington,” 1751, 4to, p. 336; who in the Laws, &c., of this monarch, could find no instances of severity against the Welsh.— See his Observations on the Statutes, 4to, 4th edit. p. 358. 38. Hnst. of Staffordshire, ch. 10, § 69-76, p. 433, et seqq. of which see extracts in Sir J. Hawkins’ Hist. of Music, vol. ii. p. 14; and Dr. Burney’s Hist., vol. ii. p. 360, et seqq.

N.B. The barbarous diversion of bull-running was no part of the original institution, &c., as is fully proved by the Rev. Dr. Pegge, in Archćologia, vol. ii. no. xiii. p. 86. 39. See the charge given by the steward, at the time of the election, in Plot’s hist. ubi supra: and in Hawkins, p. 67, Burney, p. 363-4. 40. So among the heralds Norrey was anciently styled Roy d’Armes de North.— Anstis, ii, 300. And the Kings at Armes in general were originally called Reges Heraldorum (ibid. p. 302), as these were Reges Minstrallorum. 41. Rymer’s Fdera, tom. vii. p. 555. 42. Rymer’s Fdera, tom. ix. 255. 43. Ibid. p. 260. 44. See his chronicle, sub anno 1415 (p. 1170). He also gives this other instance of the king’s great modesty, “that he would not suffer his helmet to be carried with him, and shew’d to the people, that they might behold the dintes and cuttes whiche appeared in the same, of such blowes and stripes as hee received the daye of the batell:”— Ibid. Vid. T. de Elmham, c. 29, p. 72. The prohibition against vain and secular songs would probably not include that inserted in our first vol., For the Victory at Agincourt,. which would be considered a a hymn. The original notes engraven on the plate before the poem, may be seen reduced and set to score in Mr. Stafford Smith’s “Collection of English Songs for three and four voices,” and in Dr. Burney’s Hist. of Music, ii. p. 384. 45. Tom. ix. 336. 46. Rymer, tom. x. 287. They are mentioned by name, being ten in number; one of them was named Thomas Chatterton. 47. Tom. xi. 375. 48. See it in Rymer, tom. xi. 642, and Sir J. Hawkins, vol. iv. p. 366, note. The above Charter is recited in letters patent of King Carles I., 15 July (11 anno regni), for a Corporation of Musicians, &c., in Westminster, which may be seen, ibid. 49. Rymer, ix. 255. 50. Ibid. xi. 375. 51. Ibid. xi. 512. 52. Here unfortunately ends a curious fragment (an. 9 E. IV.), ad calcem Sprotti Chron. ed. Hearne, Oxon. 1719, 8vo. Vide’ T. Warton’s Hist. ii. p. 134. Note ©. 53 Rymer, xi. 642. 54. Ibid. xii. 705. 55. Ibid. tom. xiv. 2, 93. 56. So I am inclined to understand the term SERVIENS noster Hugo Wodehous, in the original grant — See Rymer, ubi supra. It is needless to observe that Serviens expressed a Sergeant as well as a Servant. If this interpretation of Serviens be allowed, it will account for his placing Wodehouse at the head of his Gild, although he had not been one of the eight minstrels who had had the general direction. The Serjeant of his Minstrels, we may presume, was next in dignity to the Marshal, although he had no share in the government of the Gild. 57. See below, and Note (GG). 58. See notes to The Beggar’s daughter of Bednal-Green, below. 59. Puttenham in his Arte of English Poesie, 1589, 4to, p. 33. See the quotation in its proper order in notes to The Beggar’s daughter of Bednal-Green, below . 60. Puttenham, &c. p. 69. (ibid.) 61. Tottenham, &c. p. 69. 62. See a very curious “Letter: whearein, part of the entertainment untoo the Queenz Maiesty, at Killingwoorth Castle, In Warwick Sheer, in this soomers Progress 1575, iz signified,” &c. bl. l. 4to, vid. p. 46, &seqq. (Printed in Nichols’s collection of Queen Elizabeth’s Progresses, &c., in 2 vols, 4to.) We have not followed above the peculiar and affected orthography of this writer, who was named Ro. Laneham, or rather Langham. 63. I suppose “tonsure-wise,” after the manner of the monks. 64. i.e. handkerchief. So in Shakspeare’s Othello, passim. 65. Perhaps, points. 66. The key, or screw, with which he tuned his harp. 67. The reader will remember that this was not a real minstrel, but only one personating that character; his ornaments therefore were only such as outwardly represented those of a real minstrel. 68. As the house of Northumberland had anciently three minstrels attending on them in their castles in Yorkshire,so they still retain three in their service in Northumberland, who wear the badge of the family (a silver crescent on the right arm) and are thus istributed, viz.— One for for the barony of Prudhoe, and two for the barony of Rothbury. These attend the court-leets and fairs held for thelord, and pay their annual suit and service at Alnwick castle: their instrument being the ancient Northumberland bag-pipe (very different in form and execution from that of the Scots; being smaller, and blown, not with the breath, but with a small pair of bellows.) This with many other venerable customs of the ancient Lord Percys, was revived by theit illustrious representatives the late Duke and Duchess of Northumberland. 69. Anno Dom. 1597. Vid. Pult. Stat. p. 1110, 39 Eliz. 70. See King Estmere, &c. 71. Giraldus Cambrensis, writing in the reign of King Henry II., mentions a very extraordinary habit or propensity, which then prevailed in the north of England, beyond the Humber, for “symphonious harmony “or singing “in two parts, the one murmuring in the base, and the other warbling in the acute or treble.” (I use Dr. Burney’s version, vol. ii. p. 108.) This he describes as practised by their very children from the cradle; and he derives it from the Danes [so Daci signifies in our old writers] and Norwegians, who long overran and in effect new-peopled the northern parts of England, where alone this manner of singing prevailed.— Vide Cambrić Descriptio, cap. 13, and in Burney, ubi supra. Giraldus is probably right as to the origin or derivation of this practice, for the Danish and Icelandic Scalds had carried the arts of Poetry and Singing to great perfection at the time the Danish settlements were made in the North. And it will also help to account for the superior skill and fame of our northern minstrels and harpers afterwards, who had preserved and transmitted the arts of their Scaldic ancestors.— See Northern Antiquities, vol. i. p. 13, p. 386, and Fine Pieces of Runic Poetry, 1703, 8vo. Compare the original passage in Giraldus, as given by Sir John Hawkins, i. 408, and by Dr. Burney, ii. 108, who are both at a loss to account for this peculiarity, and therefore doubt the fact. The credit of Giraldus, which hath been attacked by some partial and bigoted antiquaries, the reader will find defended in that learned and curious work, “Antiquities of Ireland, by Edward Ledwich, LL.D. &c., of Dublin, 1790,” 4to, p. 207, & seqq. 72. This line being quoted from memory, and given as old Scottish poetry is now usually printed (see Note at the end of the Glossary), would have been readily corrected by the copy published in “Scottish Songs,” 1794, 2 vols. 12mo, i. p. 267, thus (though apparently corrupted from the Scottish idiom),

“Live you upo’ the Border?”

had not all confidence been destroyed by its being altered in the”Historical Essay”prefixed to that publication (p. cx.) to

“Ye live upo’ the Border,”

the better to favour a position, that many of the Pipers “might live upon the border, for the conveniency of attending fairs, &c., in both kingdoms.” But whoever is acquainted with that part of England, knows that on the English frontier, rude mountains and barren wastes reach almost across the island, scarcely inhabited by any but solitary shepherds, many of whom durst not venture into the opposite border on account of the ancient feuds and subsequent disputes concerning the Debatable Lands, which separated the boundaries of the two kingdoms, as well as the estates of the two great families of Percy and Douglas, till these disputes were settled, not many years since, by arbitration between the present Lord Douglas and the late Duke and Duchess of Northumberland.

Notes and Illustrations Referred to in the Foregoing Essay. (A) The Minstrels, &c.] The word Minstrel does not appear to have been in use here before the Nornian Conquest; whereas it had long before that time been adopted in France.[1] MENESTREL, so early as the eighth century, was a title given to the Maestro di Capella of K. Pepin, the father of Charlemagne; and afterwards to the Coryphćus, or leader of any band of musicians. [Vide Burney’s Hist. of Music, ii. 268.] This term Menestrel, Menestrier, was thus expressed in Latin, Ministellus, Ministrellus, Ministrallus, Menesterellus, &c. [Vide Gloss. Du Cange, & Supplem]

Menage derives the French words above mentioned from Ministerialis or Ministeriarius, barbarous Latin terms, used in the Middle Ages to express a workman or artificer (still called in Languedoc Ministral), as if there men were styled ARTIFICERS or PEERFORMERS by way of excellence.— Vide Diction. Etym. But the origin of the name is given perhaps more truly by Du Cange: MINISTELLI . . . quos vulgo Menestreux vel Menestriers appellamus, quod minoribus aulć Ministris accenserentur,” [Gloss. iv. p. 769.] Accordingly, we are told, the word Minister is sometimes used pro Ministellus [ibid.], and as instance is produced which I shall insert at large in the next paragraph. Minstrels sometimes assisted at divine service, as appears from the record of the 9th of Edward IV., quoted above, by which Haliday and others are erected into a perpetual Gild, &c.— See the original in Rymer, xi. 642. By part of this record it is recited to be their duty “to pray (exorare: which it is presented they did by assisting in the chant, and musical accompaniment, &c.) in the King’s chapel, and particularly for the departed souls of the King and Queen, when they shall die,” &c. The same also appears from the passage in the Supplem. to Du Cange, alluded to above. “MINISTER . . . pro Ministellus Joculator.”[2] — Vetus Ceremoniale MS. B. M. deauratć Tolos. “Item, etiam congregabuntur Piscatores, qui debent interesse isto die in processione cum Ministris seu Joculatoribus: quia ipsi Piscatores tenentur habere iste die Joculatores, seu Mimos, ob honorem Crucis — et vadunt primi ante processionem cum Ministris seu Joculatoribus semper pulsantibus usque ad Ecclesiam S. Stephani.” [Gloss. 773.] This may perhaps account for the clerical appearance of the Minstrels, who seem to have been distinguished by the Tonsure, which was one of the inferior marks of the clerical character[3] Thus Geoffrey of Monmouth, speaking of one who acted the part of a Minstrel, says, “Rasit capillos suos et barbam].” (See note K.) Again, a writer in the reign of Elizabeth, describing the habit of an ancient Minstrel, speaks of his head as “rounded Tonster-wise” (which I venture to read Tonsure-wise), “his beard smugly shaven.” — See above. It must, however, be observed, that notwithstanding such clerical appearance of the Minstrels, and though they might be sometimes countenanced by such of the clergy as were of more relaxed morals, their sportive talents rendered them generally obnoxious to the more rigid ecclesiastics, and to such of the religious orders as were of more severe discipline; whose writings commonly abound with heavy complaints of the great encouragement shown to those men by the princes and nobles, and who can seldom afford them a better name than that of Scurrć Famelici, Nebulones, &c., of which innumerable instances may be seen in Du Cange. It was even an established order in some of the monasteries, that no Minstrel should ever be suffered to enter the gates[4]. We have, however, innumerable particulars of the good cheer and great rewards given to the Minstrels in many of the convents, which are collected by T. Warton (i. 91, &c.) and others. But one instance, quoted from Wood’s Hist. Antiq. Univ. Ox. i. 67 (sub an. 1224), deserves particular mention. Two itinerant priests, on a supposition of their being Mimi or Minstrels, gained admittance. But the cellarer, sacrist, and others of the brethren, who had hoped to have been entertained by their diverting arts, &c., when they found them to be only two indigent ecclesiastics, who could only administer spiritual consolation, and were consequently disappointed of their mirth, beat them and turned them out of the monastery. (Ibid. p. 92.) The passage furnishes an additional proof that a minstrel might, by his dress or appearance, be mistaken for an ecclesiastic.

(B) The Minstrels use mimickry and action, and other means of diverting, &c.] It is observable, that our old monkish historians do not use the words Cantator, Citharćdus, Musicus, or the like, to express a Minstrel in Latin, so frequently as Mimus, Histrio, Joculator, or some other word that implies gesture. Hence it might be inferred, that the Minstrels set off their songs with all the arts of gesticulation, &c.; or, according to the ingenious hypothesis of Dr. Brown, united the powers of melody, poem, and dance.— See his History of the Rise of Poetry, &c.

But indeed all the old writers describe them as exercising various arts of this kind. Joinville, in his Life of St. Lewis, speaks of some Armenian Minstrels, who were very dexterous tumblers and posture-masters. “Avec le Prince vinrent trois Menestriers de la Grande Hyermenie (Armenia). . . et avoint trois cors.— Quand ils encommenceoient a corner, vous dissiez que ce sont les voix de cygnes, . . . et fesoient les plus douces melodies.— Ils fesoient trois marveilleus saus, car on leur metoit une touaille desous les piez, et tournoient tout debout. . . Les Deux tournoient les testes arieres,” &c.— See the extract at large, in the Hon. D. Barrington’s Observations on the Anc. Statutes, 4to, 2d edit. p. 273, omitted in the last impression. This may also account for that remarkable clause in the press- warrant of Henry VI., “De Ministrallis propter solatium Regis providendis,” by which it is required, that the boys, to be provided “in arte Ministrallatus instructos,” should also be “membris naturalibus elegantes.” (Observ. on the Anc. Stat. 4th edit. p. 337.) Although by Minstrel was properly understood, in English, one who sung to the harp, or some other instrument of music, verses composed by himself or others, yet the term was also applied by our old writers to such as professed either music or singing separately, and perhaps to such as practised any of the sportive arts connected with these[5]. Music, however, being the leading idea, was at length peculiarly called Minstrelsy, and the name of Minstrel at last confined to the musician only. In the French language all these arts were included under the general name of Menestraudie, Menestraudise, Jonglerie, &c. [Med. Lat. Menestelloram Ars, Ars Joculatoria, &c.]—”On peut comprendre sous le nom de Jonglerie tout cc qui appartient aux anciens chansonniers Provenceaux, Normands, Picards, &c. Le corps de la Jonglerie etoit forme des Trouveres, ou Troubadours, qui composoient les chansons, et parmi lesquels it y avoit des Improvisateurs, comme on en trouve et Italie; des Chanteurs, ou Chanteres, qui executoient ou chantoient ces compositions; des Conteurs qui faisoient en vers ou en prose les contes, les recits, les histoires; des Jongleurs ou Menestrels qui accompagnoient de leurs instruments.— L’art de ces Chantres ou Chansonniers, etoit nommé la Science Gaie, Gay Saber.” (Pref. Anthologie Franc. 1765, 8vo, p.17.)— See also the curious Fauchet (De l’Orig. de la Lang. Fr. p. 72, c.), “Bientost apres la division de ce grand empire Francois en tant de petites royaumes, duchez, et comtez, au lieu des Poetes commencerent a se faire cognoistre les Trouverres, et, Chanterres, Contëours, et Juglëours: qui sont Trouveurs, Chantres, Conteurs, Jongleurs, ou Jugleurs, c’est a dire, Menestriers chantans avec la viole.” We see, then, that Jongleur, Jugleur (Lat. Joculator, Juglator), was a peculiar name appropriated to the Minstrels. “Les Jongleurs ne faisoient que chanter les poesies sur leurs instruments. On les appelloit aussi Menestrels: “says Fontenelle, in his Hist. du Théat. Franc., prefixed to his life of Corneille.

(c) Successors of the ancient Bards.] That the Minstrels in many respects bore a strong resemblance both to the British Bards and to the Danish Scalds, appear from this, that the old monkish writers express them all, without ditinction, by the same names in Latin. Thus Geoffrey of Monmouth, himself a Welshman, speaking of an old pagan British king, who excelled in singing and music so far as to be esteemed by his countrymen the patron deity of the Bards, uses the phrase Deus Joculatorum; which is the peculiar name given to the English and French Minstrels.[6] In like manner, William Malmesbury, speaking of a Danish king’s assuming the profession of a Scald, expresses it by Professus Mimum; which was another same given to the Minstrels in Middle Latinity.(N) Indeed Du Cange, in his Glossary, quotes a writer, who positively asserts that the Minstrels of the Middle Ages were the same with the ancient Bards. I shall give a large extract from this learned glossographer, as he relates many curious particulars concerning the profession and arts of the Minstrels; whom, after the monks, he stigmatizes by the name of Scurrć; though he acknowledges their songs often tended to inspire virtue.

“Ministelli, dicti prćsertim Scurrć, Mimi, Joculatores.” . . . “Ejusmodi Scurrarum munus erat principes non suis duntaxat ludricis oblectare, sed et eorum aures variis avorum, adeoque ipsorum principum laudibus, non sine assentatione, cum cantilenis et musicis instrumentis demulcere . . . “Interdum etiam virorum insignium et heroum gesta, aut explicatar et jocunda narratione commemorabant, aut suavi vocis inflexione, fidibusque decantabant, quo sic dominorum, cćterorumque qui his intererant ludicris, nobilium animus ad virtutem capessendam, et summorum virorum, imitationem, accenderent: quod fuit olim apud Gallus Bardorum ministerium, ut auctor est Tacitus. Neque enim alios a Ministellis, veterum Gallorum Bardos fuisse pluribus probat Henricus Valesius ad 15 Ammiani . . . Chronicon Bertrandi Guesclini.

“Qui vent avoir renom des bons et des vaillans Il doit aler souvent a la pluie et au champs Et estre en la bataille, ainsy que fr Rollans, Les Quatre fils Haimon, et Charlon li plus grans, Li du Lions de Bourges, et Gulons de Connans, Perceval li Galois, Lancelot, et Tristans, Alexandres, Artus, Godfroi li Sachans, De quoy cils MENESTRIERS font los nobles ROMANS.”

“Nicolaus de Braia describens solenne convivum, quo post inaugurationem suam proceres excepit Lud. VIII. rex Francorum, ait inter ipsius convivii apparatum, in medium prodiisse Mimum, qui regis laudes ad cytharam decantavit.” Our author then gives the lines at length, which begin thus,

“Dumque fovent genium geniali munere Bacchi, Hectare commixto curas removente Lyćo Principis a facie, citharć celeberrimus arte Assurgit Mimus, ars musica quem decoravit. Hic ergo chorda resonante subintulit ista: Inclyte rex regum, probitatis, stemmate vernans Quem vigor et virtus extollit in ćthera famć,” &c.

The rest may be seen in Du Cange, who thus proceeds, “Mitto reliqua similia, ex quibus omnino patet ejusmodi Mimorum et Ministellorum cantilenas ad virtutem principes excitasse . . . Id prćsertim in pugnć precinctu, dominis suis occinebant, ut martium ardorem in eorum animus concitarent: cujusmodi cantum Cantilenum Rollandi appellat Wil. Malmesb. lib. 3.— Aimoinus, lib. 4. de Mirac. S. Bened. c. 37. ‘Tanta vero illis securitas… ut Scurram se precedere facerent, qui musico instrumento res fortiter gestas et priorum bella prćcineret, quatenus his acrius incitarentur.” &c. As the writer was a monk, we shall not wonder at his calling the minstrel scurram. This word scurra, or some one similar, is represented in the Glossaries as the proper meaning of Leccator, (Fr. Leccour,) the ancient term by which the Minstrel appears to be expressed in the grant to Dutton, quoted above. On this head I shall produce a very curious passage, which is twice quoted in Du Ganges’s Glossary (sc. ad verb. Menestellus et ad verb. Lecator)—”Philippus Mouskes in Philip. Aug. fingit Carolum M. Provincie comitatum Scurris et Mimis suis olim donasse, indeque postea tantum in lute regione poetarum munerum excrevisse.

“Quar quant li buens Rois Karlemaigne Ot toute mise a son demaine Provence, qui mult iert plentive De vins, de bois, d’aigue, derive, As LECCOURS, as MENESTREUS Qui sont auques luxurieus Le donna toute et departi.”

(D) The Poet and the Minstrel early with us became two persons.] The word Scald comprehended both characters among the Danes, nor do I know that they had any peculiar name for either of them separate. But it was not so with the Anglo-Saxons. They called a poet Sceop, and Leodhthyhta: the last of these comes from Leodh, a song; and the former answers to our old word Maker (Gr. ??????? [Poietes]), being derived from Scippan or Sceopan, formare, facere, fingere, creare (Ang. to shape). As for the Minstrel, they distinguished him by the peculiar appellation of Lligman, and perhaps by the more simple title of Hearpere, Harper. [See below, Notes (H) (I).] This last title, at least, is often given to a Minstrel by our most ancient English rhymists.— See in this work, King Estmere, Glasgerion, &c.

(E) Minstrels . . . at the houses of the great, &c.] Du Cange affirms, that in the Middle Ages the courts of princes swarmed so much with this kind of men, and such large sums were expended in maintaining and rewarding them, that they often drained the royal treasuries: especially, he adds, of such as wore delighted with their flatteries (“prasertim qui ejusmodi Ministellorum assentationibus delectabantur.”) He then confirms his assertion by several passages out of monastic writers, who sharply inveigh against this extravagance. Of these I shall here select only one or two, which show what kind of rewards were bestowed on these old Songsters.

“Rigordus de Gestis Philippi Aug. ann. 1185. Cum in curiis regum seu aliorum principum, frequens turba Histrionum convenire soleat, ut ab eis aurum, argentum, equos, seu vestes,[7] quos persćpe mutare consueverunt principes, ab eis extorqueant, verba joculatoria variis adulationibus plena proferre nituntur. Et ut magis placeant, quicquid de ipsis principibus probabiliter fingi potest, videlicet omnes delitias et lepores, et visit dignas urbanitates et cćteras ineptias, trutinantibus buccis in medium eructere non erubescunt. Vidimus quondam quosdam principes, qui vestes diu excogitatas, et variis forum picturationibus artificiose elaboratas, pro quibus forsan 20 vel 30 marcas argenti consumpserant, vix revolutis septem diebus, Histrionibus, ministris diaboli, ad primam vocem dedisse,” &c. The curious reader may find a similar, though at the same time a more candid account, in that most excellent writer, Presid. Fauchet (Recueil de la Lang. Fr. p. 73), who says that, like the ancient Greek ‘?????? [Aoidoi], “Nos Trouverres, ainsi que ceux la, prenans leur subject sur les faits des vaillans (qu’ils appelloyent Geste, versant de Gesta Latin) alloyent . . . par les tours rejouir les Princes.. Remportans des grandes recompences des seigneurs, qui bien souvent leur donnoyent jusques aux robes qu’ils avoyent vestues: et lesquelles ces Jugleours ne failloyent de porter aux autres cours, ŕ fin d’inviter les seigneurs a pareille liberalité. Ce qui a duré si longuement qu’il me souvient avoit veu Martin Baraton (ja viel Menestrier d’Orleans), lequel aux festes et nopees batoit un tabourin d’argent, semé des plaques aussi d’argent, gravees des armoiries de ceux a qui il avoit appris a danser:” — Here we see that a minstrel sometimes performed the function of a dancing-master. Fontenello even gives us to understand that these men were often rewarded with favours of a still higher kind. “Les princesses et les plus grandee dames y joignoient souvent leurs favours. Elles etoient fort foibles contres les beaux esprits.”— Hist. du Théat. We are not to wonder, then, that this profession should be followed by men of the first quality, particularly the younger sons and brothers of great houses. “Tel qui par les partages de sa famille n’avoit que la moitié ou le quart d’une vieux chateaux bien seigneurial, alloit quelque temps courir le monde en rimant, et revenoit acquerir le reste de Chateau.”— Fontanelle, Hist. du Théat. We see, then, that there was no improbable fiction in those ancient songs and romances, which are founded on the story of minstrels being beloved by kings’ daughters, &c., and discovering themselves to be the sons of some sovereign prince, &c.

(F) The honours and rewards lavished upon the Minstrels were not confined to the Continent. Our own countryman, Johannes Sarisburiensis (in the time of Henry II.) declaims no less than the monks abroad, against the extravagant favour shown to these men. “Non enim more nugatorum ejus seculi in Histriones et Mimos, et hujusmodi monstra hominum, ob fames redemptionem et dilatationem nominis effunditis opus vestras,” &c. [Epist. 247.][8]

The monks seem to grudge every act of munificence that was not applied to the benefit of themselves and their convents. They therefore bestow great applauses upon the Emperor Henry, who, at his marriage with Agnes of Poictou, in 1044, disappointed the poor Minstrels, and sent them away empty. “Infinitam Histrionum et Joculatornm multitudinem sine cibo et muneribus vacuam et mrentem abire permisit”— Chronic. Virtziburg. For which I doubt not but he was sufficiently stigmatized in the songs and ballads of those times.— Vid. Du Cange, Gloss. tom. iv. p. 771, &c.

(G) The annals of the Anglo-Sarons are scanty and defective.] Of the few histories now remaining that were written before the Norman Conquest, almost all are such short and naked sketches and abridgments, giving only a concise and general relation of the more remarkable events, that scarce any of the minute circumstantial particulars are to be found in them; nor do they hardly ever descend to a description of the customs, manners, or domestic economy of their Countrymen. The Saxon Chronicle, for instance, which is the best of them, and upon some accounts extremely valuable, is almost such an epitome as Lucius Floras and Eutropius have left us of the Roman history. As for Ethelward, his book is judged to be an imperfect translation of the Saxon Chronicle;[9] and the Pseudo- Asser, or Chronicle of St. Neot, is a poor, defective performance. How absurd would it be, then, to argue against the existence of customs or facts, from the silence of such scanty records as these! Whoever would carry his researches deep into that period of history, might safely plead the excuse of a learned writer, who had particularly studied the Ante-Norman historians. “Conjecturis (licet nusquam verisimili fundamento) aliquoties indulgemus . . . utpote ab Historicis jejune nimis et indiligenter res nostras tractantibus coacti . . . Nostri . . . nuda factorum commemoratione plerumque contenti, reliqua omnia, sive ob ipsarum rerum, sive meliorum literarum, sive Historicorum officii ignorantiam, fere intacta prćtereunt.”— Vide plura in Prćfat. ad Ćlfr. Vitam ŕ Spelman. Ox. 1678, fol.

(H) Minstrels and Harpers.] That the Harp (Cithara) was the common musical instrument of the Anglo-Saxon, might be inferred from the very word itself, which is not derived from the British, or any other Celtic language, but of genuine Gothic original, and current among every branch of that people, viz. Ang: Sax. Hearpe, Hearpa. Iceland, Harpa, Haurpa. Dan. and Belg. Harpe. Germ. Harpffe, Harpffa. Gal. Harpe. Span. Harpa. Ital. Arpa. [Vid. Jun. Etym.—Menage Etym., Sec.] As also from this, that the word Hearpe is constantly used, in the Anglo-Saxon versions, to express the Latin words Citharo, Lyra, and even Cymbalum; the word Psalmus itself being sometimes translated Hearp Sang, Harp Song. [Glos. Jun. R. apud Lye Anglo-Sax. Lexic.]

But the fact itself is positively proved by the express testimony of Bede, who tells us that it was usual at festival meetings for this instrument to be handed round, and each of the company to sing to it in his turn.— See his Hist. Eccles. Anglor. lib. iv. c. 24, where, speaking of their sacred poet Cćdmon, who lived in the times of the Heptarchy (ob. circ. 680), He says:— “Nihil unquam frivoli et supervacui poematis facere potuit; sed ea tantummode, quo ad religionem pertinent, religiosam ejus linguam decebant. Siquidem in habitu sćculari, usque ad tempera provectioris ćtatis eo nonnunquam in convivio, cum esset lćtitić causa decretum ut omnes per ordinem cantare deberent, ille ubi appropinquare sibi citharam cernebat, surgebat a media cna, et egressus, ad suam domum repedebat.” I shall now subjoin King Alfred’s own Anglo-Saxon translation of this passage, with a literal interlineary English version.

“He.. nćfre noht leasunga, ne ideles leodhes thyrcean ne mihte. ac He.. never no leasings, nor idle songs compose ne might; but lo! erne dha an dha dhe to ćfestnese belumpon 7 his dha ćfestan only those things which to religion [piety] belong, and his then pious tungan gedafenode singan: Mćs he se man in theorolt hade tongue became to sing: He was the [a] man in worldly [secular] state Geseted odh dha tide dhe he thćr of gelyfedre ylde 7 he nćfne set to the time in which he was of an advanced age; and he never ćnig leoth geleornode. 7 he fothron oft in ge beorscithe, dhnne dhćr any song learned. And he therefore OFT in an entertainment, when there thćs blisse intinga gedemed th hi ealle sceoldan dhuph was for merriment-sake adjudged [or decreed] that they ALL should through endebyrdnesse be hearpan singan. dhonne he geseah dha hearpan him their turns by [to the] HARP SING; when he saw the HARP him nealćcan. Dhonne aras he for sceome fran dham symle, 7 home eode approach, then arose he FOR SHAME from the supper, and home yode [went] to his huse.” to his house.

Bed. Hist. Eccl. ŕ. Smith, Cantab. 1722, fol. p. 597. In this version of Alfred’s it is observable, (1) that he has expressed the Latin word cantare by the Anglo-Saxon words “be hearpan syngan,” sing to the harp, as if they were synonymous, or as if his countrymen had no idea of singing unaccompanied with the harp:(2) that when Bede simply says, surgebat a media cćna, he assigns a motive, “aras for sceome,” arose for shame: that is, either from an austerity of manners, or from his being deficient in an accomplishment which so generally prevailed among his countrymen.

(I) The word Glee, which peculiarly denoted their art &c.] This word Glee is derived from the Anglo-Saxon Ligg [Gligg], Musica, Music, Minstrelsy (Somn.). This is the common radix, whence arises such a variety of terms and phrases relating to the minstrel art, as affords the strongest internal proof, that this profession was extremely common and popular here before the Norman Conquest. Thus we have

I

(1) Llith [Gliw], Mimus, a Minstrel Lligman, gligmon, gliman, [Glee-man[10]], Histrio, Mimus, Pantomimus; all common names in Middle Latinity for a Minstrel: and Sommer accordingly renders the original by a Minstrel, a Player on a Timbrel or Taber. He adds, a Fidler, but although the Fythel or Fiddle was an ancient instrument, by which the Jogelar or Minstrel sometimes accompanied his song (see Warton, i. 17), it is probable that Somner annexes here only a modern sense to the word, not having at all investigated the subject. Llummen, glugmen [Glee-men]. Histriones, Minstrels. Hence Lligmanna-yppe. Orchestra vel Pulpitus. The place where the Minstrels exhibited their performances.

(2) But their most proper and expressive name was Llithhleothriend. Musicus, a Minstrel; and Llithhleothriendlica. Musicus, Musical These two words include the full idea of the minstrel character, expressing at once their music and singing, being compounded of Llith, Musicus, Mimus, a Musician, Minstrel, and Leodh, Carmen, a song.

(3) From the above word Lligg, the profession itself was called Lligcrćft [Glig- or Glee-craft]. Musica, Histronia, Mimica, Gesticulatio: which Somner rightly gives in English, Minstrelsy, Mimical Gesticulation, Mummery. He also adds, Stage-playing; but here again I think he substitutes an idea too modern, induced by the word Histrionia, which in Middle Latinity only signifies the minstrel art.

However, it should seem that both mimical gesticulation and a kind of rude exhibition of characters were sometimes attempted by the old minstrels: but

(4) As musical performance was the leading idea, so Lliothian, Cantus musicos edere; and Lligbeam, glithbeam [Llig- or Glee-beam]. Tympanum: a Timbrel or Taber. (So Somn.) Hence Llythian. Tympanum pulsare; and Llith-meden, Llythiende-maden [Glee-maiden]. Tympanistria: which Somnor renders a She-Minstrel; for it should seem that they had females of this profession: one name for which was also Llythbydenestra.

(5) Of congenial derivation to the foregoing, is Llythc [Glywc]. Tibia, a Pipe or Flute. Both this and the common radix, Lligg, are with great appearance of truth derived by Junius from the Icelandic Gliggur, Flatus: as supposing the first attempts at music among our Gothic ancestors, were from wind-instruments.— Vide Jun. Etym. Ang. V. Glee.

II

But the Minstrels, as is hinted above, did not confine themselves to the mere exercise of their primary arts of music and song, but occasionally used many other modes of diverting. Hence, from the above root was derived, in a secondary sense,

(1) Lleo, and thinsum glith. Facetić. Lleothian, jocari; to jest, or be merry: (Somn.) and Lleothiend, jocans; jesting, speaking merrily: (Somn.) Lligman also signified Jocista, a Jester. Llig-gamen [Glee-games], joci. Which Somner renders Merriments, or Merry Jests, or Tricks, or Sports; Gamboles.

(2) Hence, again, by a common metonymy of the cause for the effect, Llie, gaudium, alacritas, lćtitia, facetić; Joy, Mirth, Gladness, Cheerfulness, Glee [Somner]. Which last application of the word still continues, though rather in a low debasing sense.

III.

But however agreeable and delightful the various arts of the Minstrels might be to the Anglo-Saxon laity, there is reason to believe that, before the Norman Conquest at least, they were not much favoured by the clergy, particularly by those of monastic profession. For, not to mention that the sportive talents of these men would be considered by those austere ecclesiastics as tending to levity and licentiousness, the Pagan origin of their art would excite in the monks an insuperable prejudice against it. The Anglo-Saxon Harpers and Gleemen were the immediate successors and imitators of the Scandinavian Scalds, who were the great promoters of Pagan superstition, and fomented that spirit of cruelty and outrage in their countrymen, the Danes, which fell with such peculiar severity on the religious and their convents. Hence arose a third application of words derived from Llig, Minstrelsy, in a very unfavourable sense, and this chiefly prevails in books of religion and ecclesiastic discipline. Thus:

(1) Llig, is Ludibrium, laughing to scorn. [11] So in S. Basil. Regul. 11, Hi hćfdon him to glige halthende minegunge. Ludibrio habebant salutarem ejus admonitionem (10). This sense of the word was perhaps not ill-founded; for as the sport of rude uncultivated minds often arises from ridicule, it is not improbable but the old Minstrels often indulged a vein of this sort, and that of no very delicate kind. So again, Llig-man was also used to signify Scurra, a saucy Jester. (Somn.) Llig-georn. Dicax, Scurriles jocos supra quam par est amans. Officium Episcopale, 3. Llithian. Scurrilibus oblectamentis indulgere: Scurram agere. Canon. Edgar, 58.

(2) Again, as the various attempts to please, practised by an order of men who owed their support to the public favour, might be considered by those grave censors as mean and debasing: Hence came from the same root, Llither. Parasitus, Assentator; a Fawner, a Togger, a Parasite, a Flatterer(Somn.)[12]

IV.

To return to the Anglo-Saxon word Llig; notwithstanding the various secondary senses in which this word (as we have seen above) was so early applied: yet The derivative Glee (though now chiefly used to express merriment and joy) long retained its first simple meaning, and is even applied by Chaucer to signify music and minstrelsy.—Vide Jun. Etym.

“For though that the best harper upon live Would on the beste sounid jolly harpe That evir was, with all his fingers five Touch aie o string, or aie o warble harpe, Were his nailes poincted never so sharpe It shoulde makin every wight to dull To hears is GLEE, and of his strokes ful.” Troyl. lib. ii. 1030.

Junius interprets Glees by Musica Instrumenta, in the following passages of Chaucer’s Third Boke of FAME:—

“. . Stoden . . the castell all aboutin Of all manner of Mynstrales And Jestours that tellen tales Both of wepyun and of game, And of all that longeth unto fame; There herde I play on a harpe That sowned both well and sharpe Hym Orpheus full craftily; And on this syde fast by Sate the harper Orion; And Eacides Chirion; And other harpers many one, And the Briton Glaskyrion.”

After mentioning these, the great masters of the art, he proceeds:

“And small Harpers with her Glees Sat under them in divers sees.”

* * * * * Again, a little below, the poet having enumerated the performers on all the different sorts of instruments, adds,

“There sawn I syt in other sees Playing upon other sundry Glees Which that I cannot neven[13] More than stares ben in heven,” &c.

Upon the above lines I shall only make a few observations:

(1) That by Jestours, I suppose we are to understand Gestours; scil. the relaters of Gests (Lat. Gesta), or stories of adventures both comic and tragical, whether true or feigned; I am inclined to add, whether in prose or verse. [Compare the record below, in note subjoined to (V 2).] Of the stories in prose, I conceive we have specimens in that singular book the Gesta Romanorum, and this will account for its seemingly improper title. These were evidently what the French called Conteours, or Story Tellers, and to them we are probably indebted for the first prose Romances of chivalry; which may be considered as specimens of their manner.

(2) That the “Briton Glaskyrion,” whoever he was, is apparently the same person with our famous harper Glasgerion, of whom the reader will find a tragical ballad in vol. ii. no. vii. b. ii. In that song may be seen an instance of what was advanced above in note (E), of the dignity of the minstrel profession, or at least of the artifice with which the minstrels endeavoured to set off its importance.

Thus “a king’s son is represented as appearing in the character of a harper or minstrel in the court of another king. He wears a collar (or gold chain) as a person of illustrious rank, rides on horseback, and is admitted to the embraces of a king’s daughter.” The Minstrels lost no opportunity of doing honour to their art.

(3) As for the word Glees, it is to this day used in a musical sense, and applied to a peculiar piece of composition. Who has not seen the advertisements proposing a reward to him who should produce the best Catch, Canon, or Glee?

(K) Comes from the pen of Geoffrey of Monmouth.] Geoffrey’s own words are, “Cum ergo alterius modi aditum [Bodulphus] non haberet, rasit capillos suos et barbam,[14] cultumque Joculatoris cum Cythara fecit. Deinde intra castra deambulans, modulis quos in Lyra componebat, sese Cytharistam exhibebat.”— Galf. Monum. Hist. 4to, 1508, lib. vii. c. 1. That Joculator signifies precisely a Minstrel, appears not only from this passage, where it is used as a word of like import to Citharista, or harper (which was the old English word for Minstrel), but also from another passage of the same author, where it is applied as equivalent to Cantor.— See lib. i. cap. 22, where, speaking of an ancient (perhaps fabulous) British king, he says, “Hic omnes Cantores quos prćcedens ćtas habuerat et in modulis et in omnibus musicis instrumentis excedebat; ita ut Deus Joculatorum videretur.” Whatever credit is due to Geoffrey as a relater of facts, he is certainly as good authority as any for the signification of words.

(L) Two remarkable facts.] Both of these facts are recorded by William of Malmesbury; amt the first of them, relating to Alfred, by Ingulphus also. Now Igulphus (afterwards Abbot of Croyland) was near forty years of age at the time of the Conquest[15]; and consequently was as proper a judge of the Saxon manners as if he had actually written his history before that event; he is therefore to be considered as an Ante-Norman writer; so that, whether the fact concerning Alfred be true or not, we are assured from his testimony, that the Joculator or Minstrel was a common character among the Anglo-Saxons. The same also may be inferred from the relation of William of Malmesbury, who outlived Ingolphus but thirty-three years.[16] Both these writers had doubtless recourse to innumerable records and authentic memorials of the Anglo-Saxon times which never descended down to us; their testimony therefore is too positive and full to he overturned by the mere silence of the two or three slight Anglo-Saxon epitomes that are now remaining:— Vide note (G).

As for Asser Menevensis, who has given a somewhat more particular detail of Alfred’s actions, and yet takes no notice of the following story, it will not be difficult to account for his silence, if we consider that he was a rigid monk, and that the Minstrels, however acceptable to the laity, were never much respected by men of the more strict monastic profession, especially before the Norman Conquest, when they would be considered as brethren of the Pagan Scalds[17]. Asser therefore might not regard Alfred’s skill in Minstrelsy in a very favorable light; and might be induced to drop the circumstance related below, as reflecting, in his opinion, no great honour on his patron. The learned editor of Alfred’s life in Latin, after having examined the scene of action in person, and weighed all the circumstances of the event, determines, from the whole collective evidence, that Alfred could never have gained the victory he did, if he had not with his own eyes previously seen the disposition of the enemy by such a stratagem as is here described.— Vide Annot. in Ćlfr. Mag. Vitum, p. 33. Oxon. 1678, fol.

(M) Alfred . . . assumed the dress and character of a Minstrel.] “Fingens se joculatorem, assumpta cithara,” &c.— Ingulphi Hist. p. 869. “Sub specie Mimi . . . ut Joculatorić professor artis.”— Gum. Malmesb. l. ii, c. iv. p. 43. That both Joculator and mimus signify literally a Minstrel, see proved in notes (B) (K) (N) (Q) &c. See also note (GG).

Malmesbury adds, “Unius tantum fidelissimi fruebatur conscientia.” As this confidant does not appear to have assumed the disguise of a Minstrel himself, I conclude that he only appeared as the Minstrel’s attendant. Now that the Minstrel had sometimes his servant or attendant to carry his harp, and even to sing to his music, we have many instances in the old metrical romances, and even some in this present collection.— See King Estmere; Glasgerion, &c. Among the French and Provencal bards, the Trouverre, or Inventor, was generally attended with his singer, who sometimes also played on the harp, or other musical instrument. “Quelque fois durant le repas d’un prince on voyoit arriver un Trouverre inconu avec ses Menestrels ou Jongleours, et il leur faisoit chanter sur leurs harpes ou vielles les vers qu’il avoit composés. Ceux qui faisoient les SONS aussi bien que les MOTS etoient les plus estimés”— Fontenelle, Hist. du Théatre. That Alfred excelled in music is positively asserted by Bale, who doubtless had it from some ancient MS., many of which subsisted in his time that are now lost: as also by Sir J. Spelman, who, we may conclude, had good authority for this anecdote, as he is known to have compiled his life of Alfred from authentic materials collected by his learned father: this writer informs us hat Alfred “provided himself of musicians, not common, or such as knew but the practick part, but men skilful in the art itself, whose skill and service he yet further improved with his own instruction,” p. 199. This proves Alfred at least to have understood the theory of music; and how could this have been acquired without practising on some instrument? which we have seen above, note (H), was so extremely common with the Anglo- Saxons, even in much ruder times, that Alfred himself plainly tells us, it was shameful to be ignorant of it. And this commonness might be one reason why Asser did not think it of consequence enough to be particularly mentioned in his short life of that great monarch. This rigid monk may also have esteemed it a slight and frivolous accomplishment, savouring only of worldly vanity. He has, however, particularly recorded Alfred’s fondness for the oral Anglo-Saxon poems and songs [“Saxonica poemata die nocteque adiens . . . memoriter retinebat,” p. 16. “Carmina Saxonica memoriter discere,” &c. p. 43, et ib.]. Now the poems learnt by rote, among all ancient unpolished nations, are ever songs chanted by the reciter, and accompanied with instrumental melody[18]

(N) With his harp in his hand, and dressed like a Minstrel.] “Assumpta manu cithara . . . professus M. . . Jussus abire pretium Cantus accepit.”— Malmesb. l. ii. c. 6. We see here that which was rewarded was (not any mimicry or tricks, but) his singing (Cantus); this proves, beyond dispute, what was the nature of the entertainment Aulaff afforded then. Perhaps it is needless by this time to prove to the reader that Mimus, in Middle Latinity, signifies a Minstrel, and Mimia, Minstrelsy, or the Minstrel-art. Should he doubt it, let him cast his eye over the two following extracts from Du Cange:-

“MIMUS: Musicus, qui instrumentis musicis canit. Leges Palatinć Jacobi II. Reg. Majoric. In domibus principum, ut tradit antiquas, Mimi seu Joculatores licite possunt esse. Nam illorun officium tribuit lćtitiam . . . Quapropter volumus et ordinamus, quod in nostra curia Mimi debeant esse quinque, quorum duo sint tubicinatores, et tertius sit tebelerius [i.e. a player on the tabor [19]. Lit. remiss. ann. 1374. Ad Mimos cornicitantes, seu bucinantes accesserunt.” “MIMIA, Ludes Mimicus, Instrumentum [potius, Ars Joculatoria]. Ann. 1482 . . . mimia et cantu victum acquiro.”—Du Cange, Gloss, tom. iv. 1762. Supp. c. 1225.

(O) To have been a Dane.] The northern historians produce such instances of the great respect shown to the Danish Scalds in the courts of our Anglo-Saxon kings, on account of their musical and poetic talents (notwithstanding they were of so hateful a nation), that if a similar order of men had not existed here before, we cannot doubt but the profession would have been taken up by such of the natives as had a genius for poetry and music.

“Extant rhythmi hoc ipso [Islandico] idiomate Anglić, Hybernićque Regibus oblati et liberaliter compensati, &c. Itaque hinc colligi potest linguam Danicam in aulis vicinorum regum principumque familiarem fuisse, non secus ac hodie in aulis principum peregrina idiomata in deliciis habere cernimus. Imprimis Vita Egilli Skallagrimii id invicto argumento adstruit. Quippe qui interrogatus ab Adalsteino, Angliam rege, quomodo manus Eirici Blodoxii, Northumbrić regis, postquam in ejus potestatem venerat, evasisset, cujus filium propinquosque occiderat . . . rei statim ordinem metro, nunc satis obscuro, exposuit, nequaquam ita narraturus non intelligenti.”— Vide plura apud Torfćii Prefat. ad Orcad. Hist. fol. This same Egill was no less distinguished for his valor and skill as a soldier, than for his poetic and singing talents as a Scald; and he was such a favourite with our king Athelstan, that he at one time presented him with “duobus annulis et scriniis, duobus bene magnis argento repletis . . . Quinetiam hoc addidit, ut Egillus quidvis prćterea a se petens, obtineret; bona mobilia, sive immobilia, prćbendam vel prćfecturas. Egillus porro regium munificentiam gratus excipiens, Carmen Encomiasticon, a se lingua Norvegica (quć tum his regnis communis) compositum, regi dicat; ac pro eo, duas marcas auri puri (pondus marcć . . . 8 uncias ćquabat) honorarii loco retulit.”— Arngr. Jon. Rer. Islandic. lib. ii. p.

129.

See more of Egill, in the “Five Pieces of Runic Poetry,” p. 45, whose poem (there translated) is the most ancient piece all in rhyme that is, I conceive, now to be found in any European language, except Latin.— See Egill’s Islandic original, printed at the end of the English version in the said Five Pieces, &c.

(P) If the Saxons had not been accustomed to have Minstrels of their own . . . and to show favour and respect to the Danish Scalds,] if this had not been the case, we may rest assured, at least, that the stories given in the text could never have been recorded by writers who lived so near the Anglo-Saxon times as Malmesbury and Ingulphus, who, though they might be deceived as to particular facts, could not be so as to the general manners and customs which prevailed so near their own times among their ancestors.

(Q) In Domesday Book, &c.] Extract. ex Libro Domesday: et vide Anstis Ord. Gart. ii. 304.

Glowesterscire. Fol. 162. Col.1. Berdic Joculator Regis habit iii billas, et ibi v. car. nil redd.

That Joculator is properly a Minstrel, might be inferred from the two foregoing passages of Geoffrey of Monmouth (v. note K), where the word is used as equivalent to Citharista in one place, and to Cantor in the other: this union forms the precise idea of the character. But more positive proofs have already been offered — See also Du Cange’s Gloss. vol. iii. c. 1543. “JOGULATOR pro Joculator. Consilium Masil. an. 1381. Nullus Ministreys, Jogulator, audeat pinsare vel sonare instrumentum cujuscumque generis,” &c., &c. As the Minstrel was termed in French Jongleur and Jugleur, so he was called in Spanish Jutglar and Juglar. “Tenemos canciones y versos para recitar mui antiquos y memorias ciertas de nos Juglares, que assistian en los banquetes, como los que pinta Homero.”— Prolog. a las Comed. de Cervantes, 1749, 4to. “El anno 1328, en las siestas de la Coronacion del Rey, Don Alonso el IV. de Aragon, . . . [20] el Juglar Ramaset canto una Villanesca de la Composition del . . . infante [Don Pedro]: y otro Juglar, llamado Novellet, recito y represento en voz y sin canter mas de 600 versos, que hizo el Infante en el metro que llamaban Rima Vulgar.”— Ibid. “Los Trobadores inventaron la Gaya Ciencia . . . estos Trobadores eran assi todos de la primera Nobleza.— Es verdad, quem ya entonces se havian entrometido entre las diversiones Cortesanos, los Cantadores, los Cantores, los Juglares, los Truanes, y los Bufones.”—Ibid. In England, the King’s Juglar continued to have an establishment in the royal household down to the reign of Henry VIII. [Vide note (CC).] But in what sense the title was there applied does not appear. In Barklay’s Egloges, written circ. 1514, Juglars and Pipers are mentioned together. Egl. iv.— Vide T. Warton’s Hist. ii. 254.

(R) A valiant warrior, named Taillefer, &c.] See Du Cange, who produces this as an instance,—”Quod Ministellorum menus interdum prćstabant milites probatissimi. Le Roman De Vacce, MS.

Quant il virent Normans venir Mout veissiee Engleiz fremir . . . Taillefer qui mout bienu chantoit, Sur un cheval, qui tost alloit, Devant euls aloit chantant De Kallemaigne et de Roullant, Et d’Olivier de Vassaux Qui moururent en Rainschevaux.”

“Qui quidem Taillefer a Gulielmo obtinuit ut primes in hostes irruret, inter quos fortiter dimicando occubuit.— Gloss. tom. iv.

769, 770, 771.

“Les anciennes chroniques nous apprennent, qu’en premier rang de l’Armee Normande, un écuyer nommé Taillefer, monté sur un cheval armé, chanta la Chanson de Roland, qui fut si long tems dans les bouches des Francois, sans qu’il soit resté le moindre fragment. Le Taillefer apres avoir entonné la chanson que les soldats répétoient, se jetta le premier parmi les Anglois, et fut tué”—Voltaire, Add. Hist. Univ. p. 69. The reader will see an attempt to restore the Chanson de Roland, with musical notes, in Dr. Burney’s Hist. ii. p. 276.— See more concerning the Song of Roland, vol. ii. p. 57, note.

(S) An eminent French writer, &c.] “M. l’Eveque de la Ravaličre, qui avoit fait beaucoup de recherches sur nos anciennes Chansons, prétend que c’est a la Normandie que nous devons nos premiers Chansonniers, non a la Provence, et qu’il y avoit parmi nous des Chansons en langue vulgaire avant celles de Provençaus, mais postérieurement au Regne de Phillippe I., ou a l’an 1100.” [v. Révolutions de la Langue Franceoise, ŕ la suite des Poeseies du Roi de Navarre.] “Ce seroit une antériorité de plus d’une demi sičcle ŕ l’epoque des premiers troubadours, que leur historien Jean de Nostredame fixe ŕ l’an 1162,” &c. — Pref. a l’Anthologie Franc., 8vo, 1785.

This subject hath since been taken up and prosecuted at length in the Prefaces, &c., to M. Le Grand’s “Fabliaux ou Contes du xiie et du xiie Sičcle, Paris, 1788.” 5 tom. 12mo, who seems pretty clearly to have established the priority and superior excellence of the old Rimeurs of the north of France over the Troubadours of Provence, &c.

(S2) Their own native Gleemen or Minstrels must be allowed to exist.] Of this we have proof positive in the old metrical Romance of Horn- Child, which although from the mention of Sarazens, &c., it must have been written at least after the first Crusade in 1198, yet, from its Anglo-Saxon language or idiom, can scarce be dated later than within a century after the Conquest. This, as appears from its very exordium, was intended to be sung to a popular audience, whether it was composed by, or for, a Gleeman or Minstrel. But it carries all the internal marks of being the production of such a composer. It appears of genuine English growth; for after a careful examination, I cannot discover any allusion to French or Norman customs, manners, composition, or phraseology; no quotation “as the Romance sayth:” not a name or local reference which was likely to occur to a French Rimeur. The proper names are all of Northern extraction. Child Horn is the son of Allof (i.e. Olaf or Olave), king of Suddene (I suppose Sweden), by his queen Godylde or Godylt. Athulf and Fykenyld are the names of subjects. Eylmer or Aylmere is King of Westnesse (a part of Ireland), Rymenyld is his daughter; as Erminyld is of another king Thurstan; whose sons are Athyld and Beryld. Athelbrus is steward of King Aylmer, &c., &c. All these savour only of a Northern origin, and the whole piece is exactly such a performance as one would expect from a Gleeman or Minstrel of the north of England, who had derived his art and his ideas from his Scaldic predecessors there. So that this probably is the original from which was translated the old French fragment of Dan Horn, in the Harleian MS. 527, mentioned by Tyrwhitt (Chaucer iv. p. 68,) and by T. Warton (Hist. i. 38), whose extract from Horn-Child is extremely incorrect.

Compare the style of Horn-Child with the Anglo-Saxon specimens in short verses and rhyme, which are assigned to thee century succeeding the Conquest, in Hicke’s Thesaurus, tom. i. cap. 24, pp. 224 and 231.

(T) The different production of the sedentary composer and the rambling minstrel.] Among the old metrical romances,a very few are addressed to readers, or mention reading; these appear to have been composed by writers at their desk, and exhibit marks of more elaborate structure and invention. Such is Eglamour of Artas, of which I find in a. MS. copy in the Cotton Library, A. 2, folio 3, the Second Fitte thus concludes,

“. . . thus ferr have I red.”

Such is Ipomydon, of which one of the divisions (Sign. E. ii. b. in pr. copy) ends thus,

“Let hym go, God him spede Tyll efte-soon we of him reed [i.e. read].”

So in Amys and Amylion[21], in stanza 3d we have

“In Geste as we rede,”

and similar phrases occur in stanzas 34, 125, 1411, 198, &.c.

These are all studied compositions, in which the story is invented with more skill and ingenuity, and the style and colouring are of superior cast to such as can with sufficient probability be attributed to the minstrels themselves. Of this class I conceive the romance of Horn-Child (mentioned in the last note (S 2), which, from the naked unadorned simplicity of the story, I would attribute to such an origin. But more evidently is such the Squire of Lowe Degree, in which is no reference, to any French original, nothing like the phrase, which so frequently occurs in others, “as the Romance sayth,”[22] or the like. And it is just such a rambling performance as one would expect from an itinerant bard. And Such also is A lyttel Geste of Robyn Hode, &c., in 8 Fyttes, of which are extant two editions, 4to, in black-letter, described more fully in the introduction to Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne below.— This is not only of undoubted English growth, but, from the constant satire aimed at abbots and their convents, &c., could not possibly have been composed by any monk in his cell. Other instances might be produced; but especially of the former kind is Syr Launfal (vol. ii. no. 11), the 121st stanza of which has

“In Romances as we rede.”

This is one of the best invented stories of that kind, and I believe the only one in which is inserted the name of the author.

(T2) Royer or Raherus, the King’s Minstrel.] He is recorded by Leland under both these names, in his Collectanea, scil. vol. i. p. 61.

“Hospitale S. Bartholomći in West Smithfelde in London. Royer Mimus Regis fundator.” “Hosp. Sti. Barthol. Londini. Raherus Mimus Regis H. 1, primus fundator, an. 1102, 3 H. 1, qui fundavit etiam Priorat. Sti. Barthol.”— Ibid. p. 99. That Mimus is properly a Minstrel in the sense affixed to the word in this Essay, one extract from the accounts [Lat. Computis] of the priory of Maxtock, near Coventry, in 1441, will sufficiently show. — Scil. “Dat. Sex. Mimis Dni. Clynton cantantibus, citharisantibus, ludentibus,” &c. iiiis. (T. Warton, ii. 106, note q.) The same year the Prior gave to a doctor prćdicans, for a sermon preached to them, only 6d. In the Monasticon, tom. ii. pp. 166, 167, is a curious history of the founder of this priory, and the cause of its erection, which seems exactly such a composition as one of those which were manufactured by Dr. Stone, the famous legend-maker, in 1380 (see T. Warton’s curious account of him in vol. ii. p. 190, note), who required no materials to assist him in composing his Narratives, &c.; for in this legend are no particulars given of the founder, but a recital of miraculous visions exciting him to this pious work, of its having been before revealed to King Edward the Confessor, and predicted by three Grecians, &c. Even his minstrel profession is not mentioned, whether from ignorance or design, as the profession was perhaps falling into discredit when this legend was written. There is only a general indistinct account that he frequented royal and noble houses, where he ingratiated himself suavitate joculari. (This last is the only word that seems to have any appropriated meaning.) This will account for the indistinct incoherent account given by Stow. “Rahere, a pleasant-witted gentleman, and therefore in his time called the King’s Minstrel.”— Survey of Lond. Ed. 1598, p. 308.

(U) In the early times, every Harper was expected to sing.] See on this subject King Alfred’s Version of Cćdmon, above in note (H). So in Horn-Child, King Allof orders his steward Athelbrus to

“— teche him of harpe and of song.”

In the Squire of Lowe Degree, the King offers to his daughter,

“Ye shall have harpe, sautry,[23] and song.”

And Chaucer, in his description of the Limitour, or Mendicant Friar, speaks of harping as inseparable from singing (i. p. 11, ver.

268),

“— in his harping, whan that he hadde songe.”

(U2) As the most accomplished, &c.] See Hoveden, p. 103, in the following passage, which had erroneously been applied to King Richard himself, till Mr. Tyrwhitt (Chaucer, iv. page 62) showed it to belong to his Chancellor. “Hic ad augmentum et famam sui nominis, emendicata carmina, et rhythmos adulatorios comparabat; et de regno Francorum Cantores et Joculatores muneribus allexerat, ut de illo canerent in plateis: et jam dicebatur ubique, quod non erat talis in orbe.”— For other particulars relating to this Chancellor, see T. Warton’s Hist. vol. ii. Addit. to p. 113 of vol. i.

(U3) Both the Norman and English languages would be heard at the houses of the great.] A remarkable proof of this is, that the most diligent inquirers after ancient English rhymes, find the earliest they can discover in the mouths of the Norman nobles. Such as that of Robert, Earl of Leicester, and his Flemings in 1173, temp. Hen. II. (little more than a century after the Conquest) recorded by Lambarde in his Dictionary of England, p. 36.

“Hoppe Wyliken, hoppe Wyliken, Ingland is thine and myne.”

And that noted boast of Hugh Bigot, Earl of Norfolk, in the same reign of King Henry II., vide Camden’s Britannia (art. Suffolk), 1607, folio:

“Were I in my castle of Bungey Upon the riuer of Waueney I would ne care for the king of Cockeney.”

Indeed many of our old metrical romances, whether originally English, or translated from the French to be sung to an English audience, are addressed to persons of high rank, as appears from their beginning thus,—”Listen, Lordings;” and the like. These were prior to the time of Chaucer, as appears from vol. ii.Metrical Romances Note 8., et seqq. And yet to his time our Norman nobles are supposed to have adhered to their French language.

(V) That intercommunity, &c. between the French and English Minstrels, &c.] This might, perhaps, in a great measure, be referred even to the Norman Conquest, when the victors brought with them all their original opinions and fables; which could not fail to be adopted by the English Minstrels and others, who solicited their favour. This interchange, &c., between the Minstrels of the two nations, would be aferwards promoted by the great intercourse produced among all the nations of Christendom in the general crusades, and by that spirit of chivalry which led knights and their attendants, the Heralds and Minstrels, &c., to ramble about continually, from one court to another, in order to he present at solemn turnaments and other feats of arms.

(V2) Is not the only instance, &c.] The constant admission granted to Minstrels was so established a privilege, that it became a ready expedient to writers of fiction. Thus, in the old romance of Horn- Child, the Princess Rymenyld being confined in an inaccessible castle, the prince, her lover, and some assistant knights, with concealed tools, assume the minstrel character; and approaching the castle with their “Gleyinge”or Minstrelsy, are heard by the lord of it, who being informed they were “harpeirs, jogelers, and fythelers,[24]” has them admitted, when

“Horn set him abenche [i.e. on a bench] Is [i.e. his] harpe he yet gan clenche He made Rymenild a lay ”

This sets the princess a-weeping, and leads to the catastrophe; for he immediately advances to “the Borde” or table, kills the ravisher, and releases the lady.

(V3) . . . assumed the dress and character of a Harper, &c.] We have this curious Histiorette in the records of Lacock Nunnery, in Wiltshire, which had been founded by this Countess of Salisbury.— See Vincent’s Discovery of Errors in Brooke’s Catalogue of Nobility, &c., folio, pp. 445, 446, &c. Take the following extract (and see Dugdale’s Baron. i. p. 175):

“Ela uxor Gullielmi Longespee primi, nata fuit apud Ambresbiraim, patre et matre Normannis. “Pater itaque ejus defectus senio migravit ad Christum, A.D. 1196. Mater ejus ante biennium obit . . . Interea Domina charissima clam per cognatos adducta fuit in Normanniam, et ibidem sub tuta et arcta custodia nutrita. Eodem tempore in Anglia fuit quidam miles nomine Gulielmus Talbot, qui induit se habitum Peregrini [Anglice, A Pilgrim] in Normanniam transfretavit et moratus per duos annos, huc atque illuc vagans, ad explorandam dominam Elam Sarum. Et illa inventa, exuit habitam peregrini, et indarit se quasi Cytharisator et Curiam ubi morabatur intravit. Et ut erat home Jocosus, in testis Antiquorum valde peritus, ibidem gratanter fuit acceptus quasi familiaris. Et quando tempus, aptum invenit in Angliam repatriavit, habens secum istam venerabilem Dominam Elam et hćredem comitatus Sarum; et eam Regi Richardum prćsentavit. Ac ille lćtissime cum suscepit, et Fratri suo Guillemo Longespee maritavit . . . “A.D. 1226, Dominus Guill. Longespee primus nonas Marti. obiit. Ela vero uxor ejus 7 annis supervixit . . . Una die DUO monasteria fundavit primo mane xvi. Kal. Maii, A.D. 1232, apud Lacock, in quo sanctć, degunt Canonissć . . . Et Menton post nonam, anno vero ćtatis sue xlv.” &c.

(W) For the preceding account, Dugdale refers to Monast. Angl. i. [r. ii.] p. 185, but gives it as enlarged by D. Powel, in his Hist. of Cambria, p. 196, who is known to have followed ancient Welsh MSS. The words in the Monasticon are,—”Qui accersitis Sutoribus Cestrić et Histrionibus, festinanter cum exercitu suo venit domino suo facere succursum Walenses vero videntes multitudinem magnam venientem, relicta obsidione fugerunt . . . Et propter hoc dedit Comes antedictus . . . Constabulario dominationem Sutorum et Histrionum. Constabularius vero retinuit sibi et hćredibus suis dominationem Sutorum: et Histrionum dedit vero Seneschallo.” (So the passage should apparently be pointed; but either et or vero seems redundant.)

We shall see below, in note (Z), the proper import of the word Histriones: but it is very remarkable that this is not the word used in the grant of the Constable De Lacy to Dutton, but “Magisterium omnium Leccatorum et Meretricium totius Cestreshire, sicut liberius illum [sic] Magisterium teneo de Comite” (vid. Blount’s Ancient Tenures, p. 156). Now, as under this grant the heirs of Dutton confessedly held for many ages a magisterial jurisdiction over all the Minstrels and Musicians of that county, and as it could not be conveyed by the word Meretrices, the natural inference is that the Minstrels were expressed by the term Leccatores. It is true, Du Cange, compiling his Glossary, could only find in the writers he consulted this word used in the abusive sense, often applied to every synonym of the sportive and dissolute Minstrel, viz., Scurra, vaniloquus, parasitus epulo, &c. (This I conceive to be the proper arrangement of these explanations, which only express the character given to the minstrel elsewhere: see Du Cange passim, and notes © (E) (F) (I), &c.) But he quotes an ancient MS. in French metre, wherein the Leccour (Lat. Leccator) and the Minstrel are joined together, as receiving from Charlemagne a grant of the territory of Provence, and from whom the Provencal Troubadours were derived, &c.— See the passage above in note ©. The exception in favour of the family of Dutton is thus expressed in the Statute, Anno 39 Eliz. chap. iv. entitled, “An Act for punishment of Rogues, Vagabonds, and Sturdy Beggars.” “§ II . . . All Fencers, Bearwards, Common Players of Enterludes, and Minstrels, wandering abroad (other than Players of Enterludes belonging to any Baron of this Realm, or any other honourable Personage of greater degree, to be authorised to play under the hand and seal of arms of such Baron or Personage): all Juglers, Tinkers, Pedlers, &c . . . shall be adjudged and deemed Rogues, Vagabonds, and Sturdy Beggars, &c. “§ X. Provided always, that this Act, or any thing therein contained, or any authority thereby given, shall not in any wise extend to disinherit, prejudice, or hinder, John Dutton, of Dutton, in the county of Chester, Esquire, his heirs or assigns, for, touching or concerning any liberty, preheminence, authority, jurisdiction, or inheritance, which the said John Dutton now lawfully useth, or hath, or lawfully may or ought to use within the County- Palatine of Chester, and the County of the City of Chester, or either of them, by reason of any ancient Charters of any Kings of this Land, or by reason of any prescription, usage, or title whatsoever.” The same clauses are renewed in the last Act on this subject, passed in the reign of Geo. III.

(X) Edward I . . . At the knighting of his son, &c.] See Nic. Triveti Annales, Oxon. 1719, 8vo, p. 342.

“In festo Pentecostes Rex filium suum armis militaribus cinxit, et cum eo Comites Warennić et Arundelić, aliosque, quorum numerus ducentos et quadraginta dicitur excessisse. Eodem die cum sedisset Rex Ministrellorum Multitudo, portantium multiplici ornatu amictum, ut milites prćcipue novos invitarrent, et inducerent, ad vovendum factum armorum aliquod coram signo.”

(Y) By an express regulation, &c.] See in Hearne’s Append. ad Lelandi Collectan. vol. vi. p. 36, “A Dietarie, Writtes published after the Ordinance of Earles and Barons, Anno Dom. 1315.”

“Edward, by the grace of God, &c., to Sheriffes, &c., greetyng. Forasmuch as . . . many idle persons, under colour of Mynstrelsie, and going in messages, and other faigned busines, have ben and yet be receaved in other mens houses to meate and drynke, and be not therwith contented yf they be not largely consydered with gyftes of the Lordes of the houses, &c . . . WE wyllyng to restrayne such outrageous enterprises and idleness, &c., have ordeyned . . . that to the houses of Prelates, Earles, and Barons, none resort to meate and drynke, unlesse he be a Mynstrel, and of these Minstrels that there come none, except it be three or four Minstrels of Honour at the most in one day, unlesse he be desired of the Lorde of the House. And to the houses of meaner men that none come unlesse he be desired, and that such as shall come so, holde themselves contented with meate and drynke, and with such curtesie as the Maister of the House wyl shewe unto them of his owne good wyll, without their askyng of any thyng. And yf any one do agaynst this Ordinaunce, at the first tyme he to lose his Minstrelsie, and at the second tyme to forsweare his craft, and never to be receaved for a Minstrel in any house . . . Yeven at Langley the vi. day of August, in the ix. yeare of our reigne.” These abuses rose again to as great a height as ever in little more than a century after, in consequence, I suppose, of the licentiousness that crept in during the civil wars of York and Lancaster. This appears from the Charter 9 E. IV., to William Haliday,referred to above. “Ex querulosa insinuatione . . . Ministrallorum nostrorum accepimus qualiter nonnulli rudes agricolć et artifices diversarum misterarum regni nostri Anglić, finxerunt se fore Ministrallos, quorum aligui Liberatam nostram eis minime datam portarent, seipsos etiam fingentes esse Minstrallos nostros proprios, cuius quidem Liberatć ac dictć artis sive occupationis Ministrallorum colore, in diversis partibus regni nostri prćdicti grandes pecuniarum exactiones de ligeis nostris deceptive colligunt,” &c. Abuses of this kind prevailed much later in Wales, as appears from the famous Commission issued out in 9 Eliz. (1567), for bestowing the SILVER HARP on the best Minstrel, Rythmer, or Bard, in the principality of North Wales; of which a fuller account will be given below in note (BB 3).

(Z) It is thus related by Stow.] See his Survey of London, &c., fol. 1633, p. 521. [Acc. of Westm. Hall.] Stow had this passage from Walsingham’s Hist. Ang . . . “Intravit qućdam mulier ornata Histrionali habitu, equum bonum insidens Histrionaliter phaleratum, quć mensas more Histrionum circuivit; et tandem ad Regis mensam per gradus ascendit, et quandam literam corum rege posuit, et retracto frćno (salutatis ubique discumbentibus) prout venerat ita recessit,” &c.— Anglia Norm. Script. &c., Franc., 1603, fol. p. 109.

It may be observed here, that Minstrels and others often rode on horseback up to the royal table, when the kings were feasting in their great halls. The answer of the porters (when they were afterwards blamed for admitting her) also deserves attention: “Non esse moris domus regie Histriones ab ingressu quomodolibet prohibere,” &c. Walsingh. That Stow rightly translated the Latin word Histrio here by Minstrel, meaning a musician that sung, and whose subjects were stories of chivalry, admits of easy proof; for in the Gesta Romanorum chap. cxi., Mercury is represented as coming to Argus in the character of a Minstrel; when he “incepit, more Histrionico, fabulas dicere, et plerumque cantare.”— T. Warton, iii. p. li. And Muratori cites a passage in an old Italian chronicle, wherein mention is made of a stage erected at Milan:—”Super quo Histriones cantabant, sicut modo cantatur de Rolando et Oliverio.”—Antick Ital. ii. p. 6. (Observ. on the Statutes, 4th Edit. p. 362.) See also notes (E), and (F)

(AA) There should seem to have been women of this profession.] This may be inferred from the variety of names appropriated to them in the Middle Ages, viz. Anglo-Sax. Llithmedhen [Gleemaiden], &c., glythiendhemadhen, glythbythenestra (vide supra, Note (H)), Fr. Jengleresse, Med. Lat. Joculatrix, Ministralissa, Fmina Ministeralis, &c.— Vide Du Cange, Gloss. and Suppl.

See what is said above concerning the “Sisters of the fraternity of Minstrels;” see also a passage quoted by Dr. Burney (ii. 315) from Muratori, of the Chorus of women singing through the streets accompanied with musical instruments, in 1268. Had the female described by Walsingham been a Tombestere, or Dancing-woman (see Tyrwhitt’s Chaucer, iv. 307, and v. Gloss.), that historian would probably have used the word Saltatrix.— See T. Warton, i. 240, note m. These Saltatrices were prohibited from exhibiting in churches and churchyards along with Joculatares, Histriones, with whom they were sometimes classed, especially by the rigid ecclesiastics, who censured, in the severest terms, all these sportive characters.— Vide T. Warton, in loco citato, et vide supra, notes (E) (F), &c. And here I would observe, that although Fauchet and other subsequent writers affect to arrange the several memhers of the minstrel profession under the different classes of Troverres (or Troubadours), Chanterres, Conteours, and Jugleurs, &c., as if they were distinct.mid separate orders of men, clearly distinguished from each other by these appropriate terms, we find insufficient grounds for this in the oldest writers; but the general names in Latin, Histrio, Mimus, Joculator, Ministrallus, &c.; in French, Menestrier, Menestrel, Jongleur, Jugleur, &c.; and in English, Jogeleur, Jugler, Minstrel, and the like, seem to be given them indiscriminately. And one or other of these names seems to have been sometimes applied to every species of men whose business it was to entertain or divert (joculari), whether with poesy, singing, music, or gesticulation, singly, or with a mixture of all these. Yet as all men of this sort were considered as belonging to one class, order, or community (many of the above arts being sometimes exercised by the same person), they had all of them doubtless the same privileges, and it equally throws light upon the general history of the profession, to show what favour or encouragement was given, at any particular period of time, to any one branch of it. I have not, therefore, thought it needful to inquire, whether, in the various passages quoted in these pages, the word Minstrel, &c., is always to be understood in its exact and proper meaning of a Singer to the Harp, &c. That men of very different arts and talents were included under the common name of Minstrels, &c.appears from a variety of authorities. Thus we have Menestrels de Trompes, and Menestrels de Bouche, in the Suppl. to Du Cange, c. 1227, and it appears still more evident from an old French Rhymer, whom I shall quote at large.

“Les quens[25] manda les Menestrels; Et si a fet, crier entre els, Qui la meillor truffe[26] sauroit Dire, ne faire qu’il auroit Sa robe d’escarlate neuve. L’uns menestrels a l’autre reuve Fere son mestier, tells qu’il sot Li uns fet l’yvre, li autre sot; Li uns chante, l’autre note; Et li autres dit la riote; Et li autres la jenglerie;[27] Cil qui sevent de jonglerie Vielent par devant le conte Aucuns ja qui fabliaus conte Il i ot dit mainte riseé”, &c.  Fabliaux et Contes, 1mo., tom 11. p.161

And what species of entertainment was afforded by the ancient Juggleurs, we learn from the following citation from an old Romance, written in 1230:-

“Quand les tables ostees furent C’il juggleurs in pies esturent S’ont vielles, et harpes prisees, Chansons, sons, vers, et reprises Et gestes chanté nos ont.”

Sir A. Hawkins, ii. 44, from Andr. Du Chene.— See also Tyrwhitt’s Chaucer, iv. p. 299. All the before-mentioned sports went by the general name of Ministralcia, Ministellorum, Ludicra, &c.—”Charta an. 1377, apud Rymer, vii. p. 160. ‘Peracto autem prandio, ascendebat D. Rex in cameram suam cum Prćlatis, Magnatibus, et Proceribus, prćdictis: et deinceps Magnates, Milites, et Domini, aliique Generosi diem illum, usque ad tempus Cnć, in tripudiis, coreis, et solempnibus Ministralciis, prć gaudio solempnitatis illius continuarunt— Du Cange, Gloss. 773. [This was at the Coronation of King Richard II.] It was common for the Minstrels to dance, as well as to harp and sing (see above, note (E).) Thus in the old romance of Tirante el Blanco; Val. 1511, the 14th cap. lib. ii. begins thus, “Despues qua las mesas fueron alçadas vinieron los Ministriles; y delante del Rey, y de la Reyna dançaron un rato: y despues truxeron colacion.” They also, probably, among their other feats, played tricks of sleight of hand: hence the word Jugler came to signify a performer of Legerdemain; and it was sometimes used in this sense (to which it is now appropriated) even so early as the time of Chaucer, who, in his Squire’s Tale (ii. 108) speaks of the horse of brass, as

“--- like An apparence ymade by som magicke, As JOGELOURS plaien at thise festes grete.”

See also the Frere’s Tale, I. p. 270, v. 7010.

(AA2) Females playing on the Harp.] Thus in the old romance of Syr Degore (or Degree, vol ii. On the Metrical Romances, no. 22), we have [Sign. D. i.],

“The lady, that was so faire and bright, Upon her bed she sate down ryght; She harped notes swete and fine, [Her mayde filled a piece of wine.] And Syr Degore sate him downe, For to hear the harpes sownne.”

The fourth line being omitted in the pr. copy, is supplied from the folio MS. In the Squyr of Lowe Degree (vol ii. On the Metrical Romances, no. 24), the king says to his daughter [Sign. D. i.],

“Ye were wont to harpe and syng, And be the meryest in chanber comyng.”

In the Carle of Carlisle (vol ii. On the Metrical Romances, no. 10), we have the following passage. [Folio MS. p. 451, v. 217.]

“Downe came a lady faire and free, And sett her on the Carles knee: One whiles shee harped, another whiles song, Both of paramours and louinge amonge.”

And in the romance of Eger and Grime (vol ii. On the Metrical Romances, no. 12), we have [Ibid. p. 127, col. 2], in part i. ver.

263,

“The ladye fayre of hew and hyde Shee sate downe by the bed side, Shee, laid a souter [psaltry] vpon her knee, Thereon shee plaid full lovesomelye. ... And her 2 maydens sweetlye sange.”

A similar passage occurs in part iv. ver. 120 (page 136). But these instances are sufficient.

(BB) A Charter . . . to appoint a King of the Minstrels.] Entitled Carta Le Roy de Ministraulx (in Latin, Histriones, vide Plott, p. 437). A copy of this charter is printed in Monast. Anglic. i. 355, and in Blount’s Law Diction. 1717 (art. King).

That this was a most respectable officer, both here and on the Continent, will appear from the passages quoted below, and therefore it could only lave been in modern times, when the proper meaning of the original terms Ministraulz, and Historiones, was forgot, that he was called King of the Fiddlers; on which subject see below, note (EE

2).

Concerning the King of the Minstrels we have the following curious passage collected by Du Cange, Gloss. iv. 773. “Rex Ministellorum; supremus inter Ministelos: de cujus munere, potestate in exteros Ministellos agit Charta Henrici IV. Regis Anglić in Monast. Anglicano, tom. i. pag. 355.— Charta originalis an. 1338. Je Robert Caveron Roy des Menestreuls du Royaume de France. Alić ann. 1357 et 1362. Copin de Brequin Roy des Menestres du Royaume de France. Computum de auxiliis pro redemptione Regis Johanhis, ann. 1307. Pour une Courronne d’ Argent qu’il donna le jour de la Tiphaine au Roy des Menestrels. “Regestum, Magnorum Dierum Trecensium an. 1206. Super quod Joannes dictus Charmillons Juglator, cui Dominus Rex per suas literas tanquam Regem Juglatorum in civitate Trecensi Magisterium Juglatorum, quemadmodum suć placeret volantati, concesserat” — Gloss. c. 1587. There is a very curious passage in Pasquier’s Recherches de la France, Paris, 1633, folio, liv. 7, ch. v. p. 611, wherein he appears to be at a loss how to account for the title of Le Roy, assumed by the old composers of metrical romances: in one of which the author expressly declares himself to have been a Minstrel. The solution of the difficulty, that he had been Le Roy des Menestrels, will be esteemed more probable than what Pasquier here advances; for I have never seen the title of Prince given to a Minstrel, &c. scil. “A nos vieux Poetes . . . comme . . . fust qu’ils eussent certain jeux de prix en leurs Poesies, ils . . . honoroient du nome, tantot de Roy, tantot de Prince celuy qui avoit de mieux faict comme nous voyons entre les Archers, Arbalestiers, et Harquebusiers estre fait le semblable. Ainsi l’Autheur du Roman d’Oger le Danois s’appelle Roy.

“‘Icy endroict est cil Livre fine Qui des enfans Oger est appellez Or vueille Diex qu’il soil parachevez En tel maniere kestrel n’en puist blamez Le Roy Adams [r. Ardenes] ki il’est remez.’

“Et en celuy de Cleomades,

“‘Ce Livre de Cleomades Rimé-je le Roy Adenes Menestre au bon Duc Henry.’

“Mot de Roy, qui seroit tres-mal approprié ŕ un Menestrier, si d’ailleurs on ne le rapportoit ŕ un jeu du prix: Et de faict il semble que de nostre temps, il y en eust encores quelque remarques, en ce que le mot de Jouingleur s’estant par succession de temps tourné en batelage, nous avons vu en nostre jeunesse les Joingleurs se trouver ŕ certain jour tous les ans en la ville de Chauny en Picardie, pour faire monstre de leur mestrier devant le monde, ŕ qui mieux. Et ce que j’en dis icy n’est pas pour vilipender ces anciens Rimeurs, ainsi pour monstrer qu’il n’y a chose si belle qui ne s’anéantisse avec le temps.” We see here that, in the time of Pasquier, the poor Minstrel was sunk into low estimation in France, as he was then or afterwards in England; but by apology for comparing the Jouingleurs, who assembled to exercise their faculty, in his youth, to the ancient Rimeurs, it is plain they exerted their skill in rhyme. As for king Adenes, or Adenez (whose name in the first passage above is corruptly printed Adams), he is recorded in the Bibliotheque des Romans, Amst. 1734, 12mo, vol. i. p. 232, to have composed the two romances in verse above mentioned, and a third, entitled Le Roman de Bertin; all three being preserved a MS. written about 1270. His Bon Duc Henry, I conceive to have been Henry Duke of Brabant.

(BB2) King of the Minstrels, etc.] See Anstis’s Register of the Order of the Garter, ii. p. 303, who tells us, “The President or Governour of the Minstrels had the like denomination of Roy in France and Burgundy; and in England, John of Gaunt constituted such an officer by a patent; and long before his time payments were made by the Crown to [a] King of the Minstrels by Edw. 1. Regi Roberto Ministrallo scutifero ad armo commoranti ad vadia Regis anno 5to [Bibl. Cotton. Vestas. c. 16. f. 3], as likewise [Libro Garderob. 25 E. I.] Ministrallis in die nuptiarun Comitissć Holland filio Regis, Regi Pago, Johanni Vidulatori, &c. Morello Regi, &c. Druetto Monthaut, et Jacketto de Scot. Regibis, cuilibet eorum, xl. s. Regi Pagio de Hollandia, &c. Under Ed. II. we likewise find other entries, Regi Roberto et aliis Ministrallis facientibus Menistrallias [Ministralcias, qu.] suas coram Rege. [Bibl. Cotton. Nero, c. 8, p. 84, b. Comp. Garderob.] That King granted Willielmo de Morlee dicto Roy de North, Ministrallo Regis, domos quć fuerunt Johannis le Boteler dici Roy Brunhaud [Pat. de terr. forisfact. 16 E. III.].” He adds below (p. 304) a similar instance of a Rex Juglotorum, and that the “King of the Minstrels” at length was styled in France Roy des Violons (Furetiere Diction. Univers.), as with us, “King of the Fiddlers;” on which subject see below, note (EE 2).

(BB3) The Statute 4 Hen. IV, (1402), c. 27, runs in these terms, “Item, pur eschuir plusieurs diseases et mischiefs quant advenuz devaunt ces heures en la terre de Gales par plusieurs Westours Rymours, Minstralx et autres Vacabondes, ordeignez est et establiz que nul Westour, Rymour Ministral ne Vacabond soit aucunement sustenuz en la terre de Gales pus faire kymorthas ou coillage sur la commune poeple illoeques.” This is among the severe laws against the Welsh, passed during the resentment occasioned by the outrages committed under Owen Glendour; and as the Welsh Bards had excited their countrymen to rebellion against the English government, it is not to be wondered that the Act is conceived in terms of the utmost indignation and contempt against this class of men, who are described as Rymours, Ministralx, which are apparently here used as only synonymous terms to express the Welsh Bards with the usual exuberance of our Acts of Parliament; for if their Minstralx had been mere nmsicians, they would not have required the vigilance of the English legislature to suppress them. It was their songs exciting their countrymen to insurrection which produced “les diseases et mischiefs en la terre de Gales.”

It is also submitted to the reader, whether the same application of the terms does not still more clearly appear in the Commission issued in 1567, and printed in Evan Evans’s Specimens of Welch Poetry, 1764, 4to, p. v., for bestowing the SILVER HARP on “the chief of that faculty.” For after setting forth “that vagrant and idle persons, naming themselves Minstrels, Rythmers, and Bards, had lately grown into such intolerable multitude within the Principality in North Wales, that not only gentlemen and others by their shameless disorders are oftentimes disquieted in their habitations, but also expert Minstrels and Musicians in tonge and cunynge thereby much discouraged,” &c., and “hindred [of] livings and preferment,” &c., it appoints a time and place, wherein all “persons that intend to maintain their living by name or colour of Minstrels, Rythmers, or Bards,” within five shires of N. Wales, “shall appear to show their learnings accordingly,” &c. And the Commissioners are required to admit such as shall be found worthy, into and under the degrees heretofore in use, so that they may “use, exercise, and follow the sciences and faculties of their professions in such decent order as shall appertain to each of their degrees.” And the rest are to return to some honest labour, &c., upon pain to be taken as sturdy and idle vagabonds, &c.

(BB4) Holingshed translated this passage from Tho. de Elmham’s “Vita et Gesta Henrici V.” scil. “Soli Omnipotenti Deo se velle victoriam imputari . . . in tantum, quod cantus de suo triumpho fieri, seu per Citharistas vel alias quoscunque cantari penitus prohibebat.” [Edit. Hearnii, 1727, p. 72.] As in his version Holingshed attributes the making as well as singing ditties to Minstrels, it is plain he knew that men of this profession had been accustomed to do both.

(CC) The Houshold Book, &c.] See

Section V. “Of the Noumbre of all my Lords Servaunts.”

“Item, Mynstralls in Houshold iij. viz. A Taberett, a Luyte, and a Rebecc.” [The rebeck was a kind of fiddle with three strings.]

Sect. XLIV. 3. “Rewardis to his Lordshipis Servaunts,” &c.

“Item, My Lorde usith ande accustomyth to gyf yerly, when his Lordschipp is at home, to his Mynstraills that be daly in his Houshold, as his Tabret, Lute, ande Rebeck, upon New-Yeres-day in the mornynge when they doe play at my Lordis chambre doure for his Lordschipe and my Lady, xx. s. Viz. xiij. s. iiij. d. for my Lorde, and vj. s. viij. d. for my Lady, if sche be at my Lords fyndynge, and not at hir owen; and for playing at my Lordis sone and heir chaumbre doure, the Lord Percy, ij. s. And for playinge at the chaumbre doures of my Lords yonger Sonnes, my yonge Maisters, after viii. d. the pece for every of then.— xxiij. s. iiij. d.”

Sect. XLIV. 2. “Rewardis to be yeven to strangers, as Players, Mynstraills, or any other,” &c.

“Furst, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyf to the Kings Jugler; . . . When they custome to come unte hym yerely, vj. s. viij. d. “Item, my Lord usith and accustomyth to gyf yerely the Kynge or the Queenes Barwarde, if they have one, when they custom to come unto hym yerely,— vj. s. viij. d. Item, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyfe yerly to every Erlis Mynstrellis, when they custome to come to hym yerely, iij. s. iiij. d. Ande if they come to my Lord seldome, ones in ij. or iij. yeres, than vj. s. viij. d. Item, my Lorde usith and accustomythto gife yerely to an Erls Mynstrall, if he be his speciall lorde, frende, or kynsman, if they come yerely to his Lordschipe . . . Ande if they come ‘to my lord’ seldome, ones in ii. or iii. yeres, vj. s. viij. d.”

- * * * * * * * * * *

“Item, my Lorde useth ande accustomyth to gyf yerely a Dookes or Erlis Trumpetts, if they com vj. together to his Lordshipp, viz. if they come yerly, vj. s. viij. d. Ande if they come but in ij. or iij. yeres, than x. s. “Item, my Lorde useth and accustometh yerly, when his Lordship is at home, to gyf to iij of the Kyngs Shams, when they com to my Lorde yerely x. s.”

- * * * * * * * * * *

I cannot conclude this Note without observing, that in this enumeration the family Minstrels seem to have been musicians only, and yet both the Earl’s Trumpets and the King’s Shawms are evidently distinguished from the Earl’s Minstrels and the King’s Jugler. Now we find Jugglers still coupled with Pipers in Barclay’s Egloges, circ. 1514. (Warton, ii. 354.)

(CC2) The honours and rewards conferred on Minstrels, &c., in the Middle Ages, were excessive, as will be seen by many instances in these volumes; vid. notes (E) (F), &c. Butmore particularly with regard to English Minstrels, &c., see T. Warton’s Hist. of Eng. Poetry, i. p. 89-92, 116, &c.; ii. 105, 106, 254, &c. Dr. Burney’s Hist. of Music, ii. p. 316-319, 397-399, 427, 428.

On this head, it inay be sufficient to add the following passage from the Fleta, lib. ii. c. 23. “Officium Elemosinarij est, Equos relictos, Robas, Pecuniam, et alia ad Elemosinam largiter recipere et fideliter distribuere; debut etiam Regem super Elemosinć largitione crebris summonitionibus stimulare et prćcipue diebus Sanctorum, et rogare ne Robas seas quć magni sunt precij Histrionibus, Blanditoribus, Adulatoribus, Accusatoribus, vel Menestrallis, sed ad Elemosinć suć incrementum jubeat largiri.” Et in c. 72, “Ministralli, vel Adulatoris.”

(DD) A species of men who did not sing, &c.] It appears from the passage of Erasmus here referred to, that there still existed in England of that species of Jongleurs or Minstrels, whom the French called by the peculiar name of Conteours, or reciters in prose; it is in his Ecclesiastes, where he is speaking of such preachers as imitated the tone of beggars or mountebanks —”Apud Anglos est simile genus hominum, quales apud Italos sunt Circulatores [Mountebanks] de quibus modo dictum est; qui irrumpunt in convivia Magnatum, aut in Cauponas Vinarias; et argumentum aliquod, quod edidicerunt, recitant; puta mortem omnibus dominari, aut laudem matrimonii. Sed quoniam ea lingua monosyllabis fere constat, quemadmodum Germanica; atque illi [sc. this peculiar species of Reciters] studio vitant cantum, nobis (sc. Erasmus, who did not understand a word of English) latrare videntur verius quam loqui.”— Opera, tom. v. c. 958. (Jortin, vol. ii. p. 193.) As Erasmus was correcting the vice of preachers, it was more to his point to bring an instance from the moral reciters of prose than from the chanters of rhyme; though the latter would probably be more popular, and therefore more common.

(EE) This character is supposed to have been suggested by descriptions of Minstrels in the romance of Morte Arthur; but none, it seems, have been found which come nearer to it than the following, which I shall produce, not only that the reader may judge of the resemblance, but to show how nearly the idea of the Minstrel character given in this Essay corresponds with that of our old writers.

Sir Lancelot having been affronted by a threatening abusive letter, which Mark King of Cornwall had sent to Queen Guenever, wherein he “spake shame by her, and Sir Lancelot,” is comforted by a knight named Sir Dinadan, who tells him, “I will make a Lay for him, and when it is made, I shall make an harper to sing it before him. So anon he went and made it, and taught it an harper, that hyght Elyot; and when hee could it, hee taught it to many Harpers. And so . . . the Harpers went straight unto Wales and Cornwaile to sing the Lay . . . which was the worst Lay that ever Harper sung with harpe, or with any other instrument. And [at a] great feast that King Marke made for joy of [a] victorie which hee had . . . came Eliot the Harper; . . . and because he was a curious Harper, men heard him sing the same Lay that Sir Dinadan had made, the which spake the most vilanie by King Marke of his treason, that ever man heard. When the Harper had sung his song to the end, King Marke was wonderous wroth with him, and said, ‘Thou Harper, how durst thou be so bold to sing this song before me? Sir, said Eliot, wit you well I am a Minstrell, and I must doe as I am commanded of these Lords that I bear the arms of. And, Sir King, wit you well that Sir Dinadan a knight of the Round Table made this song, and he made me to sing it before you. Thou saiest well, said King Marke, I charge thee that thou hie thee fast out of my sight. So the Harper departed,” &c. [Part ii. c. 113, ed. 1634. See also part iii. c. 5.]

(EE2) This Act seems to have put an end to the profession, &c] Although I conceive that the character ceased to exist, yet the appellation might be continued, and applied to Fiddlers, or other common musicians: which will account for the mistakes of Sir Peter Leicester, or other modern writers. (See his Historical Antiquities of Cheshire, 1673, p. 141.)

In this sense it is used in an Ordinance in the times of Cromwell (1658), wherein it is enacted, that if any of the “persons commonly called Fidlers or Minstrels shall at any time be taken playing, fidling, and making music in any inn, ale-house, or tavern, or shall be taken proffering themselves, or desiring, or entreating any . . . to hear them play or make music in any of the places aforesaid;” they are to be “adjudged and declared to be rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars.” This will also account why John of Gaunt’s King of the Minstrels at length came to he called, like le Roy des Violons in France, vide note (BB 2), King of the Fiddlers. See the common ballad entitled, “The Pedigree, Education, and Marriage of Robinhood with Clorinda, Queen of Tutbury Feast:” which, though prefixed to the modern collection on that subject,[28] seems of much later date than most of the others; for the writer appears to be totally ignorant of all the old traditions concerning this celebrated outlaw, and has given him a very elegant bride instead of his old noted lemman “Maid Marian;” who, together with his chaplain, “Frier Tuck,” were his favourite companions, and probably on that account figured in the old Morice dance; as may be seen by the engraving in Mr. Steevens’s and Mr. Malone’s editions of Shakspeare: by whom she is mentioned, 1 Hen. IV., act iii. sc. 3. (See also Warton, i. 245, ii. 237.) Whereas, from this ballad’s concluding with an exhortation to “pray for the King,” and “that he may get children,” &c., it is evidently posterior to the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and can scarce be older than the reign of King Charles I.; for King James I. had no issue after his accession to the throne of England. It may even have been written since the Restoration, and only express the wishes of the nation for issue on the marriage of their favourite King Charles II., on his marriage with the Infanta of Portugal. I think it is not found in the Pepys Collection.

(FF) Historical song, or ballad.] The English word ballad is evidently from the French, balade, as the latter is from the Italian ballata; which the Crusca Dictionary defines, canzone, che si canto ballando,”A song which is sung during a dance.” So Dr. Burney [ii. 342], who refers to a collection of Ballette published by Gastaldi, and printed at Antwerp in 1596 [iii. 226].

But the word appears to have had an earlier origin, for in the decline of the Roman empire these trivial songs were called balistea and saltatiunculć. Ballisteum, Salmasius says, is properly ballistium. Gr.?????????,[Ballisteion] “? ??? ??????? . . . ????????? [apo ton ballizo . . . ballistia] Saltatio . . . Ballistium igitur est quod vulgo vocamus ballet; nam inde deducta vox nostra.”— Salmas. Not. in Hist. Ang. Scriptores, vi, p. 349. In the Life of the Emperor Aurelian by Fl. Vopiscus may be seen two of these ballistea, as slang by the boys skipping and dancing, on account of a great slaughter made by the emperor with his own hand in the Sarmatic war. The first is,

“Mille, mille, mille decollavimus, Unus homo mille decollavimus, Mille vivat, qui mille occidit. Tantum vini habet nemo Quantum fudit sanguinis.”

The other was

“Mille Sarmatas, mille Francos Selem et semel occidimus, Mille Persas qućrimus.”

Salmasius (in loc.) shows that the trivial poets of that time were wont to form their metre of Trochaic Tetrametre Catalectics, divided into distichs. [Ibid. p. 350.] This becoming the metre of the hymns in the church service, to which the monks at length superadded rhyming terminations, was the origin of the common trochaic metre in the modern languages. This observation I owe to the learned author of Irish Antiquities, 4to.

(FF2) Little Miscellanies named Garlands, &c.] In the Pepysian and other libraries are preserved a great number of these in black- letter, 12mo, under the following quaint and affected titles, viz.,

1. A Crowne Garland of Goulden Roses gathered out of England’s Royal Garden, &c., by Richard Johnson, 1512. [In the Bodleian Library.] 2. The Golden Garland of Princely Delight.— 3. The Garland of Good-will, by T. D. 1631.— 4. The Royal Garland of Love and Delight, by T. D.— 5. The Garland of Delight, &c., by Tho. Delone.— 6. The Garland of Love and Mirth, by Thomas Lanfier.— 7. Cupid’s Garland set round with Guilded Roses.— 8. The Garland of Withered Roses, by Martin Parker, 1656.— 9. The Shepherd’s Garland of Love, Loyalty, &c.— 10. The Country Garland.— 11. The Golden Garland of Mirth and Merriment.— 12. The Lover’s Garland.— 13. Neptune’s fair Garland.— 14. England’s fair Garland.— 15. Robin Hood’s Garland.— 16. The Maiden’s Garland.— 17. A Loyal Garland of Mirth and Pastime.— 18. A Royal Garland of New Songs.— 19. The Jovial Garland, 8th edit. 1691. —&c., &c., &c. This sort of petty-publications had anciently the name of Penny- Merriments: as little religious tracts of the same size were called Penny-Godlinesses. In the Pepysian Library are multitudes of both kinds.

(GG) The term Minstrel was not confined to a mere musician in this country any more than on the Continent.] The discussion of the question whether the term Minstrel was applied in England to singers and composers of songs, &c., or confined to the performers on musical instruments, was properly reserved for this place, because much light hath already been thrown upon the subject in the preceding notes, to which it will be sufficient to refer the reader.

That on the Continent the Minstrel was understood not to be a mere musician, but a singer of verses, has been shown in notes (B), (C), (R), (AA), &c.[29] And that he was also a maker of them, is evident from the passage in ©, where the most noted romances are said to be of the composition of these men. And in (BB), we have the titles of some of which a Minstrel was the author, who has himself left his name upon record. The old English names for one of this profession were Gleeman, Jogeler, and latterly Minstrel; not to mention Harper, &c. In French he was called Jongleur or Jugleur, Menestrel or Menestrier. The writers of the Middle Ages expressed the character in Latin by the words Joculator, Mimus, Histrio, Ministrellus, &c. These terms, however modern critics may endeavour to distinguish and apply them to different classes, and although they may be sometimes mentioned ss if they were distinct, I cannot find, after a very strict research, to have had any settled appropriate difference, but they appear to have been used indiscriminately by the oldest writers, especially in England; where the most general and comprehensive name was latterly Minstrel, Lat. Ministrellus, &c. Thus Joculator (Eng. Jogeler, or Juglar) is used as synonymous to Citharista, note (K), and to Cantor (ibid.) and to Minstrel. (Vide infra.) We have also positive proof that the subjects of his songs were gestes and romantic tales. (V 2), note. So Mimus is used as synonymous to Joculator (M). He was rewarded for his singing (N), and he both sang, harped, and dealt in that sport (T 2), which is elsewhere called Ars Joculatoria (M), ubi supra. Again, Histrio is also proved to have been a singer (Z), and to have gained rewards by his Verba Joculatoria (E). And Histriones is the term by which the French word Ministraulx is must frequently rendered into Latin (W), (BB), &c. The fact therefore is sufficiently established, that this order of men were in England, as well as on the Continent, singers, so that it only becomes a dispute about words, whether here, under the more general name of Minstrels, they are described as having sung. But in proof of this, we have only to turn to so common a book as T. Warton’s History of English Poetry, where we shall find extracted from records the following instances:- Ex. Registr. Priorat. S. Swithin Winton. (sub anno 1374) “In festo Alwyni Epi. . . . Et durante pietancia in Aula Conventus sex Ministralli, cum quatuor Citharisatoribus, faciebant Ministralcias suas. Et post cenam, in magna camera arcuata Dom. Prioris cantabant idem Gestum in qua Camera suspendebatur, ut moris est, magnum dorsale Prioris habens picturas trium Regum Colein. Veniebant autem dicti Joculatores a Castello Domini Regis et ex familia Epi.” (vol. ii. p. 174.) Here the Minstrels and Harpers are expressly called Joculatores; and as the Harpers had musical instruments, the singing must have been by the Minstrels, or by both conjointly. For that Minstrels sang we have undeniable proof in the following entry in the accompt roll of the priory of Bicester, in Oxfordshire (under the year 1432). “Dat. Sex Ministrallis de Bokyngham cantantibus in refectorio Martyrium Septem Dormientium in Festo Epiphanie, iv. s.” (Vol. ii. p. 175.) In like manner our old English writers abound with passages wherein the Minstrel is represented as singing. To mention only a few: In the old Romance of Emaré which from the obsoleteness of the style, the nakedness of the story, the barrenness of incidents, and some other particulars, I should judge to be next in point of time to Hornchild, we have

—”I have herd Menstrelles syng yn sawe” Stanza 27.

In a poem of Adam Davie (who flourished about 1312) we have this Distich,

“Merry it is in halle to here the harpe, The Minstrelles synge, the Jogelours carpe.” T. Warton, i. p. 225.

So William of Nassyngton (c. 1480) as quoted by Mr. Tyrwhitt, (Chaucer, iv. 319),

“—I will make no vain carpinge Of dedes of arrays ne of amours As dos Mynstrelles and Jestours [Gestours] That makys carpinge in many a place Of Octaviane and Isembrase, And of many other Jestes [Gestes] And namely whan they come to festes.[30]

See also the description of the Minstrel in Note (EE) from Morte Arthur, which appears to have been compiled about the time of this last writer. See T. Warton, ii. 235. By proving that Minstrels were singers of the old romantic songs and gestes, &c. we have in effect proved them to have been the makers at least of some of them. For the names of their authors being not preserved, to whom can we so probably ascribe the composition of many of these old popular rhymes, as to the men who devoted all their time and talents to the recitation of them? especially as in the rhymes themselves Minstrels are often represented as the makers or composers. Thus in the oldest of all, Horn-Child, having assumed the character of a Harper or Jogeler, is in consequence said (fo. 92) to have

“made Rymenild [his mistress] a lay.

In the old Romance of Emaré, we have this exhortation to Minstrels, as composers, otherwise they could not have been at liberty to choose their subjects, (st. 2).

“Menstrelles that walken fer and wyde Her and ther in every aside In mony a dyverse londe Sholde ut her bygynnyng Speke of that rightwes kyng That made both see and londe, &c.”

And in the old Song or Geste of Guy and Colbronde (Notes on Metrical Romances No. iv.) the Minstrel thus speaks of himself in the first person:

“When meate and drinke is great plentye Then lords and ladyes still wil be And sitt and solace lythe Then itt is time for MEE to speake Of keene knights and kempes great Such carping for to kythe.”

We have seen already that the Welsh Bards, who were undoubtedly composers of the songs they chanted to the Harp, could not be distinguished by our legislators from our own Rimers, Minstrels. Vid. (BB 3). And that the Provençal Troubadour of our King Richard, who is called by M. Favine Jongleur, and by M. Fauchet Menestrel, is by the old English translator termed a Rimer or Minstrel when he is mentioning the fact of his composing some verses. And lastly, that Holinshed, translating the prohibition of King Henry V., forbidding any songs to be composed on his victory, or to be sung by Harpers or others, roundly gives it, he would not permit “any ditties to be made and sung by Minstrels on his glorious victory,” &c. Vid. Note (BB 4). Now that this order of men, at first called Gleemen, then Juglers, and afterwards more generally Minstrels, existed here from the Conquest, who entertained their hearers with chanting to the harp or other instrument songs and tales of chivalry, or as they were called gests[31] and romances in verse in the English language, is proved by the existence of the very compositions they so chanted, which are still preserved in great abundance; and exhibit a regular series from the time our language was almost Saxon, till after its improvements in the age of Chaucer, who enumerates many of them. And as the Norman French was in the time of this bard still the courtly language, it shows that the English was not thereby excluded from affording entertainment to our nobility, who are so often addressed therein by the title of Lordings: and sometimes more positively “Lords and ladies.” And though many of these were translated from the French, others are evidently of English origin,[32] which appear in their turns to have afforded versions into that language; a sufficient proof of that inter-community between the French and English Minstrels, which hath been mentioned in a preceding page. Even the abundance of such translations into English, being all adapted for popular recitation, sufficiently establishes the fact, that the English Minstrels had a great demand for such compositions, which they were glad to supply whether from their own native stores, or from other languages. We have seen above that the Joculator, Mimus, Histrio, whether these characters were the same, or had any real difference, were all called Minstrels; as was also the Harper,[33] when the term implied a singer, if not a composer, of songs, &c. By degrees the name of Minstrel was extended to vocal and instrumental musicians of every kind: and as in the establishment of royal and noble houses, the latter would necessarily be most numerous, so we are not to wonder that the band of music (entered under the general name of Minstrels) should consist of instrumental performers chiefly, if not altogether: for, as the composer or singer of heroic tales to the harp would necessarily be a solitary performer, we must not expect to find him in the band along with the trumpeters, fluters, &c. However, as we sometimes find mention of “Minstrels of Music:”[34] so at other times we hear of “expert Minstrels and musicians of tongue and cunning” (BB 3)[35]; meaning doubtless by the former singers, and probably by the latter phrase composers of songs. Even “Minstrels Music” seems to be applied to the species of verse used by Minstrels in the passage quoted below.[36] But although, from the predominancy of instrumental music, minstrelsy was at length chiefly to be understood in this sense, yet it was still applied to the poetry of Minstrels so late as the time of Queen Elizabeth, as appears in the following extract from Puttenham’s Arte of Eng. Poesie, p. 9. Who, speaking of the first composers of Latin verses in rhyme, says, “all that they wrote to the favor or prayse of Princes they did it in such manner of Minstralsie; and thought themselves no small fooles, when they could make their verses go all in ryme,” I shall conclude this subject with the following description of Minstrelcy given by John Lidgate at the beginning of the fifteenth century, as it shows what a variety of entertainments were then comprehended under this term, together with every kind of instrumental music then in use.

“— Al maner MYNSTRALCYE, That any man kan specifye. Ffor there were Rotys of Almayne, And eke of Arragon, and Spayne SONGES, Stampes, and eke Daunces; Divers plente of plesaunces: And many unkouth NOTYS NEW OF SWICHE FOLKE AS LOVID TREUE.[37] And instrumentys, that did excelle, Many moo than I kan telle, Harpys, Fythales, and eke Rotys Well according to her (i.e. their) notys, Lutys, Ribibles, and Geternes, More for estatys, than tavernes: Orgay[n]s, Cytolis, Monacordys.— There were Trumpes, and Trumpettes, Lowde Shall[m]ys, and Doucettes. T. Warton, ii. 225, note (*).

END OF THE ESSAY

The foregoing Essay on the Ancient Minstrels has been very much enlarged and improved since the first Edition, with respect to the Anglo-Saxon Minstrels, in consequence of some objections proposed by the reverend and learned Mr. Pegge, which the reader may find in the second volume of the ARCHĆOLOGIA, printed by the Antiquarian Society; but which that gentleman has since retracted in the most liberal and candid manner in the third volume of the ARCHĆOLOGIA, No. xxxiv. p.

310.

And in consequence of similar objections respecting the English Minstrels after the Conquest, the subsequent part hath been much enlarged, and additional light thrown upon the subject; which, to prevent cavil, hath been extended to Minstrelsy in all its branches, as it was established in England, whether by natives or foreigners.

NOTES

1. The Anglo-Saxon and primary English name for this character was Gleeman [see Note (I) sect. 1], so that, wherever the term Minstrel is in these pages applied to it before the Conquest, it must be understood to be only by anticipation. Another early name for this profession in English was Jogeler, or Jocular, Lat. Joculator. [See note (V2), and note (Q).] To prevent confusion, we have chiefly used the more general word Minstrel: which (as the author of the Observ. on the Statutes hath suggested to the Editor), might have been originally derived from a diminutive of the Lat. Minister: scil. Ministerellus, Ministrellus. 2. Ministers seems to be used for Minstrels in the Account of the Inthronization of Abp. Neville (An. 6 Edw. IV.). “Then all the Chaplyns must say grace, and the Ministers do sing.”— Vide Lelandi Collectanea, by Hearne, vol. vi. p. 13. 3. It has however been suggested to the Editor by the learned and ingenious author of ‘Irish Antiquities,” 4to, that the ancient Mimi among the Romans had their heads and beards shaven, as is shown by Salmasius in Notis ad Hist. August. Scriptores VI. Paris, 1620, fol. p. 985. So that this peculiarity had a classical origin, though it afterwards might make the Minstrels sometimes pass for Ecclesiastics, as appears from the instance given below. Dr. Burney tells us that Histriones and Mimi abounded in France in the time of Charlemagne (ii. 221), so that their profession was handed down in regular succession from the time of the Romans, and therewith some leading distinctions of their habit or appearance; yet with a change In their arts of pleasing, which latterly were most confined to singing and music. 4. Yet in St. Mary’s church in Beverley, one of the columns hat this inscription:— “Thys pillar made the Mynstrylls:” having its capital decorated with figures of five men in short coats, one of whom holds an instrument resembling a lute.— See Sir J. Hawkins, Hist. ii. 298. 5. Vide infra, note (AA). 6. Vide notes (B) (K) (Q). 7. The Minstrels in France were received with great magnificence in the 14th century. Froissart, describing a Christmas entertainment given by the Comte de Foix, tells us that “there were many Mynstrels, as well of hys own as of straungers, and eache of them dyd their devoyre in their faculties. The same day the Erle of Foix gave to Heraulds and Minstrelles, the som of fyve hundred frankes; and gave to the Duke of Tourayns Mynstreles Gownes of Clothe of Gold furred with Ermyne valued at two hundred Frankes.”— B. iii. c. 31, Eng. Trans. Lond. 1525. (Mr. C.) 8. Et vide Pollcraticon, cap. viii,, &c. 9. Vide Nicholson’s Eng. Hist. Lib. &c. 10. Gleeman continued to be the name given to a Minstrel both in England and Scotland almost as long as this order of men continued. In De Brunne’s metrical version of Bishop Grosthead’s Manuel de Peche, A.D. 1303 (see Warton, 5. 61), we have this,

— Gode men, ye shall lere When ye any Gleman, here.”

Fabyan (in his Chronicle, 1133, f. 32); translating the passage from Geoffrey of Monmouth, quoted below in note (K), renders Deus Joculatorum, by God of Gleemen.— Warton’s Hist. Eng. Poet. Diss. 1. Fabyan died in 1592. Dunbar, who lived in the same century, describing, in one of his poems, entitled “The Daunce,” what passed in the infernal regions “amangis the Feyndis,” says,

“Na Menstrills playit to thame, but dowt For Gle-men thaire were haldin out, Be day and eke by nycht.”

See Poems from Bannatynes MS. Edinb. 1770, 12mo, p. 30. Maitland’s MS. at Cambridge reads here, Glewe men. 11. To gleek, is used in Shakspeare for ‘to make sport, to jest’ &c. 12. The preceding list of Anglo-Saxon words, so full and copious beyond anything that ever yet appeared in print on this subject, was extracted from Mr. Lye’s curious Anglo-Saxon lexicon, in MS., but the arrangement here is the Editor’s own. It had, however, received the sanction of Mr. Lye’s approbation, and would doubtless have been received into his printed copy, had he lived to publish it himself. It should also be observed, for the sake of future researches, that without the assistance of the old English interpretations given by Somner, in his Anglo-Saxon Dictionary, the Editor of this book never could have discovered that Glee signified Minstrelsy, or Gligman a Minstrel. 13. Neven, i.e. name. 14. Geoffrey of Monmouth is probably here describing the appearance of the Joculatores or Minstrels, as it was in his own time. For they apparently derived this part of their dress, &c., from the Mimi of the ancient Romans, who had their heads and beards shaven (see above, note 3): as they likewise did the mimickry, and other arts of diverting, which they superadded to the composing and singing to the harp heroic songs, &c., which they inherited from their own progenitors the Bards and Scalds of the ancient Celtic and Gothic nations. The Longobardi had, like other Northern people, brought these with them into Italy. For in the year 774, when Charlemagne entered Italy and found his passage impeded, he was met by a minstrel of Lombardy, whose song promised him success and victory. “Contigit Joculatorem ex Longobardom gente ad Carolum venire, et Cantiunculam a se compositam, rotando in conspectus suprum cantare.”— Tom ii. p. 2, Chron. Monast. Noval. lib. iii. cap. x. p. 717. (T. Warton’s Hist vol. ii. Emend. of vol. i. p. ll3.) 15. Natus 1030, scripsit 1091, obiit 1109. —Tanner. 16. Obiit anno 1142, —Tanner. 17. Both Ingulph. and Will. of Malmesb. had been very conversant among the Normans, who appear not to have had such prejudices against the Minstrels as the Anglo-Saxons had. 18. Thus Leodh, the Saxon word for a Poem, is properly a Song, and its derivative Lied signifies a Ballad to this day in the Gennan tongue: and Cantere, we have seen above, is by Alfred himself rendered Be hearpan singan. 19. The Tabour or Tabourin was a common instrument with the French Minstrels, as it had also been with the Anglo-Saxon (vide p. x11.): thus in an ancient Fr. MS. in the Marl. Collection (2253, 75) a Minstrel is described as riding on horseback and bearing his tabour:

“Entour son col porta son Tabour, Depeynt de Or, e riche Açour. ”

—See also a passage in Menage’s Diction Etym. [v. MENESTRIERS], where Tabours is used as synonymous to Menestriers. Another frequent instrument with them was the Viele. This, I am told, is the name of an instrument at this day, which differs from a guitar, in that the player turns round a handle at the top of the instrument, and with his other hand plays on some keys that touch the chords and produce the sound. See Dr. Burney ‘s account of the Vielle, vol. ii. p. 263, who thinks it the same with the Rote, or wheel. See p. 270 in the note.

“Il ot un Jougleor a Sens, Qui navoit pas sovent robe entiere; Sovent estoit sans sa Viele.” —Fabliaux et Cont. ii. 184, 185. 20. “Romanset Jutglar canta alt veux . . . devant lo senyor Rey.”— Chron. d’Aragon, apud Du Cange, iv. 771. 21. It ought to have been observed in vol. ii, Metrical Romances no. 31, that Amys and Amylion were no otherwise “brothers,” than as being fast friends: as was suggested by the learned Dr. Samuel Pegge, who was so obliging as to favour the Essayist formerly with a curious transcript of this poem, accompanied with valuable illustrations, &c.; and that it was his opinion, that both the fragment of the Lady Bellesent, mentioned in the same no. 31, and also the mutilated Tale, no. 37, were only imperfect copies of the above romance of Amys and Amylion, which contains the two lines quoted in no. 37. 22. Wherever the word Romance occurs in these metrical narratives, it hath been thought to afford decisive proof of a translation from the Romance or French language. Accordingly it is so urged by T. Warton (i. 146, note), from two passages in the pr. copy of Sir Eglamour, viz. sign. E. 1,

“In Romaunce as we rede.”

Again in fol. ult.

“In Romaunce this cronycle is.”

But in the Cotton MS. of the original, the first passage is

“As I herd a Clerke rede.”

And the other thus,

“In Rome this Gest cronycled ys.”

So that I believe references to “the Romaunce,” or the like, were often mere expletive phrases inserted by the oral Reciters; one of whom I conceive had altered or corrupted the old Syr Eglamour in the manner that the copy was printed. 23. The Harp (Lat. Cithara) differed from the Sautry, or Psaltry (Lat. Psalterium), in that the former was a stringed instrument, and the latter was mounted with wire: there was also some difference in the construction of the bellies, &c. See “Bartholomćus de proprietatibus rerum,” as Englished by Trevisa and Batman, ed. 1584, in Sir J. Hawkins’ Hist. ii. p. 285. 24. JOGELER (Lat Joculator) was a very ancient name for a Minstrel. Of what nature the performance of the Joculator was we may lern from the Register of St. Swithin’s Priory at Winhester (T.Warton i. 69.) “Et cantabat JOCULATOR quidam nominee Herbertus Canticum Colbrondi, necnon Gestum Emme regine a judico ignis liberate, in aula Prioris.” His instrument was sometimes the FYTHELE, or Fiddle, Lat. Fidicula: which occurs in the Anglo-Saxon lexicon. On this subject we have a curious passage from an MS. of the Lives of the Saints in metre, supposed to be earlier than the year 1200 (T. Warton’s Hist. i. p. 17), viz.

Christofre him served longe The kinge loved melodye much of fithele and of songe So that his Jogeler on a day beforen him gon to play faste And in a tyme he nempned in his song the devil at laste.” 25. Le Compte. 26. Sornette. [A gibe, a jest, or flouting] 27. Janglerie, babillage, raillerie. 28. If the twenty-four songs in what is now called Robin Hood’s Garland, many are so modern as not to be found in Pepys’s Collection, completed only in 1700. In the folio MS. are ancient fragments of the following, viz.— Robin Hood and the Beggar.— Robin Hood and the Butcher.— Robin Hood and Fryer Tucke.— Robin Hood and the Pindar.— Robin Hood and Queen Catharine, In two parts.— Little John and the four Beggars, and “Robin Hode his Death” This last, which is very curious, has no resemblance to any that have been published; and the others are extremely different from the printed copies; but they unfortunately were in the beginning of the MS., where half of every leaf hath been torn away. 29. That the French Minstrel was a singer and composer, &c., appears from many passages translated by M. le Grand, in Fabliaux et Contes, &c. See tom i. p. 37, 4; ii, 306, 313 et seq.; III. 266, &c. Yet this writer, like other French critics, endeavours to reduce to disctinct and separate classes the men of this profession, under the precise names of Fablier, Conteur, Menetrier, Menestrel, and Jongleur, (tom. i. Pref. p. xcvii.),whereas his own Tales confute all these nice distinctions, or prove at least that the title of Menetrier, or Minstrel, was applied to them all. 30. The fondness of the English (even the most illiterate) to hear tales and rhymes, is much dwelt on by Rob. de Brunne, in 1330. (Warton, i. p. 59, 65, 75.) All rhymes were then sung to the harp: even Troilus and Cresseide, though almost as long as the Ćneid, was to be “redde or else songe.” — 1. ult. (Warton, i. 388). 31. GESTS at length came to signify adventures or incidents in general. So in a narrative of the Journey into Scotland, of Queen Margaret and her attendants, on her marriage with King James IV. in 1503 (in Appendix to Leland. Collect. iv. p. 265.) we are promised an account “of their Gestys and manners during the said voyage.” 32. The Romance of Richard Cur de Lion (No. 25.) I should judge to be of English origin from the names Wardrewe and Eldrede, &c. vol. ii. p. 176. As is also Eger and Grime, (No. 12) wherein a knight is named Sir Gray Steel, and a lady who excels in surgery is called Loospaine, or Lose-pain: these surely are not derived from France. 33. See the Romance of Sir Isenbras (vol. ii. No. 14. p. 99), sign. a.

“Harpers loved him in Hall With other Minstrels all.”

34. T. Warton, ii. 258. Note (a) from Leland’s Collect. (vol. iv. Append. edit. 1774, p. 267). 35. The curious author of the “Tour in Wales, 1773,” 4to. p. 435, I find to have read these words “in toune and contrey;” which I can scarce imagine to have been applicable to Wales at that time. Nor can I agree with him in the representation he has given (p. 367) concerning the Cymmorth or meeting, wherein the Bards exerted their powers to excite their countrymen to war; as if it were by a deduction of the particulars he enumerates, and as it should seem in the way of harangue, &c. After which, “the band of Minstrels . . . struck up; the harp, the crwth, and the pipe filled the measures of enthusiasm, which the others had begun to inspire.” Whereas it is well known, that the Bard chanted his enthusiastic effusions to the harp; and as for the term Minstrel, it was not, I conceive, at all used by the Welsh; and in English it comprehended both the Bard and the Musician. 36. “Your ordinarie rimers use very much their measures in the odde, as nine and eleven, and the sharpe accent upon the last sillable, which therefore makes him go ill favouredly and like ‘a MINSTRELS MUSICKE.’”—(Puttenham’s Arte of Eng. Poesie, 1589, p. 59.) This must mean his vocal music, otherwise it appears not applicable to the subject. 37. By this phrase I understand, new tales or narrative rhymes composed by the Minstrels on the subject of true and faithful Lovers, &c.

Epigraph.

“I never heard the old song of Percie and Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet: and yet ‘it’ is sung but by some blinde crowder, with no rougher voice, than rude style; which beeing so evill apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivill age, what would it work, trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindare!”. SIR PHILIP SYDNEY’S DEFENCE OF POETRY. An ordinary Song or Ballad, that is the delight of the common people, cannot fail to please all such readers as are not unqualified for the entertainment by their affectation or their ignorance; and the reason is plain, because the same paintings of Nature which recommend it to the most ordinary reader will appear beautiful to the most refined. ADDISON, in SPECTATOR, No. 70.

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[l] 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 Sydney: 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, 8vo. vol i. To the MS. copy is subjoined the name of the author, RYCHARD SHEALE;[2] 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 entituled, The Complaint of Scotland,[3] (fol. 42), under the title of the HUNTIS OF CHEVET, where the two following lines are also quoted:

The Perssee and the Mongumrye mette,[4] That day, that day, that gentil day:[5]

which though 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 James the Scottish King,[6] with one or two anachronisms, forbids us to assign it an earlier date. King James I., who was prisoner in this kingdom at the death of his father,[7] did not wear the crown of Scotland till the second year of our Henry VI.,[8] but before the end of that long reign a third James had mounted the throne[9]. A succession of two or three Jameses, and the long detention of one of them in England, would render the name familiar to the English, and dispose a poet in those rude times to give it to any Scottish king he happened to mention.

So much for the date of this old ballad: with regard to its subject, although 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.[10] 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.[11] Percy earl of Northumherland 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 produce a sharp conflict between the two parties; something of which, it is probable, did really happen, though not attended with the tragical circumstances recorded in the ballad: for these are evidently borrowed from the Battle of Otterbourn,[12] a very different event, but which aftertimes would easily confound with it. That battle might be owing to some such previous affront as this of Chevy-Chase, though it has escaped the notice of historians. Our poet has evidently jumbled the two subjects together: if indeed the lines[13] in which this mistake is made, are not rather spurious, and the after-insertion of some person who did not distinguish between the two stories. 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 FIT[14]

THE Persč owt of Northombarlande, And a vowe to God mayd he, That he wolde hunte in the mountains Off Chyviat within dayes thre, In the mauger of doughtč Dogles, And all that ever with him be.

The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat 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.”

Then the Persč owt of Banborowe cam, With him a myghtye meany; With fifteen hondrith archares bold The wear chosen out of shyars thre.[15]

This begane on a Monday at morn In Cheviat the hillys so he; The chyld may rue that ys un-born, It was the mor pittč.

The dryvars thorowe the woodčs went For to reas the dear; Bomen bickarte uppone the bent With ther browd aras cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went On every sydč shear; Grea-hondes thorowe the greves glent For to kyll thear dear.

The begane in Chyviat the hyls above Yerly on a Monnyn day; Be that it drewe to the oware off none A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.

The blewe a mort uppone the bent, The semblyd on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Persč went To se the bryttlyng off the deare.

He sayd, It was the Duglas promys This day to meet me hear; But I wyste he wold faylle verament: A gret oth the Persč swear.

At the laste a squyar of Northornbelonde Lokyde at his hand full ny, He was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge: With him a myghtč meany,

Both with spear, ‘byll,’ and brande: Yt was a myghti sight to se. Hardyar men both off hart nar hande Wear not in Christiantč.

The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good Withouten any fayle; The wear borne a-long be the watter a Twyde Yth, bowndes of Tividale.

“Leave off the brytlyng of the dear,” he sayde, “And to your bowys tayk good heed For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne Had ye never so mickle need.”

The dougheti Dogglas on a stede He rode att his men beforne; His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; A bolder barne was never born.

“Tell me what men ye ar,” he says, “Or whos men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays in the spyt of me?”

The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, Yt was the good lord Persč: “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.

“The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way.” “Be my troth,” sayd the doughtč Dogglas agayn, “Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day.”

Then sayd the doughtč Doglas Unto the lord Persč: “To kyll all thes giltless men, Alas! it wear great pittč.

“But, Persč, thowe art a lord of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my countrč; Let all our men uppone a parti stande; And do the battell off the and of me.”

“Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne,” sayd the lord Persč, “Who-soever ther-to says nay. Be my troth, doughtč Doglas,” he says, “Thow shalt never se that day;”

“Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, Nor for no man of a woman born, But and fortune be my chance, I dar met him on man for on.

Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Ric. Wytharynton[16] was his nam; “It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde,” he says, To Kyng Henry the fourth for sham.

“I wat youe byn great lordes twa, I am a poor squyar of lande; I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande my-selffe, and looke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde, I wyll not fayl both harte and hande.”

That day, that day, that dredfull day: The first Fit[17] here I fynde. And youe wyll here any mor a’ the hountyng a’ the Chyviat, Yet ys ther mor behynde.

THE SECOND FIT

THE Yngglishe men bade ther bowys yebent, Ther hartes were good yenoughe; The first of arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet bydys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, A captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.

The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre, Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, With suar speares off myghttč tre The cum in on every syde.

Thrughe our Yngglishe archery Gave many a wounde full wyde; Many a doughete the garde to dy, Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Yngglyshe men let thear bowys be, And pulde owt brandes that wer bright; It was a hevy syght to se Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple Many sterne the stroke downe streght: Many a freyke, that was full free, Ther undar foot dyd lyght.

At last the Duglas and the Persč met, Lyk to captayns of myght and mayne; The swapte togethar tyll the both swat With swordes, that were of fyn myllŕn.

Thes worthč freckys for to fight Ther-to the wear full fayne, Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, As ever dyd heal or rayne.

“Holde the, Persč,” sayd the Doglas, “And i’ feth I shall the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.

“Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre, I hight the hear this thinge, For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng.”

“Nay then,” sayd the lord Persč, I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man of a woman born.”

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely Forthe off a mightie wane,[18] Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas In at the brest bane.

Thoroue lyvar and longs hathe The sharp arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe days, He spake mo wordes but ane, That was,[19] “Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may, For my lyff days ben gan.”

The Persč leanyde on his brande, And sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede man be the hande, And sayd, “Wo ys me for the!

“To have savyde thy lyffe I wold have pertyd with My landes for years thre, For a better man of hart, nare of hande Was not in all the north countrč.

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry, He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght; He spendyd a spear, a trusti tre:

He rod uppon a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery; He never styntyde, nar never blane, Tyll he cam to the good lord Persč.

He set uppone the lord Persč A dynte, that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghte tre Clean thorow the body he the Persč bore,

A’ the tothar syde, that a man myght se, A large cloth yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiante, Then that day slain wear thare.

An archer off Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Persč, He bar a bende-bow in his hande, Was made off trusti tre:

An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, To th’ hard stele halyde he; A dynt, that was both sad and soar, He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and soar, That he of Mongon-byrry sete; The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, With his hart blood the wear wete.[20]

Ther was never a freake wone foot wold fle, But still in stour dyd stand, Heawing on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, With many a bal-ful brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat An owar befor the none, And when even-song bell was rang The battell was nat half done.

The tooke on on ethar hand Be the lyght off the mone; Many hade no strenght for to stande, In Chyviat the hyllys abone.

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde Went away but fifti and thre Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But even five and fifti

But all wear slayne Cheviat within: The hade no strengthe to stand on hie; The chylde may rue that ys un-borne, It was the mor pittč.

Thear was slayne with the lord Persč Sir John of Agerstone,[21] Sir Roger, the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam the bold Hearone.

Sir Jorg the worthč Lovele A knyght of great renowen, Sir Raff, the ryche Rugbč With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne.

Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry, Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthč was, His sistars son was he:

Sir Charles a Murrč, in that place, That never a foot wolde fle; Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Duglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off byrch, and hasell so gray; Many wedous with wepyng tears[22] Cam to fach ther makys a-way.

Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayk grat mone, For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear, On the march perti shall never be none.

Word ys commen to Edden-burrowe, To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches, He lay slean Chyviot with-in.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, He sayd, “Alas, and woe ys me!” Such another captayn Skotland within, He sayd, y-feth shuld never be.

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Persč, leyff-tennante of the Merchis, He lay slayne Chyviat within.

“God have merci on his soll,” sayd kyng Harry, “Good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde,” he sayd, As good as ever was hee: But Persč, and I brook my lyffe, Thy deth well quyte shall be.”

As our noble kyng made his a-vowe, Lyke a noble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lord Persč, He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down

Wher syx and thritte Skottish knyghtes On a day wear beaten down: Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, Over castill, towar, and town.

This was the hontynge off the Cheviat; That tear begane this spurn: Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, Call it the Battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn began this spurne Uppon a monnyn day: Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean, The Persč never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the March partes Sen the Doglas and the Persč met, But yt was marvele, and the redde blude ronne not, As the reane doys in the stret.

Jhesue Christ our balys bete, 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 Humbledon, was fought Sept. 14, 1402 (anno 3 Hen. IV.), wherein the English, under the command of the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur, gained a complete victory over the Scots. The village of Humbledon is one mile northwest from Wooler, in Northumberland. The battle was fought in the field below the village, near the present turnpike road, in a spot called ever since Red-Riggs. Humbledon is in Glendale Ward, a district so named in this county, and mentioned above in ver. 163.

NOTES

1. Spectator, No. 70, 74. 2. Subscribed after the usual manner of our old poets, expliceth (explicit) quoth Rychard Sheale. 3. 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.— See Ames. 4. See Pt. 2. v. 25. 5. See Pt. 1. v. 104. 6. Pt. 2. v. 36, 140. 7. Who died Aug. 5, 1406, in the 7th year of our Hen. IV. 8. James I. was crowned May 22, 1424; murdered Feb. 21, 1436-7. 9. In 1460. Hen. VI. was deposed 1461; restored and slain, 1471. 10. Item . . . . Concordatum est, quod, . . . NULLUS unius partis vel alterius ingrediatur terras, boschas, forrestas, warrenas, loca, dominia qućcunque alicujus partis alterius subditi, causa venandi, piscandi, aucupandi, disportum aut solatium in eisdem, aliave qućcunque de causa, ABSQUE LICENTIA ejus . . . ad quem . . . loca . . . pertinent, aut de deputatis suis prius capt. et obtent. — Vide Bp. Nicholson’s Leges Marchiarum, 1705, 8vo. pp. 27, 51. 11. This was the original title. See the ballad, Pt. 1. v. 101. Pt. 2. v. 165. 12. See the next ballad. 13. Vide Pt. 2. v. 167. 14. See ver. 100. 15. 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 Islandshire, being the district so named from Holy-Island; Norehamshire, so called from the town and castle of Noreham, or Norham; and Bamboroughshire, the ward or hundred belonging to Baamborough-castle and town. 16. This is probably corrupted in the manuscript for Rog. Widdrington, who was at the head of the family in the reign of King Edward III. There were several successively of the names of Roger and Ralph, but none of the name of Richard, as appears from the genealogies in the Heralds’ office. 17. Vid. Glos 18.Wane, i.e. ane, one, sc. man. an arrow came from a mighty one: from a mighty man. 19. This seems to have been a gloss added. 20. This incident is taken from the battle of Otterbourne; in which Sir Hugh Montgomery, Knt. (son of John Lord Montgomery) was slain with an arrow. Vid. Crawford’s Peerage. 21. For these names see the remarks at the end of the next ballad. 22. A common pleonasm. (See the next poem, Fit 2d. ver. 155.) So Harding, in his Chronicle, chap. 140. fol. 148, describing the death of Richard I., says:

He shrove him then unto abbots thre With great sobbyng . . . and wepyng teares.

So likewise Cavendish, in his Life of Cardinal Wolsey, chap. 12. P. 31, 4to. “When the Duke heard this, he replied with weeping teares,” &c.

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 excusable, 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, with a few corrections, 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,[1] they invaded Northumberland; and, having wasted part of the county of Durham,[2] advanced to the gates of Newcastle: where, in a skirmish, they took a ‘penon’ or colours[3] belonging to Henry Lord Percy, surnamed Hotspur, son of the Earl of Northumberland. In their retreat home, they attacked a castle near Otterbourn: and, in the evening of Aug. 9 (as the English writers say, or rather, according to Froissart, Aug. 15), after an unsuccessful assault, were surprised in their camp, which was very strong, by Henry, who at the first onset put them into a good deal of confusion. But James Earl of Douglas rallying his men, there ensued one of the best-fought actions that happened in that age; both armies showing the utmost bravery;[4] the Earl Douglas himself being slain on the spot;[5] the Earl of Murrey mortally wounded; and Hotspur,[6] with his brother Ralph Percy, taken prisoners. These disasters on both sides have given occasion to the event of the engagement’s being disputed; Froissart (who derives his relation from a Scotch knight, two gentlemen of the same country, and as many of Foix[7]) affirming that the Scots remained masters of the field; and the English writers insinuating the contrary. These last maintain that the English had the better of the day: but night coming on, some of the northern lords, coming with the Bishop of Durham to their assistance, killed many of them by mistake, supposing them to be Scots; and the Earl of Dunbar, at the same time falling on another side upon Hotspur, took him and his brother prisoners, and carried them off while both parties were fighting. It is at least certain, that immediately after this battle the Scots engaged in it made the best of their way home: and the same party was taken by the other corps about Carlisle.” 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[8] 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;[9] so that shortely ECHE OF THEM IS SO CONTENTE WITH OTHER, THAT AT THEIR DEPARTVNGE 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 (in this present edition) printed from an old manuscript in the Cotton Library[10] (Cleopatra, c. iv.) and contains many stanzas more than were in the former copy, which was transcribed from a manuscript in the Harleian Collection [No. 293, fol. 52]. In the Cotton manuscript this poem has no title, but in the Harleian copy it is thus inscribed, “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 1388.” But this title is erroneous, and added by some ignorant transcriber of after-times; for, i. The battle was not fought by the Earl of Northumberland, who was absent, but by his son Sir Henry Percy, Knt. surnamed Hotspur. [In those times they did not usually give the title of Lord to an earl’s eldest son.] 2. Although the battle was fought in Richard IId’s time, the song is evidently of later date, as appears from the poet’s quoting the chronicles in Pt. II. ver. 26; and speaking of Percy in the last stanza as dead. It was however written in all likelihood as early as the foregoing song, if not earlier. This perhaps may be inferred from the minute circumstances with which the story is related, many of which are recorded in no chronicle, and were probably preserved in the memory of old people. It will be observed that the authors of these two poems have some lines in common; but which of them was the original proprietor must depend upon their priority; and this the sagacity of the reader must determine.

YT felle abowght the Lamasse tyde, Whan husbands wynn ther haye,[11] The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd hym to ryde In Ynglond to take a praye:

The yerlle of Fyffe,[12] withowghten stryffe, He bowynd hym over Sulway:[13] The grete wolde ever together ryde; That race they may rue for aye.

Over Ottercap hyll they[14] came in, And so dowyn by Rodelyffecragge, Upon Grene Leyton they lyghted dowyn, Styrande many a stagge;[15]

And boldely brente Northomberlonde, And haryed many a towyn; They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete range, To battel that were not bowyn.

Than spake a berne upon the bent, Of comforte that was not colde, And sayd, We have brent Northomberlond, We have all welth in holde.

“Now we have haryed all Bamboroweshyre, All the welth in the worlde have wee; I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, So styll and stalwurthlye.”

Uppon the morowe, when it was daye, The standards schone fulle bryght; To the Newe Castelle the take the waye, And thether they cam fulle ryght.

Sir Henry Percy laye at the Newe Castelle, I telle yow withowtten drede; He had byn a march-man[16] all hys dayes, And kepte Barwyke upon Twede.

To the Newe Castell when they cam, The Skottes they cryde on hyght, “Syr Harye Percy, and thow byste within, Com to the fylde, and fyght:

“For we have brente Northomberlonde, Thy eritage good and ryght; And syne[17] my logeyng I have take, With my brande dubbyd many a knyght.”

Sir Harry Percy cam to the walles, The Skottyssh oste for to se; “And thow hast brent Northomberlond, Full sore it rewyth me.

Yf thou hast haryed all Bambarowe shyre, Thow hast done me grete envye; For the trespasse thow hast me done, The tone of us schall dye.”

“Where schall I byde the?” sayd the Dowglas, Or where wylte thow come to me? “At Otterborne in the hygh way,[18] Ther maist thow well logeed be.

“The roo[19] full rekeles ther sche rinnes, To make the game and glee: The fawkon and the fesaunt both, Amonge on the holtes on hee.

“Ther maist thow have thy welth at wyll, Well looged ther maist be. Yt schall not be long, or I com the tyll,” Sayd Syr Harry Percye.

“Ther schall I byde the,” sayd the Dowglas, “By the fayth of my bodye.” “Thether schall I com,” sayd Syr Harry Percy; My trowth I plyght to the.”

A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles, For soth, as I yow saye: Ther he mayd the Douglas drynke, And all hys oste that daye.

The Dowglas turnyd him homewarde agayne, For soth withowghten naye, He tooke his logeyng at Oterborne Uppon a Wedyns-day

And ther he pyght hys standerd dowyn, Hys gettyng more and lesse, And syne he warned hys men to goo To chose ther geldyngs gresse.

A Skottysshe knyght hoved upon the bent, A wache I dare well saye: So was he ware on the noble Percy In the dawnynge of the daye.

He prycked to his pavyleon dore, As faste as he myght ronne, “Awaken, Dowglas,” cryed the knyght, “For hys love, that syttes yn trone.

“Awaken, Dowglas,” cryed the knyght, “For thow maiste waken wyth wynne: Yender have I spyed the prowde Percy, And seven standardes wyth hym.”

“Nay by my trowth,” the Douglas sayed, It ys but a fayned taylle: He durste not loke on my bred banner, For all Ynglonde so haylle.

“Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell, That stands so fayre on Tyne? For all the men the Percy hade, He cowde not garre me ones to dyne.”

He stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore, To loke and it were lesse; “Araye yow, lordyngs, one and all, For here bygynnes no peysse.

“The yerle of Mentaye,[20] thow arte my eme, The forwarde I gyve to the: The yerlle of Huntlay cawte and kene, He schall wyth the be.

“The Lorde of Bowghan[21] in armure bright On the other hand he schall be; Lorde Jhonstone, and Lorde Maxwell, They to schall be with me.

“Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde To batell make yow bowen, Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstone.

A FYTTE

THE Perssy came byfore hys oste, Wych was ever a gentyll knyght, Upon the Dowglas lowde can he crye, I wyll holde that I have hyght:[22]

“For thow haste brente Northumberlonde, And done me grete envye; For thys trespasse thou hast me done, The tone of us schall dye.”

The Dowglas answerde hym agayne With grete wurds up on hee, And sayd, “I have twenty agaynst thy one,”[23] Byholde and thow maiste see.”

Wyth that the Percye was greved sore, For sothe as I yow saye: [24] [He lyghted dowyn upon his fote, And schoote his horsse clene away.

Every man sawe that he dyd soo, That ryall was ever in rowght; Every man schoote hys horsse him froo, And lyght hym rowynde abowght.

Thus Syr Hary Percye toke the fylde, For soth, as I yow saye Jesu Cryste in hevyn on hyght Dyd helpe hym well that daye.

But nyne thowzand, ther was no moo; The cronykle wyll not layne Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne.

But when the batell byganne to joyne, In hast ther came a knyght, Then letters fayre furth hath he tayne, And thus he sayd full ryght

“My Lorde, your father he gretes yaw well, Wyth many a noble knight He desyres yow to byde That he may see thys fyght.

“The Baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west, Wyth hym a noble companye; All they loge at your fathers thys nyght, And the Battel fayne wold they see.”

“For Jesu’s love,” sayd Syr Harye Percy, “That dyed for yow and me, Wende to my lorde my Father agayne, And saye thow saw me not with yee:”

“My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght, It nedes me not to tayne, That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent, And I have hys trowth agayne:

“And if that I wende off thys grownde For soth unfoughten awaye, He wolde me call but a kowarde knight In hys londe another daye.

“Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, By Mary that mykel maye; Then ever my manhod schulde be reprovyd Wyth a Skotte another daye.

“Wherfore schote, archars, for my sake, And let scharpe arowes flee: Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson, And well quyt it schall be.

“Every man thynke on hys trewe love, And marke hym to the Trenite: For to God I make myne avowe Thys day wyll I not fle.”

The blodye Harte in the Dowglas armes, Hys standerde stode on hye; That every man myght full well knowe: By syde stode Starres thre:

The whyte Lyon on the Ynglysh parte, Forsoth as I yow sayne; The Lucetts and the Cressawnts both: The Skotts faught them agayne.[25]]

Uppon sent Andrewe lowde cane they crye, And thrysse they schowte on hyght, And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men, As I have tolde yow ryght.

Sent George the bryght owr ladyes knyght, To name they[26] were full fayne, Owr Ynglysshe men they cryde on hyght, And thrysse the schowtte agayne.

Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, I tell yow in sertayne; Men of armes byganne to joyne; Many a dowghty man was ther slayne.

The Percy and the Dowglas mette, That ether of other was fayne; They schapped together, whyll that the swette, With swords of fyne Collayne;

Tyll the bloode from their bassonetts ranne, As the roke doth in the rayne. “Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas, Or ells thow schalt be slayne:”

“For I see, by thy bryght bassonet, Thow arte sum man of myght; And so I do by thy burnysshed brande, Thow art an yerle, or ells a knyght.[27]”

“By my good faythe,” sayd the noble Percy, Now haste thou rede full ryght, Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, Whyll I may stonde and fyght.”

They swapped together, whyll that they swette, Wyth swordes scharpe and long; Ych on other so faste they beette, Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn.

The Percy was a man of strenghth, I tell yow in thys stounde, He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length, That he felle to the growynde.

The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte, I tell yow in sertayne; To the harte, he cowde hym smyte, Thus was the Dowglas slayne.

The stonderds stode styll on eke syde, With many a grevous grone; Ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght, And many a dowghty man was slone.

Ther was no freke, that ther wolde flye, But styffly in stowre can stond, Ychone hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, Wyth many a bayllefull bronde.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, For soth and sertenly, Syr James a Dowglas[29] ther was slayne, That daye that he cowde dye.[30]

The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne, Grysely groned uppon the growynd Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Steward, Syr John of Agurstonne.

Syr Charlles Morrey in that place, That never a fote wold flye Sir Hughe Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Dowglas dyd he dye.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, For soth as I yow saye, Of fowre and forty thowsande Scotts Went but eyghtene awaye.

Ther was slayne upon the Englysshe syde, For soth and sertentye, A gentell knyght, Sir John Fitz-hughe, Yt was the more petye.

Syr James Harbotell ther was slayne, For hym ther hartes were sore, The gentyll Lovelle ther was slayne, That the Percyes standerd bore.

Ther was slayne uppon the Ynglyssh perte, For soth as I yow saye; Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men Fyve hondert cam awaye:

The other were slayne in the felde, Cryste kepe their sowles from wo, Seyng ther was so fewe fryndes Agaynst so many a foo.

Then one[32] the morne they mayd them beeres Of byrch, and haysell graye; Many a wydowe with wepyng teyres Ther makes they fette awaye.

Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne, Bytwene the nyghte and the day: Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyfe, And the Percy was lede awaye.[33]

Then was ther a Scottyshe prisoner tayne, Syr Hughe Mongomery was hys name, For soth as I yow saye, He borowd the Percy home agayne.[34]

Now let us all for the Percy praye To Jesu most of myght, To bryng hys sowle to the blysse of heven, For he was a gentyll knyght.

NOTES

1. 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. 2. 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. 3. This circumstance is omitted in the ballad. Hotspur and Douglas were two young warriors much of the same age. 4. 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. 5. 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. 6. 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 Crawford’s Peerage (and seems also to be alluded to in the foregoing ballad), but taken prisoner and exchanged for Hotspur, according to this ballad. 7. Froissart (according to the English translation) says he had his account from two squires of England, and from a knight and squire of Scotland, soon after the battle. 8. So in Langham’s letter concerning Queen Elizabeth’s entertainment at Killingworth Castle, 1575, 12mo. p. 61. “Heer was no ho in devout drinkyng.” 9. i.e. They scorn to take the advantage, or to keep them lingering in long captivity. 10. The notice of this MS. I must acknowledge with many other obligations, owing to the friendship of Thomas Tyrwhitt, Esq., late Clerk of the House of Commons. 11. Winn their heaye. Harl. MS. This is the Northumberland phrase to this day: by which they always express “getting in their hay.” The orig. MS. reads here winn their way. 12. Robert Stuart, second son of King Robert I I. 13. i.e. “over Solway frith.” This evidently refers to the other division of the Scottish army, which came in by way of Carlisle. Bowynd, or Bounde him; i.e. hied him. Vid. Gloss. 14. 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 Morpeth-ward: it lies south-east of Ottercap. Green Leyton is another small village in the same parish of Hartburn, and is south-east of Rodeley.— Both the original MSS. read here corruptly, Hoppertop and Lynton. 15. This line is corrupt in both the MSS. viz. ‘Many a styrande stage.’ Stags have been killed within the present century on some of the large wastes in Northumberland. 16. Marche-man, i e. a scourer of the Marches. 17. Syne seems here to mean since. 18. Otterbourn is near the old Watling-street road, in the parish of Elsdon. The Scots were encamped in a grassy plain near the river Read. The place where the Scots and English fought is still called Battle-Riggs. 19. Roe-bucks were to be found upon the wastes not far from Hexham in the reign of Geo. I.— Whitfield, Esq. of Whitfield, is said to have destroyed the last of them. 20. The Earl of Menteith. 21. The Lord Buchan. 22. I will hold to what I have promised. 23. He probably magnifies his strength to induce him to surrender. 24. All that follows, included in brackets, was not in the first edition. 25. The ancient arms of Douglas are pretty accurately emblazoned in the former stanza, and if the readings were, The crowned harte, and Above stode starres thre, it would be minutely exact at this day. As for the Percy family, one of their ancient badges or cognizances was a white lyon, statant, and the silver crescent continues to be used by them to this day: they also give three luces argent for one of their quarters. 26. i.e. the English. 27. Being all in armour, he could not know him. 29. For the names in this page, see the Remarks at the end of this ballad. 30. i.e. he died that day. 31. Our old Minstrel repeats these names, as Homer and Virgil do those of their heroes:- . . . fortemque Gyam, fortemque Cloanthum, &c. &c. 32. i.e. on. 33. Sc. captive. 34. In the Cotton MS. is the following Note on ver. 164, in an ancient hand:—”Syr Hewe Mongomery takyn prizonar, was delyvered for the restorynge of Perssy.”

A Note on the Names in the two Preceding Ballads.

Most of the names in the two preceding ballads are found to have belonged to families of distinction in the north, as may be made appear from authentic records. Thus in

THE ANCIENT BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHASE

Ver. 112. 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. VI, 1433. (Fuller’s Worthies, p. 310.) The head of this family at present is Sir Thomas Haggerston, Bart. of Haggerston above mentioned. N.B.The name is spelt Agerstone, as in the text, in Leland’s Itinerary, vol. vii. p. 54.

Ver. 113. Hartly.] Hartley is a village near the sea in the barony of Tynemouth, about seven miles from North Shields. It probably gave name to a family of note at that time.

Ver. 114. Hearone.] This family, one of the most ancient, was long of great consideration, in Northumberland. Haddeston, the Caput Baronić of Heron, was their ancient residence. It descended, 25 Edw. I. to the heir general Emiline Heron, afterwards Baroness Darcy.— Ford, &c. and Bockenfield (in com. eodem) went at the same time to Roger Heron, the heir male; whose descendants were summoned to Parliament: Sir William Heron of Ford Castle being summoned 44 Edw. III. Ford Castle hath descended by heirs general to the family of Delaval (mentioned in the next article). Robert Heron, Esq. who died at Newark in 1753, (father of the Right Hon. Sir Richard Heron, Bart.) was heir male of the Herons of Bockenfield, a younger branch of this family. Sir Thomas Heron Middleton, Bart. is heir male of the Herons of Chip-Chase, another branch of the Herons of Ford Castle.

Ver. 115. Lovele.] Joh. de Lavale, miles, was sheriff of Northumberland J4 Hen. VII. Joh. de Lavele, mil. in the 1 Edw. VI. and afterwards. (Fuller, 313.) In Nicholson this name is spelt Da Lovel, p. 304. This seems to be the ancient family of Delaval, of Seaton Delaval, in Northumberland, whose ancestor was one of the 25 barons appointed to be guardians of Magna Charta.

Ver. 117. Rugbe.] The ancient 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.

Ver. 119. Wetharrington.] Rog. de Widrington was sheriff of Northumberland in 36 of Edw. III. (Fuller, p. 311) Joh. de Widrington in II of Hen. IV, and many others of the same name afterwards. (See also Nicholson, p. 331.) Of this family was the late Lord Witherington.

Ver. 124. Mongon-byrry.] Sir Hugh Montgomery was son of John Lord Montgomery, the lineal ancestor of the present Earl of Eglington.

Ver. 123. Lwdale.] The ancient family of the Liddels were originally from Scotland, where they were Lords of Liddel Castle, and of the Barony of Buff. (Vide Collins’s Peerage.) The head of this family is the present Lord Ravensworth, of Ravensworth Castle, in the county of Durham.

IN THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE

Ver. 101. Mentaye.] At the time of this battle the Earldom of Menteith was possessed by Robert Stewart, Earl of Fife, third son of King 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.

Ver. 103. Huntleye.] This shows this ballad was not composed before 1449; for in that year Alexander Lord of Gordon and Huntley was created Earl of Huntley by King James II.

Ver. 105. Bowghan.] The Earl of Buchan at that time was Alexander Stewart, fourth son of King Robert II.

Ver. 107. Jhonstone — Maxwell.] These two families of Johnstone Lord of Johnston, and Maxwell Lord of Maxwell, were always very powerful on the borders. Of the former family was Johnston Marquis of Annandale: of the latter was 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.— See above, in No. I. ver. 90, Richard is contracted into Ric.

Ver. 109. Swynton.] i.e. The Laird of Swintone; a small village within the Scottish border, three miles from Norham. The family still subsists, and is very ancient.

Ver. 111. Scotte.] The illustrious family of Scot, ancestors of the Duke of Buccleugh, always made a great figure on the borders. Sir Walter Scot was at the head of this family when the battle was fought; but his great-grandson, Sir David Scot, was the hero of that house when the ballad was written.

Ibid. Stewarde.] The person here designed was probably Sir Walter Stewart, Lord of Dalswinton and Gairlies, who was eminent at that time.— See Doug. From him is descended the present Earl of Galloway.

Ver. 112. 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, temp. Hen. III. (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.

Ver. 129. Money.] The person here meant was probably Sir Charles Murray of Cockpoole, who flourished at that time, and was ancestor of the Murrays sometime Earls of Annandale.— See Doug. Peerage.

Ver. 139. Fitz-hughe.] Dugdale (in his Baron. vol. i. p. 403) informs us that John, son of Henry Lord Fitzhugh, was killed at the battle of Otterbourne. This was a Northumberland family. Vid. Dugd. p. 493, col. 1. and Nicholson, pp. 33, 60.

Ver. 141. Harebotell.] Harbottle is a village upon the river Coquet, about ten miles west of Rothbury. The family of Harbottle was once considerable in Northumberland. (See Fuller, pp. 312, 313.) A daughter of Guischard Harbottle, Esq. married Sir Thomas Percy, Knt. son of Henry, the fifth, and father of Thomas, the seventh, Earls of Northumberland.

III. The Jew’s Daughter. A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

This fragment is founded upon the supposed practice of the Jews in crucifying or otherwise murdering Christian children, out of hatred to the religion of their parents: a practice which hath been always alleged 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 excite them to a crime of so much horror; we may reasonably conclude the whole charge to be groundless and malicious. 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 murdered 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. [1] The Pa is evidently the river Po, although the Adige, not the Po, runs through Milan. Printed from a MS. copy sent from Scotland.

THE rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune, Sae dois it doune the Pa: Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune, Quhan they play at the ba’.

Than out and cam the Jewis dochtčr, Said, “Will ye cum in and dine?” “I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in, Without my play-feres nine.”

Scho powd an apple reid and white To intice the zong thing in: Scho powd an apple white and reid, And that the sweit bairne did win.

And scho has taine out a little pen-knife, 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 thick thick bluid, And out and cam the thin; And out and cam the bonny herts bluid: Thair was nae life left in.

Scho laid him on a dressing borde, And drest him like a swine, And laughing said, “Gae nou and pley With zour sweit play-feres nine.”

Scho rowd him in a cake of lead, Bade him lie stil and sleip. Scho cast him in a deip draw-well, Was fifty fadom deip.

Quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung, And every lady went hame: Than ilka lady had her zong sonne, Bot Lady Helen had nane.

Scho rowd hir mantil hir about, And sair sair gan she weip: And she ran into the Jewis castčl, Quhan they wer all asleip.

My bonny Sir Hew, my pretty Sir Hew, I pray thee to me speik. “O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well, Gin ze zour sonne wad seik.”

Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well, And knelt upon her knee: My bonny Sir Hew, an ze be here, I pray thee speik to me.

“The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, The well is wondrous deip, A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert, A word I dounae speik.

Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir, Fetch me my windling sheet, And at the back o’ Mirry-land toun Its thair we twa sall meet.”

- * * * * *

NOTES

1. It is important to note that Mirry-land Toune is a corruption of Merry Lincoln and not, as Percy conjectured, of Mailand (Milan) town.—Editor

IV. Sir Cauline.

This old romantic tale was preserved in the Editor’s folio manuscript, but in so very defective and mutilated a condition (not from any chasm in the manuscript, but from great omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel), and the whole appeared so far short of the perfection it seemed to deserve, that the Editor was tempted to add several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and complete the story in the manner which appeared to him most interesting and affecting. 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, is an irregularity I do not remember to have seen elsewhere. It may be proper to inform the reader before he comes to Part 2, v. 110, 111, that the ROUND TABLE was not peculiar to the reign of King Arthur, but was common in all the ages of Chivalry. The proclaiming a great tournament (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 King Edward 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 tournaments Hastiludia Mensć Rotundć. 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 women, 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[1]. And even so late as the time of Queen Elizabeth, it is mentioned among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the “eldest of them are skilful in surgery.” See Harrison’s Description of England, prefixed to Hollingshed’s Chronicle, &c.

THE FIRST PART

IN Ireland, ferr over the sea, There dwelleth a bonnye kinge And with him a yong and comlye knighte, Men call him Syr Caulěne.

The kinge had a ladye to his daughter, In fashyon she hath no peere; And princely wightes that ladye wooed To be theyr wedded feere.

Syr Cauline loveth her best of all, But nothing durst he saye; Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man, But deerlye he lovde this may.

Till on a daye it so beffell, Great dill to him was dight; The maydens love removde his mynd, To care-bed went the knighte.

One while he spred his armes him fro, One while he spred them nye: “And aye! but I winne that ladyes love, For dole now I mun dye.”

And whan our parish-masse was done, Our kinge was bowne to dyne: He sayes, Where is Syr Cauline, That is wont to serve the wyne?

Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, And fast his handes gan wringe: “Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye Without a good leechinge.”

“Fetche me downe my daughter deere, 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.”

Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes, Her maydens followyng nye: “O well, she sayth, how doth my lord?” “O sicke, thou fayr ladyč.”

“Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, Never lye soe cowardlee; For it is told in my fathers hall; You dye for love of mee.”

“Fayre ladye, it is for your love 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.”

“Sir knighte, my father is a kinge, I am his onlye heire; Alas! and well you knowe, Syr knighte, I never can be youre fere.”

“O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter, And I am not thy peere, But let me doe some deedes of armes To be your bacheleere.”

“Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, My bacheleere to bee, (But ever and aye my heart shall rue, Giff harm shold happe to thee,)

“Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, Upon the mores brodinge; And dare ye, Syr knighte, wake there all nighte Untill the fayre morninge?

“For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte, Will examine you beforne: And never man bare life awaye, But he did him scath and scorne.

“That knighte he is a foule paynim, And large of limb and bone; And but if heaven may be thy speede, Thy life it is but gone.”

“Nowe on the Eldridge hilles Ile walke,[2] For thy sake, fair laděe; And Ile either bring you a ready token, Or Ile never more you see.”

The lady is gone to her chaumbere, Her maydens following bright: Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone, And to the Eldridge hills is gone, For to wake there all night.

Unto midnight, that the moone did rise, 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.”

And soone he spyde on the mores so broad, A furyous wight and fell; A ladye bright his brydle led, Clad in a fayre kyrtčll:

And soe fast he called on Syr Cauline, “O man, I rede thee flye; For but if cryance comes till my heart, I weene but thou mun dye.”

He sayth, “No cryance comes till my heart, Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee; For, cause thou minged not Christ before, The less me dreadeth thee.”

The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed; Syr Cauline bold abode: Then either shooke his trustye speare And the timber these two children[3] bare Soe soone in sunder slode.

Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, And layden on full faste, Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde, They all were well-nye brast.

The Eldridge knighte was mickle of might, 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.

Then up Syr Cauline lift his brande All over his head so hye: “And here I sweare by the holy roode, Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye.”

Then up and came that ladye brighte, Fast wringing of her hande: “For the maydens love, that most you love, Withold that deadlye brande:

“For the maydens love, that most you love, Now smyte no more I praye; And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord, He shall thy hests obaye.”

“Now sweare to mee, thou Eldridge knighte, And here on this lay-land, That thou wilt believe on Christe his laye, And therto plight thy hand:

“And that thou never on Eldridge come To sporte, gamon, or playe: And that thou here give up thy armes Until thy dying daye.”

The Eldridge knighte gave up his armes With many a sorrowfulle sighe; And sware to obey Syr Caulines hest, Till the tyme that he shold dye.

And he then up and the Eldridge knighte Sett him on his saddle anone, And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye To theyr castle are they gone.

Then he tooke up the bloudy hand, That was so large of bone, And on it he founde five ringes of gold Of knightes that had be slone.

Then he tooke up the Eldridge sworde, As hard as any flint: And he tooke off those ringes five, As bright as fyre and brent.

Home then pricked Syr Cauline As light as leafe on tree: I-wys he neither stint ne blanne, Till he his ladye see.

Then downe he knelt upon his knee Before that lady gay: “O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills: These tokens I bring away.”

“Now welcome, welcome, Syr Cauline, Thrice welcome unto mee, For now I perceive thou art a true knighte, Of valour bolde and free.”

“O ladye, I am thy own true knighte, Thy hests for to obaye: And mought I hope to winne thy love!”— Ne more his tonge colde say.

The ladye blushed scarlette redde, And fette a gentill sighe: “Alas! Syr knight, how may this bee, For my degree’s soe highe?

“But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth, To be my batchilere, Ile promise if thee I may not wedde I will have none other fere.”

Then shee held forthe her Lilly-white hand 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.

“But keep my counsayl, Syr Cauline, Ne let no man it knowe; For and ever my father sholde it ken, I wot he wolde us sloe.”

From that daye forthe that ladye fayre Lovde Syr Cauline the knighte: From that daye forthe he only joyde Whan shee was in his sight.

Yea and oftentimes they mette Within a fayre arboure, Where they in love and sweet daliaunce Past manye a pleasant 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.—

But as extremes are short of ill and good, And tides at highest mark regorge their flood; So Fate, that could no mooe improve their joy, Took a malicious pleasure to destroy Tancred, who fondly loved, &c.

PART THE SECOND

EVERYE white will have its blacke, And everye sweete its sowre: This founde the Ladye Christabelle In an untimely howre.

For so it befelle, as Syr Cauline Was with that ladye faire, The kinge her father walked forthe To take the evenyng aire:

And into the arboure as he went To rest his wearye feet, He found his daughter and Syr Cauline There sette in daliaunce sweet.

The kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys, And an angrye man was hee: “Nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or draw; And rewe shall thy ladič.”

Then forthe Syr Cauline he was ledde, And throwne in dungeon deepe: And the ladye into a towre so hye, There left to wayle and weepe.

The queene she was Syr Caulines friend, And to the kinge sayd shee: “I praye you save Syr Caulines life, And let him banisht bee.”

“Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent Across the salt sea fome: But here I will make thee a hand, If ever he come within this land, A foule deathe is his doome.”

All woe-begone was that gentil knight To parte from his ladyč; And many a time he sighed sore, And cast a wistfulle eye: “Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte, Farre lever had I dye.”

Faire Christabelle, that ladye bright, Was had forthe of the towre; But ever shee droopeth in her minde, As nipt by an ungentle winde Doth some faire lillye flowre.

And ever shee doth lament and weepe To tint her lover soe “Syr Cauline, thou little think’st on mee, But I will still be true.”

Manye a kinge, and manye a duke, And lorde of high degree, Did sue to that fayre ladye of love; But never shee wolde them nee.

When manye a daye was past and gone, Ne comforte she colde finde, The kynge proclaimed a tourneament, To cheere his daughters mind:

And there came lords, and there came knights, Fro manye a farre countryč, To break a spere for theyr ladyes love Before that faire ladyč.

And many a ladye there was sette In purple and in palle: But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone Was the fayrest of them all.

Then manye a knighte was mickle of might Before his ladye gaye; But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe, He wan the prize eche daye.

His acton it was all of blacke, His hewberke, and his sheelde, Ne noe man wist whence he did come, Ne noe man knewe where he did gone, When they came from the feelde.

And now three days were prestlye past In feates of chivalrye, When lo upon the fourth morněnge A sorrowfulle sight they see.

A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke, All foule of limbe and lere; Two goggling eyen like fire farden, A mouthe from eare to eare.

Before him came a dwarffe full lowe, That waited on his knee, And at his backe five heads he bare, All wan and pale of blee.

“Sir,” quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe, “Behold that hend Soldŕin! Behold these heads I beare with me! They are kings which he hath slain.”

“The Eldridge knight is his own cousěne, 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.

“But yette he will appease his wrath Thy daughters love to winne: And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd, Thy halls and towers must brenne.

Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee; Or else thy daughter deere; Or else within these lists soe broad Thou must finde him a peere.”

The king he turned him round aboute, And in his heart was woe: “Is there never a knighte of my round table, This matter will undergoe?

“Is there never a knight; amongst yee all Will fight for my daughter and mee? Whoever will fight yon grimme soldŕn, Right fair his meede shall bee.

“For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, And of my crowne be heyre; And he shall winne fayre Christabelle To be his wedded fere.”

But every knighte of his round table Did stand both still and pale; For whenever they lookt on the grim soldŕn, It made their hearts to quail.

All woe-begone was that fayre ladyč, When she save no helpe was nye: She cast her thought on her owne true-love, And the teares gusht from her eye.

Up then sterte the stranger knighte Sayd, “Ladye, be not affrayd: Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldŕn, Thoughe he be unmacklye made.

“And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde, That lyeth within thy bowre, I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende Thoughe he be stiff in stowre.”

“Go fetche him downe the Eldridge sworde,” The kinge he cryde, “with speede: Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte; My daughter is thy meede.”

The gyaunt he stepped into the lists, And sayd, “Awaye, awaye: I sweare, as I am the hend soldŕn, Thou lettest me here all daye.”

Then forthe the stranger knight he came In his blacke armoure dight: The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, “That this were my true knighte!”

And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett Within the lists soe broad; And now with swordes soe sharpe of steele, They gan to lay on load.

The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke, That made him reele asyde; Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, And thrice she deeply sighde.

The soldan strucke a second stroke, And made the bloude to flow: All pale and wan was that ladye fayre, And thrice she wept for woe.

The soldan strucke a third fell stroke, Which brought the knighte on his knee: Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, And she shriekt loud shriekings three.

The knighte he leapt upon his feete, All recklesse of the pain: Quoth hee, “But heaven be now my speede, Or else I shall be slaine.”

He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, And spying a secrette part, He drave it intň the soldan’s syde, And pierced him to the heart.

Then all the people gave a shoute, When they sawe the soldan falle: The ladye wept, and thanked Christ, That had reskewed her from thrall.

And nowe the kinge with all his barons Rose uppe from offe his seate, And downe he stepped intň the listes, That curteous knighte to greete.

But he for payne and lacke of bloude Was fallen into a swounde, And there all walteringe in his gore, Lay lifelesse on the grounde.

“Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, Thou art a leeche of skille; Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes, Than this good knighte sholde spille.”

Downe then steppeth that fayre ladye, 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.

Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes When he heard his ladye crye, “O ladye, I am thine owne true love; For thee I wisht to dye.”

Then giving her one partinge looke, He closed his eyes in death, Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde, Begane to drawe her breathe.

But when she found her comelye knighte Indeed was dead and gone, She layde her pale cold cheeke to his, And thus she made her moane:

“O staye, my deare and onlye lord, For mee thy faithfulle feere; ‘Tis meet that I shold follow thee, Who hast bought my love soe deare.”

Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, And with a deepe-fette sighe, That burst her gentle hearte in twayne, Fayre Christabelle did dye.

NOTES

1. See Northern Antiquities, &c. vol. i. p. 318. vol. ii. p. 200. Mémoires de la Chevalerie, tom. i. p. 44. 2. Perhaps “wake,” as in ver. 61. 3. i.e. Knights. See the preface to Child Waters, Series III.

V. Edward, Edward. A SCOTTISH BALLAD. FROM A MANUSCRIPT COPY TRANSMITTED FROM SCOTLAND

“QUHY dois zour brand sae drop wi’ bluid, Edward, Edward? Quhy dois zour brand sae drop 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.”

“zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, Edward, Edward. zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, My deir son I tell thee, 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 free, O.”

“zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, Edward, Edward: zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, 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!”

“And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, Edward, Edward? And quhatten penance will ze drie for that? My deir son, now tell mee, O.”

“Ile set my feit in zonder boat, Mither, mither: Ile set my feit in zonder boat, And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.”

“And quhat wul ze doe wi’ zour towirs and zour ha’, 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.”

“And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, Edward, Edward? And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?”

“The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, Mither, mither: The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.”

“And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, Edward, Edward? And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? My deir son, now tell me, 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.”

This curious song was transmitted to the Editor by Sir David Dalrymple, Bart., late Lord Hanes.

VI. King Estmere.

This old romantic legend (which is given from two copies, one of them in the Editor’s folio manuscript but which contained very great variations,) bears marks of considerable antiquity, and perhaps ought to have taken place of any in this volume. It should seem to have been written while 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 ver. 49, &c. just in the same terms as in all other old romances. The author of the ancient legend of “Sir Bevis” represents his hero, upon all occasions, breaching out defiance against

“Mahound and Termagaunte;”[1]

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 Saracen knights to invite him to her bower:

“I wyll not ones stirre off this grounde, To speake with an heathen hounde. Unchristen houndes, I rede you fle, Or I your harte blond shall se.”[2]

Indeed they return the compliment by calling him elsewhere “A christen hounde.”[3]

This was conformable to the real manners of the barbarous ages: perhaps the same excuse will hardly serve our bard. For the situation in which he has placed some of his royal personages, that a youthful monarch should take a journey into another kingdom incog. was a piece of gallantry parallel 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 leaning 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.[4] 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:[5] 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 poems of his composing. Here he will see him mixing in the company of kings without ceremony: no mean proof of the great antiquity of this poem. The further we carry our inquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations. Their character was deemed so sacred, that under its sanction our famous King Alfred (as we have already seen [6]) made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once admitted to the king’s head-quarters.[7] Our poet has suggested the same expedient to the heroes of this ballad. All the histories of the North are full of the great reverence paid to this order of men. Harold Harfagre, a celebrated King of Norway, was wont to seat them at his table above all the officers of his court: and we find another Norwegian King placing five of them by his side in a day of battle, that they might be eyewitnesses of the great exploits they were to celebrate.[8] As to Estmere’s riding into the hall while the kings were at table, this was usual in the ages of chivalry; and even to this day we see a relic of this ancient custom still kept up, in the champion’s riding into Westminster-hall during the coronation dinner.[9]

HEARKEN to me, gentlemem, Come and you shall heare; Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren That ever borne y-were.

The tone of them was Adler younge, The tother was kyng Estmere; The were as bolde men in their deeds, As any were farr and neare.

As they were drinking ale and wine Within kyng Estmeres halle: “When will ye marry a wyfe, brother, A wyfe to glad us all?”

Then bespake him kyng Estmere, And answered him hastilee: “I know not that ladye in any land That’s able[10] to marrye with mee.”

“Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother, Men call her bright and sheene; If I were kyng here in your stead, That ladye shold be my queene.”

Sayes, “Reade me, reade me, deare brother, Throughout merry England, Where we might find a messenger Betwixt us towe to sende.”

Saies, “You shal ryde yourselfe, brothčr, Ile beare you companče; Many throughe fals messengers are deceived, And I feare lest soe shold wee.”

Thus the renisht them to ryde Of twoe good renisht steeds, And when the came to kyng Adlands halle, Of redd gold shone their weeds.

And when the came to kyng Adlands hall Before the goodlye gate, There they found good kyng Adland Rearing himselfe theratt.

“Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland; Now Christ you save and see.” Sayd, “You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right hartilye to mee.”

“You have a daughter, said Adler younge, Men call her bright and sheene, My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, Of Englande to be queene.”

“Yesterday was att my deere daughtčr Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne; And then she nicked him of naye, I feere sheele do you the same.”

“The kyng of Spayne is a foule payněm, And ‘leeveth on Mahound; And pitye it were that fayre ladye Shold marrye a heathen hound.”

“But grant to me,” sayes kyng Estmere, For my love I you praye; That I may see your daughter deere Before I goe hence awaye.”

“Although itt is seven yeers and more Since my daughter was in halle, She shall come once downe for your sake To glad my guestčs alle.

Downe then came that mayden fayre, With ladyes laced in pall, And halfe a hundred of bold knightes, To bring her from bowre to hall; And as many gentle squiers, To tend upon them all.

The talents of golde were on her head sette, Hanged low downe to her knee; And everye ring on her small fingčr Shone of the chrystall free.

Sayes, “God you save, my deere madŕm;” Sayes, “God you save and see.” Sayes, “You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right welcome unto mee.

“And iff you love me, as you saye, Soe well and hartilče, All that ever you are comen about Soone sped now itt shal bee.”

Then bespake her father deare: “My daughter, I saye naye; Remember well the kyng of Spayne, What he sayd yesterdaye.

“He wold pull downe my halles and castles, And reave me of my life. I cannot blame him if he doe, If I reave him of his wyfe.”

“Your castles and your towres, father, Are stronglye built aboute; And therefore of that foule payněm Wee neede not stande in doubt.

Plight me your troth nowe, kyng Estmčre, By heaven and your righte hand, That you will marrye me to your wyfe, And make me queene of your land.”

Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth By heaven and his righte hand, That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, And make her queene of his land.

And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, To goe to his owne countree, To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, That marryed the might bee.

They had not ridden scant a myle, A myle forthe of the towne, But in did come the kyng of Spayne, With kempčs many one.

But in did come the kyng of Spayne, With manye a grimme barňne, Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, Tother daye to carrye her home.

Shee sent one after kyng Estmere In all the spede might bee, That he must either turne againe and fighte, Or goe home and loose his ladyč.

One whyle then the page he went, Another while he ranne; Till he had oretaken king Estmere, I wis, he never blanne.

“Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!” “What tydinges nowe, my boye?” “O tydinges I can tell to you, That will you sore annoye.

“You had not ridden scant a mile, A mile out of the towne, But in did come the kyng of Spayne With kempčs many a one:

“But in did come the kyng of Spayne With manye a grimme barňne, Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter, Tother daye to carry her home.

“My ladye fayre she greetes you well, And ever-more well by mee: You must either turne againe and fighte, Or goe home and loose your ladyč.

Sayes, “Reade me, reade me, deere brothčr, My reade shall ryde[11] at thee, Which way we best may turne and fighte, To save this fayre ladyč.”

“Now hearken to me,” sayes Adler yonge, “And your reade must rise at me, I quicklye will devise a waye To sette thy ladye free.

“My mother was a westerne woman, And learned in gramaryč,[12] And when I learned at the schole, Something she taught itt mee.

“There growes an hearbe within this field, And if it were but knowne, His color, which is whyte and redd, It will make blacke and browne:

“His color, which is browne and blacke, Itt will make redd and whyte; That sworde is not in all Englande, Upon his coate will byte.

“And you shall be a harper, brother, Out of the north countrče; And Ile be your boy, soe faine of fighte, And beare your harpe by your knee.

“And you shal be the best harpčr, That ever tooke harpe in hand; And I wil be the best singčr, That ever sung in this lande.

“Itt shal be written on our forheads All and in grammaryč, That we towe are the boldest men, That are in all Christentyč.”

And thus they renisht them to ryde, On tow good renish steedes; And when they came to Kyng Adlands hall, Of redd gold shone their weedes.

And whan the came to Kyng Adlands hall, Untill the fayre hall gate, There they found a proud portčr Rearing himselfe thereatt.

Sayes, “Christ thee save, thou proud portčr;” Sayes, “Christ thee save and see.” “Nowe you be welcome,” sayd the porter, “Of whatsoever land ye bee.”

“Wee beene harpers,” sayd Adler younge, “Come out of the northe countrče; Wee beene come hither until this place, This proud weddinge for to see.”

Sayd, “And your color were white and redd,” As it is blacke and browne, Ild saye king Estmere and his brother, Were comen untill this towne.”

Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,[13] Layd itt on the porters arme: “And ever we will thee, proud portčr, Thow wilt saye us no harme.”

Sore he looked on king Estmčre, And sore he handled the ryng, Then opened to them the fayre hall yates, He lett for no kind of thyng.

King Estmere he light off his steede Upp att the fayre hall bord; The froth, that came from his brydle bitte, Light in kyng Bremors beard.

Saies, “Stable thy steed, thou proud harpčr,” Go stable him in the stalle; Itt doth not beseeme a proud harpčr To stable him in a kyngs halle.”

“My ladde he is so lither,” he said, “He will doe nought that’s meete; And is there any man in this hall Were able him to beate?

“Thou speakst proud words,” sayd the paynim king, “Thou harper, here to mee: There is a man within this halle That will beate thy Ladd and thee.”

“O lett that man come downe,” he said, “A sight of him wold I see; And when hee hath beaten well my ladd, Then he shall beate of mee.”

Downe then came the kemperye man, And looketh him in the eare; For all the gold, that was under heaven, He durst not neigh him neare.

“And how nowe, kempe,” said the Kyng of Spayne, “And how what aileth thee?” He sayes, “It is writt in his forhead All and in gramarye, That for all the gold that is under heaven I dare not neigh him nye.”

Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe, And plaid thereon so sweete: Upstart the ladye from the kynge, As hee sate at the meate.

“Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harpčr, Now stay thy harpe, I say For an thou playest as thou beginnest, Thou’lt till[14] my bryde awaye”.

He strucke upon his harpe agayne, And playd both fayre and free; The ladye was so pleasde theratt, She laught loud laughters three.

“Nowe sell me thy harpe,” sayd the Kyng of Spayne, “Thy harpe and stryngs eche one, And as many gold nobles thou shalt have, As there be stryngs thereon”

And what wold ye doe with my harpe,” he sayd, “Iff I did sell it yee?” “To playe my wife and me a FITT,[15] When abed together we bee.”

“Now sell me,” quoth hee, “thy bryde soe gay, As shee sitts laced in pall, And as many gold nobles I will give, As there be rings in the hall”

“And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, Iff I did sell her yee? More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye To lye by mee than thee.”

[16] Hee played agayne both loud and shrille, And Adler he did syng, “O ladye, this is thy owne true love; Noe harper, but a kyng.

“O ladye, this is thy owne true love, As playnlye thou mayest see; And Ile rid thee of that foule paynim, Who partes thy love and thee.”

The ladye looked, the ladye blushte, And blushte and lookt agayne, While Adler he hath drawne his brande, And hath the Sowdan slayne

Up then rose the kemperye men, And loud they gan to crye “Ah ! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, And therefore yee shall dye.”

Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde, And swith he drew his brand; And Estmere he, and Adler yonge, Right stiffe in stour can stand

And aye their swordes soe sore can byte, Throughe help of Gramaryč, That soone they have slayne the kempery men, Or forst them forth to flee

Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladyč, And marryed her to his wiffe, And brought her home to merrye England With her to leade his life.

- The word Gramarye, which occurs several times in the foregoing Poem, is probably a corruption of the French word Grimoire, which signifies a conjuring Book in the old French romances, if not the art of Necromancy itself.

- Termagaunt is the name given in the old romances to the God of the Saracens: in which he is constantly linked with Mahound or Mahomet. Thus in the legend of Syr Guy the Soudan (Sultan) swears,

So helpe me Mahowne of might, 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 Tyr, very, and Magan, mighty. As this word has so sublime a derivation, and was so applicable to the true God, how shall we account for its being so degraded? Perhaps Tyr-magan, or “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 that 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 Saracens. 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 interludes of the barbarous ages; in which they were exhibited with gestures so furious and frantic, as to become proverbial. Thus Skelton speaks of Wolsey

“Like Mahound in a play, 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, Part 2. fol. 83. ed. 1550. 12mo.] Hence we may conceive the force of Hamlet’s expression in Shakspeare, where, condemning a ranting player, he says, “I could have such a fellow whipt for ore-doing Termagant: it outherods 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 interludes 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 hap to break his head.” The Sowdain, or Soldan, was a name given to the 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.

NOTES

1. See a short Memoir at the end of this ballad. 2. Sign. C. ij. b. 3. Sign. C. j. b. 4. Odyss. A. 105. 5. See Note subjoined to 1st pt. of Beggar of Bednal, &c. 6. See the Essay on the ancient Minstrels above. 7 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. 8. Bartholini Antiq. Dan. p. 173. Northern Antiquities, &c. vol. i. pp. 386, 380, &c. 9. See also the account of Edw. II. in the Essay on the Minstrels. 10. He means fit, suitable. 11. Sic MS. It should probably be “ryse,” i.e. my counsel shall arise from thee.— See ver. 140. 12. See note at the end of this ballad. 13. There is assurance that the ryng was not the article of personal adornment, but a coin.--- Vide Ring Money, Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, vol xvii.— Editor. 14. i.e. entice. — Vide Gloss. For gramarye, see the note at the end of this ballad. 15. i.e. a tune or strain of music--- See Gloss. 16. Some liberties have been taken in the following stanzas; but wherever this edition differs from the preceding, it hath been brought nearer to the folio MS.

VII. Sir Patrick Spence. A SCOTTISH BALLAD

This piece is given from two manuscript 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 liable to shipwreck in the wintry months: hence a law was enacted in the reign of James the Third (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 of our Lady called Candlemess.”— Jam. III. Part. 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 Edward 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.

THE king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: “O quhar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?”

Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne: “Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailňr, That sails upon the se.”

The king has written a braid letter,[1] And signd it wi’ his hand And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he: The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee.

“O quha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me; To send me out this time o’ the zeir, To sail upon the se?

“Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne.” “O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme.

“Late late yestreen I saw the new moone Wi’ the auld moone in hir arme; And I feir, I feir, my deir mastčr, That we will com to harme.”

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone Bot lang owre a’ the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit Wi’ thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang, may the ladies stand Wi’ thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For they’ll se thame na mair.

Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,[2] It’s fiftie fadom deip: And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi’ the Scots lords at his feit.[3]

NOTES

1. “A braid letter,” i.e. open, or patent; in opposition to close rolls. 2. A village lying upon the river Forth, the entrance to which is sometimes denominated De mortuo mari. 3. An ingenious friend thinks the author of Hardyknute has borrowed several expressions and sentiments from the foregoing, and other old Scottish songs in this collection.

VIII. Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne.

[1]We have here a ballad of Robin Hood (from the Editor’s folio manuscript) 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 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 those, none was ever more famous than the hero of this ballad, whose chief residence was in Shirewood forest, in Nottinghamshire; and 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 rich. They killed none but such as would invade them, or by resistance for their own defence. “The saide Robert entertained an hundred tall men and good archers with suche 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 the 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 Kirklees in Yorkshire; where (as the story goes) he was bled to death by a treacherous nun to whom he applied for phlebotomy:

Hear underneath this little stean laiz robert earl of huntingtun nea areir ver az he sae geud An pipl kauld him Robin Heud sick utlawz az hi an is men vil Engiland nivir si agen. obiit 24 kal. dekembris, 1247.[2]

This epitaph appears to me suspicious: however, a late antiquary has given a pedigree of Robin Hood, which, if genuine, shows that he had real pretensions to the earldom of Huntington, and that his true name was ROBERT FITZ-OOTH.[3] Yet the most ancient poems on Robin Hood make no mention of his earldom. He is expressly asserted to have been a yeoman[4] in a very old legend in verse preserved in the archives of the public library at Cambridge,[5] in eight Fyttes or Parts, printed in black letter, quarto, thus inscribed: “C Here begynneth a lytell geste of Robyn hode and his meyne, and of the proude sheryfe of Notyngham.” The first lines are,

“Lithe and lysten, gentylmen, That he of fre-bore blode: I shall you tell of a good YEMAN, His name was Robyn hode.

“Robyn was a proude out-lawe, Whiles he walked on grounde; So curteyse an out-lawe as he was one, Was never none yfounde.” &c.

The printer’s colophon is, “C 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[6] is a different edition of the same poem, “C 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. C (***) D.”

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 King Edward III. In the Visions of Pierce Plowman, written in that reign, a monk says,

I can rimes of Roben Hod, and Randal of Chester, But of our Lorde and our Lady, I lerne nothing at all. Fol. 26. ed. 155C.

See also in Bishop Latimer’s Sermons [7] a very curious and characteristical story, which shows what respect was shown to the memory of our archer in the time of that prelate. The curious reader will find many other particulars relating to this celebrated outlaw, in Sir John Hawkins’s Hist. of Music, vol. iii. p. 410, 4to. For the catastrophe of Little John, who, it seems, was executed for a robbery on Arbor-hill, Dublin (with some curious particulars relating to his skill in archery), see Mr. J. C. Walker’s ingenious “Memoir on the Armour and Weapons of the Irish,” p. 129, annexed to his “Historical Essay on the Dress of the Ancient and Modern Irish.” Dublin, 1788, 4to. Some liberties were, by the Editor, taken with this ballad; which, in this edition, hath been brought nearer to the folio MS.

WHEN shaws[8] beene sheene,and shradds full fayre, And leaves both large and longe, Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrčst To heare the small birdes songe.

The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, Sitting upon the spraye, Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, In the greenwood where he lay.

“Now by my faye,” sayd jollye Robin, “A sweaven I had this night; I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, That fast with me can fight.

“Methought they did mee beate and binde, And tooke my bow mee froe; If I be Robin alive in this lande, Ile be wroken on them towe.”

“Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John, As the wind that blowes ore a hill; For if itt be never so loude this night, To-morrow itt may be still.”

“Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, And John shall goe with mee, For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, In greenwood where the bee.”

Then they cast on their gownes of grene, And tooke theyr bowes each one; And they away to the greene forrčst A shooting forth are gone;

Until they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest bee, There were the ware of a wight yeomŕn, His body leaned to a tree.

A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Of manye a man the bane; And he was clad in his capull hyde Topp and tayll and mayne.

“Stand you still, master,” quoth Litle John, “Under this tree so grene, And I will go to yond wight yeoman To know what he doth meane.”

“Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, And that I farley finde How offt send I my men beffore And tarry my selfe behinde!

“It is no cunning a knave to ken, And a man but heare him speake; And itt were not for bursting of my vowe, John, I thy head wold breake.”

As often wordes they breeden bale, So they parted Robin and John: And John is gone to Barnesdale; The gates[9] he knoweth eche one.

But when he came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there hee hadd, For he found tow of his owne fellňwes Were slaine both in a slade.

And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote Fast over stocke and stone, For the sheriffe with seven score men Fast after him is gone.

“One shoote now I will shoote,” quoth John, “With Christ his might and mayne Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, To stopp he shall be fayne.”

Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, And fetteled him to shoote: The bow was made of a tender boughe, And fell down to his foote.

“Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, That ere thou grew on a tree; For now this day thou art my bale, My boote when thou shold bee.”

His shoote it was but loosely shott, Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, For itt mett one of the sheriffes men, Good William a Trent was slaine.

It had bene better of William a Trent To have bene abed with sorrowe, Than to be that day in the green wood slade To meet with Little Johns arrowe.

But as it is said, when men be mett Fyve can doe more than three, The sheriffe hath taken little John, And bound him fast to a tree.

“Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, And hanged hye on a hill.” “But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose,” quoth John, “If itt be Christ his will.”

Let us leave talking of Little John, And thinke of Robin Hood, How he is gone to the wight yeoman, Where under the leaves he stood.

“Good morrowe, good fellowe,” sayd Robin so fayre, “Good morrowe, good fellow,” quoth he: Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande “A good archere thou sholdst bee.”

“I am wilfull of my waye,” quo’ the yeman, “And of my morning tyde.” “Ile lead thee through the wood,” sayd Robin; “Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.”

“I seeke an outlawe,” the straunger sayd, “Men call him Robin Hood; Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe, Than fortye pound so good.”

“Now come with me, thou wight yemŕn, And Robin thou soone shalt see: But first let us some pastime find Under the greenwood tree.

“First let us some masterye make Among the woods so even, Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood Here att some unsett steven.”

They cut them downe two summer shroggs, That grew both under a breere, And sett them threescore rood in twaine To shoot the prickes y-fere:

“Lead on, good fellowe,” quoth Robin Hood, “Lead on, I doe bidd thee.” “Nay by my faith, good fellowe,” hee sayd, “My leader thou shalt bee.”

The first time Robin shot at the pricke, He mist but an inch it froe: The yeoman he was an archer good, But he cold never shoote soe.

The second shoote had the wightye yemŕn, He shote within the garlande: But Robin he shott far better than hee, For he clave the good pricke wande.

“A blessing upon thy heart,” he sayd; “Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode; For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.

“Now tell me thy name, good fellowe,” sayd he, “Under the leaves of lyne.” “Nay by my faith,” quoth bolde Robin, Till thou have told me thine.”

“I dwell by dale and downe,” quoth hee, “And Robin to take Ime sworne; And when I am called by my right name I am Guye of good Gisbňrne.”

“My dwelling is in this wood,” sayes Robin, “By thee I set right nought: I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale, Whom thou so long hast sought.”

He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin, Might have scene a full fayre sight, To see how together these yeomen went With blades both browne[10] and bright.

To see how these yeomen together they fought Two howres of a summers day: Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy Them fettled to flye away.

Robin was reachles on a roote, And stumbled at that tyde; And Guy was quick and nimble with-all, And hitt him ore the left side.

“Ah deere Lady,” sayd Robin Hood tho, “Thou art both mother and may; I think it was never mans destinye To dye before his day.”

Robin thought on our ladye deere, And soone leapt up againe, And strait he came with a backward stroke, And he Sir Guy hath slayne.

He took Sir Guys head by the hayre, And sticked itt on his bowes end: “Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life, Which thing must have an ende.”

Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, And nicked Sir Guy in the face, That he was never on woman born, Cold tell whose head it was.

Saies, “Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye, And with me be not wrothe, If thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, Thou shalt have the better clothe.”

Robin did off his gowne of greene, And on Sir Guy did it throwe, And hee put on that capull hyde, That cladd him topp to toe.

“The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, Now with me I will beare; For I will away to Bŕrnčsdale, To see how my men doe fare.

Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth, And a loud blast in it did blow. That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, As he leaned under a lowe.

“Hearken, hearken,” sayd the sheriffe, “I heare now tydings good, For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe, And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.

“Yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe, Itt blowes soe well in tyde, And yonder comes that wightye yeomŕn, Cladd in his capull hyde.

“Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, Aske what thou wilt of mee.” “O I will none of thy gold,” sayd Robin, “Nor I will none of thy fee:

“But now I have slaine the master,” he sayes, “Let me go strike the knave; This is all the rewarde I aske; Nor noe other will I have.

“Thou art a madman,” said the sheriffe, “Thou sholdest have had a knights fee: But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, Well granted it shale be.”

When Litle John heard his master speake, Well knewe he it was his steven: “Now shall I be looset,” quoth Litle John, “With Christ his might in heaven.”

Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John, He thought to loose him belive; The sheriffe and all his companye Fast after him did drive.

“Stand abacke, stand abacke,” sayd Robin; “Why draw you mee soe neere? Itt was never the use in our countrye, Ones shrift another shold heere.

But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife, And losed John hand and foote, And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand, And bade it be his boote.

Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand, His boltes and arrowes eche one: When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, He fettled him to be gone.

Towards his house in Nottingham towne He fled full fast away; And soe did all his companye: Not one behind wold stay.

But he cold neither runne soe fast, Nor away soe fast cold ryde, But Litle 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.

Dr. Johnson thinks this title was applied to such as had taken the degree of A. B. in the universities, who are still styled Domini, “Sirs,” to distinguish them from Under-graduates, who have no prefix, and from Masters of Arts, who are styled Magistri, “Masters.”

NOTES

1. Ritson notes that Gisborne is a market town in the West Riding of the county of York, on the borders of Lancashire.— Editor. 2. See Thoresby’s Ducat. Leod. p. 576. Biog. Brit. vi. 3933. 3. Stukeley, in his Palćographia Britannica, No. II. 1746. 4. See also the following ballad, ver. 147. 5. Num. D. 5,2. 6. Old Plays, 4to. K. vol. x. 7. Serm. 6th before K. Ed. Apr. 12. fol. 75. Gilpin’s Life of Lat. p.

122.

8. For shaws the MS. has shales: and shradds should perhaps be swards: i.e. the surface of the ground: viz. “when the fields are in their beauty:” or perhaps shades. Mr. Halliwell, however, defines shale as husk; “The shales or stalks of hemp;” and shradd as a twig. 9. i.e. ways, passes, paths, ridings. Gate is a common word in the north for way. 10. 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:

And by his side he bare a rustie blade. Prol. ver. 620.

And even thus the god Mars:

And in his hand he had a rousty sword. Test. of Cressid. 188.

Spenser has sometimes used the same epithet. See Warton’s Observ. vol. ii. 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.

[1]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 Earl 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 ancient nobility during the feudal times. This great earl is described here as having among his menial servants, knights, squires, and even barons. See v. 32, 183. &c. which, however different from modern manners, was formerly not unusual with our greater barons, whose castles had all the splendour and offices of a royal court, before the laws against retainers abridged and limited the number of their attendants. 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 manuscript copy preserved in the British Museum, being much more correct than that printed among Skelton’s poems, in black-letter, 12mo. 1568. It is addressed to Henry Percy, fifth Earl of Northumberland, and is prefaced, &c. in the following manner:

Poeta Skelton Laureatus libellum suum metrice alloquitur.

Ad dominum properato meum mea pagina Percy, Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit, Ad nutum celebris tu porna repone leonis, Qućque suo patri tristia justa cano. Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet Fortunam, cuncta qua male fida rotat. Qui leo sit felix, & Nestoris occupet annos; Ad libitum cujus ipse paratus ero.

SKELTON LAUREAT UPON THE DOLORUS DETHE AND MUCH LAMENTABLE CHAUNCE OF THE MOOST HONORABLE ERLE OF NORTHUMBERLANDE

I WAYLE, I wepe, I sobbe, I sigh ful sore The dedely fate, the dolefulle destenny Of him that is gone, alas! withoute restore, Of the bloud[2] royall descendinge nobelly; Whos lordshepe doutles was slayne lamentably Thorow treson ageyn hym compassyd and wrought; Trew to his prince, in word, in dede, and thought.

Of hevenly poems, O Clyo, calde by name In the college of musis goddess hystoriall, Adres thé to me, whiche am both halt and lame In elect uteraunce to make memoryall! To thé for soccour, to thé for helpe I call Myne homely rudnes and dryghnes to expelle With the freshe waters of Elyconys welle.

Of noble actes auncyently enrolde, 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 usuail rate Kyndle in me suche plenty of thy noblčs, Thes sorrowfulle dities that I may shew expres.

In sesons past who hathe h[ea]rde or sene Of formar writinge by any presidente That vilane hastarddis in ther furious tene, Fulfyld with malice of froward entente, Confeterd togeder of commonn concente Falsly to slo ther moste singular goode lorde? It may be registerde of shameful recorde.

So noble a man, so valiaunt lorde and knight, 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.

And were not they to blame, I say also, That were aboute hym, his owne servants of trust, To suffre hym slayn of his mortall fo? Fled away from hym, let hymn 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 heartes wer to faint.

In Englande and Fraunce, which gretly was redouted; Of whom both Flounders and Scotland stode in drede; To whome great estates obeyde and lowted; A mayny of rude villyans 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 befall!

I say, ye commoners, why wer ye so stark mad What frantyk frensy fyll in your brayne? Where was your wit and reson, ye shuld have had? What willful 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.

He was your chyfteyne, your shelde, your chef defence, 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 fyght? What aylde you to sle your lord again all right?

The grounde of his quarrel was for his sovereyn lord, 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 able to have saide him nay.

But there was fals packinge, or els I am begylde: How-be-it the matter was evident and playne, For yf they had occupied ther spere and ther shilde. 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 wild fyr that made all this smoke.

The commouns renyed ther taxes to pay Of them demaunded and asked by the kinge; With one voice importune, they playnly said nay: They buskt them on a bushment themselfe 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.

The noblenes of the northe this valiant lorde and knyght, As man that was innocent of trechery or traine, Presed forthe boldly to witstand the myght, And, lyke marciall Hector, he faught 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.

Barons, knights, squyers, one and alle, Together with servaunts of his famuly, Turnd their backis, and let ther master fall, Of whos [life] they counted not a flye; Take up whose wold, for ther they let hym ly. Alas! his golde, his fee, his annual rente Upon suche a sort was ille bestowde and spent!

He was environde aboute on every syde Withe his enemys, that were stark mad and wode; Yet whils he stode he gave them woundes wyde: Alas for ruth! what thoughe his mynde were goode, His corage manly, yet ther he shed his bloode: All left alone, alas! he foughte in vayne; For cruelly amonge them ther he was slayne.

Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt, The famous Erle of Northumberlande: Of knightly prowes the sworde pomel and hylt, The myghty lyon[3] doutted by se and lande! O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande! What man remembring how shamfully he was slayne, From bitter weepinge himself can restraine?

O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war! O dolorous tewisday, 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!

O Atropos, of the fatall systers thre, Goddes mooste cruell unto the lyf of man, All merciles, in the ys no pite O homycide, whiche sleest all that thou kan, So forcibly upon this erle thow ran, That with thy sworde enharpit of mortall drede, Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

My wordis unpullysht be nakide and playne, Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge; Bot by them to knowlege ye may attayne Of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge. Which whils he lyvyd had fuyson of every thing, Of knights, of squyers, chef lord of toure and toune, Tyl fykkill fortune began on hym to frowne.

Paregall to dukis, with kings he myght compare, Surmountinge 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.

What nedethe me for to extoll his fame With my rude pen enkankerd all with rust? Whos noble actis shew worshiply his name, Transcendyng far myne homely muse, that must Yet sumwhat wright supprisid with herty lust, Truly reportinge his right noble astate, Immortally whiche is immaculate.

His noble blode never disteynyd was, 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 holl delyght, As all his kuntrey kan testefy the same: To slo suche a lord, alas, it was grete shame.

If the hole quere of the Musis nyne 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 allthough it were promysyde Of laureat Phebus holy the eloquence, All were to lytell for his magnyficence.

O yonge lyon, bot tender yet of age, Grow and encrese, remembre thyn estate, God thé assyst unto thyn herytage, And geve thé grace to be more fortunate, Agayne rebellyouns arme thé to make debate. And, as the lyoune, whiche is of bestis kinge, Unto thy subjectis be kurteis and benyngne.

I pray God sende thé prosperous lyf and long, Stabille thy mynde constant to be and fast, Right to mayntein, and to resist all wronge: All flattringe faytors abhor and from thé cast, Of foule detraction God kepe the from the blast! Let double delinge in thé have no place, And be not light of credence in no case.

Wythe hevy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd, 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 Bathe temporall and spirituall for to complayne This noble man, that crewelly was slayne.

More specially barons, and those knygtes bold, And all other gentilmen with hym enterteynd In fee, as menyall men of his housold, Whom he as lord worshyply manteynd: To sorowfull weping they ought to be constreynd, As oft as thei call to ther remembraunce, Of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce.

O perlese prince of hevyn emperyall! That with one worde formed al thing of noughte; Hevyn, hell, and erth obey unto thy call; 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;

To thé pray we, as prince incomperable, As thou art of mercy and pite the well, Thou bringe unto thy joye etermynable The soull of this lorde from all daunger of hell, In endles blis with thé to byde and dwell In thy palace above the orient, Where thou art lorde, and God omnipotent.

O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace, Maiden moste pure, and Goddes moder dere, To sorowfull harts chef comfort and solace, Of all women O flowre withouten pere! Pray to thy son above the sterris clere, He to vouchesaf by thy mediacion To pardon thy servant, and bringe to salvacion.

In joy triumphaunt the hevenly yerarchy, With all the hole sorte of that glorious place, His soule mot receyve into ther company Thorowe bounte of hym that formed all solace: 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.

NOTES

1. Percy’s text has been carefully revised by collation with the reading of the Elegy as given by the Rev. Alexander Dyce.— Editor. 2. The mother of Henry, first Earl of Northumberland, was Mary, daughter to Henry, Earl of Lancaster, whose father Edmond was second son of King Henry III. The mother and wife of the second Earl of Northumberland were both lineal descendants of King Edward III. The Percys also were lineally descended from the Emperor Charlemagne and the ancient Kings of France, by his ancestor Josceline du Lovain (Son of Godfrey, Duke of Brabant), who took the name of PERCY on marrying the heiress of that house in the reign of Henry II. Vide. Camden’s Britan. Edmondson, &c. 3. Alluding to his crest and supporters. Doutted is contracted for redoubted.

X. The Tower of Doctrine.

[1]The reader has here a specimen of the descriptive powers of Stephen Hawes, a celebrated poet in the reign of Henry VII. though 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. He was also author of a book, intitled, “The Temple of Glass. Wrote by Stephen Hawes, gentleman of the bedchamber to King Henry VII.” Pr. for Caxton, 4to. no date. The following stanzas are taken from Chap. iii. and iv. of the Hist. above mentioned. “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.

I LOKED about and saw a craggy roche, 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 so marveylously;

That for the very perfect bryghtnes 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.

Then to the tower I drewe, nere and nere, 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.[2]

The little turrets with ymages of golde About was set, whiche the wynde aye moved With propre vices, that I did well beholde About the towers, 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.

The toure was great of marveylous wydnes, 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:[3]

Tyll that I came unto a ryall gate, 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.

Her name, she sayd, was called COUNTENAUNCE Into the base courte she dyd me then lede, Where was a fountayne depured of plesance, 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 partyes dyd spoute.

Of whyche there flowed foure ryvers ryght clere, Sweter than Nylus or Ganges was ther odoure Tygrys or Eufrates unto them no pere: I dyd than taste the aromatyke lycoure, Fragraunt of fume, and swete as any flowre; And in my mouthe it had a marveylous scent Of divers spyces, I knewe not what it ment.

And after thys further forth me brought Dame Countenaunce into a goodly Hall, Of jasper stones it was wonderly wrought: The wyndowes cleare depured all of crystall, And in the roufe on hye over all Of golde was made a ryght crafty vyne; Instede of grapes the rubies there dyd shyne.

The flare was paved with berall clarified, 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,

That treated well of a ful noble story, Of the doubty waye to the tower perillous:[4] Howe a noble knyght should wynne the victory Of many a serpente foule and odious.

- * * * * * * *

NOTES

1. This poem has received some few corrections by comparison with The Pastime of Pleasure, as put forth by the Percy Society in 1845.— Editor. 2. Greyhounds, Lions, Dragons, were at that time the royal supporters. 3. This alludes to a former part of the poem. 4. The story of the poem.

XI. The Child of Elle.

This is given from a fragment in the Editor’s folio manuscript: which, though 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. [1] Child was a title sometimes given to a knight. See Gloss.

ON yonder hill a castle standes With walles and towres bedight, And yonder lives the Child of Elle, A younge and comely knighte.

The Child of Elle to his garden went, And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page Come trippinge downe the dale.

The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Y-wis he stoode not stille, And soone he mette faire Emmelines page Come climbinge up the hille.

“Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, Now Christe thee save and see! Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, And what may thy tydinges bee?”

“My ladye shee is all woe-begone, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye she laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine.

“And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe Bedewde with many a teare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, Who loved thee so deare.

“And here shee sends thee a ring of golde The last boone thou mayst have, And biddes thee weare it for her sake, Whan she is layde in grave.

“For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee.

Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countrŕye, And within three dayes she must him wedde, Or he vowes he will her slaye.”

“Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And greet thy ladye from mee, And telle her that I her owne true love Will dye, or sette her free.

“Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And let thy fair ladye know This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe, Betide me weale or woe.”

The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, He neither stint ne stayd Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, Whan kneeling downe he sayd,

“O ladye, I’ve been with thine own true love, And he greets thee well by mee; This night will he bee at thy bowre-windňwe, And dye or sett thee free.”

Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, All save the Ladye Emmeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe:

And soone shee heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle, “Awake, awake, my deare ladyč, ‘Tis I thy true love call.

“Awake, awake, my ladye deare, Come, mount this faire palfraye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe Ile carrye thee hence awaye.”

“Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, Nowe nay, this may not bee; For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, If alone I should wend with thee.”

“O ladye, thou with a knighte so true Mayst safelye wend alone, To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, Where marriage shall make us one.”

“My father he is a baron bolde, Of lynage proude and hye; And what would he saye if his daughtčr Awaye with a knight should fly?

“Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, Nor his meate should doe him no goode, Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle, And seene thy deare hearts bloode.”

“O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro, I would not care for thy cruel fathčr, Nor the worst that he could doe.

“O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle. I would not care for thy cruel fathčr Nor the worst that might befalle.

Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe: At length he seized her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe:

And thrice he clasped her to his breste, And kist her tenderlěe: The teares that fell from her fair eyes Ranne like the fountayne free.

Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, And her on a fair palfrŕye, And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye.

All this beheard her owne damsčlle, In her bed whereas shee ley, Quoth shee, “My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee.

“Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Awake, my noble dame! Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle To doe the deede of shame.”

The baron he woke, the baron he rose, And called his merrye men all: “And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, Thy ladye is carried to thrall.”

Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, When she was aware of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe:

And foremost came the carlish knight, Sir John of the north countrŕye: “Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitňure, Nor carry that ladye awaye.

“For she is come of hye lineŕge, And was of a ladye borne, And ill it beseems thee, a false churl’s sonne, To carrye her hence to scorne.”

“Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, Nowe thou doest lye of mee A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee.

“But light nowe downe,my deare Ladyč, Light downe, and hold my steed, While I and this discourteous knighte Doe trye this arduous deede.

“But light now downe, O my deare ladye, Light downe, and hold my horse; While I and this discourteous knight Doe trye our valour’s force.”

Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe, While twixt her love and the carlish knight Past many a baleful blowe.

The Child of Elle hee fought so well, His his weapon he waved amaine, That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, And layd him upon the plaine.

And nowe the baron and all his men Full fast approached nye: Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe? Twere nowe no boote to flye.

Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill, And soone he saw his owne merry men Come ryding over the hill.

“Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, I pray thee hold thy hand, Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts Fast knit in true love’s band.

“Thy daughter I have dearly loved Full long and many a day; But with such love as holy kirke Hath freelye sayd wee may.

“O give consent, shee may be mine, And blesse a faithfull paire My lands and livings are not small, My house and lineage faire:

“My mother she was an earl’s daughter, And a noble knyght my sire —” The baron he frowned, and turn’d away With mickle dole and ire.

Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, And did all tremblinge stand: At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, And held his lifted hand.

“Pardon, my lorde and father deare, This faire yong knyght and mee: Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, I never had fled from thee.

“Oft have you called your Emmeline Your darling and your joye; O let not then your harsh resolves Your Emmeline destroye.”

The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, And turned his heade asyde To whipe awaye the starting teare He proudly strave to hyde.

In deepe revolving thought he stoode, And mused a little space; Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde, With many a fond embrace.

“Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, And gave her lillye white hand; Here take my deare and only child, And with her half my land:

“Thy father once mine honour wronged In dayes of youthful pride; Do thou the injurye repayre In fondnesse for thy bride.

“And as thou love her, and hold her deare, Heaven prosper thee and thine: And nowe my blessing wend wi’ thee, My lovelye Emmeline.”

- From the word kirke in ver. 159, this hath been thought to be a Scottish ballad, but it must be acknowledged that the line referred to is among the additions supplied by the Editor: besides, in the northern counties of England, kirk is used in the common dialect for church, as well as beyond the Tweed.

NOTES

1. The fragment in the Folio MS. contains but thirty-nine verses, upon which Percy has founded two hundred; yet the corrections are, as Sir Walter Scott says, “in the true style of Gothic embellishment.”— Editor.

XII. Edom O’ Gordon. A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

This was printed at Glasgow, by Robert and Andrew Foulis, 1755, 8vo. 12 pages. We are indebted for its publication (with many other valuable things in these 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 twenty 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 about ten miles from the castle of the Rodes.[1] The fact, however, on which the ballad is founded, happened in the north of Scotland, (See note *** at the end of the ballad) yet it contains but too just a picture of the violences practised in the feudal times all over Europe. 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 versa. In the third volume the reader will find a similar instance. See the song of Gil Morris, wherein the principal character introduced had different names given him, perhaps for the same cause. It may be proper to mention, that in the folio manuscript, instead of the “Castle of the Rodes,” it is the “Castle of Brittons- borrow,” and also “Diactoars” or “Draitours-borrow,” for it is very obscurely written, and “Capt. Adam Carre” is called the “Lord of Westertontown.” 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.

IT fell about the Martinmas, Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, Said Edom O’ Gordon to his men, “We maun draw till a hauld.

“And quhat a hauld sall we draw till, My mirry men and me? We wul gae to the house o’ the Rodes, To see that fair laděe.”

The lady stude on her castle wa’, Beheld baith dale and down: There she was ware of a host of men Cum ryding towards the toun.

“O see ze nat, my mirry men a’? O see ze nat quhat I see? Methinks I see a host of men: I marveil quha they be.”

She weend it had been hir luvely lord, As he cam ryding hame; It was the traitor Edom O’ Gordon, Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.

She had nae sooner buskit hirsel, And putten on hir goun, But Edom O’ Gordon and his men Were round about the toun.

They had nae sooner supper sett, Nae sooner said the grace, But Edom O’ Gordon and his men Were light about the place.

The lady ran up to hir towir head, Sa fast as she could hie, To see if by hir fair speeches She could wi’ him agree.

But quhan he see this lady saif, And hir yates all locked fast, He fell into a rage of wrath, And his look was all aghast.

“Cum doun to me, ze lady gay, Cum doun, cum doun to me: This night sall ye lig within mine armes, To-morrow my bride sall be.”

“I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordon, I winnae cum doun to thee; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, That is sae far frae me.”

“Give owre zour house, ze lady fair, Give owre zour house to me, Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, Bot and zour babies three.”

“I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon, To nae sik traitor as zee; And if ze brenn my ain dear babes, My lord sall make ze drie.”

“But reach me hither my guid bend-bowe Mine arrows one by one For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, My babes we been undone.”

She stude upon hir castle wa’, And let twa arrows flee; She mist that bluidy butchers hart, And only raz’d his knee.

“Set fire to the house,” quo’ fals Gordon, All wood wi’ dule and ire: “Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, As ze bren in the fire.”

“Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man, I paid ze weil zour fee; Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa’ stane, Lets in the reek to me?

“And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, 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 hire, lady; ze paid me weil my fee: But now I’m Edom O’ Gordons man, Maun either doe or die.”

O than bespaik hir little son, Sate on the nourice’ knee: Sayes, “Mither deare, gi’ owre this house, For the reek it smithers me.”

“I wad gie a’ my gowd, my childe, Say wad I a’ my fee, For ane blast o’ the westlin wind, To blaw the reek frae thee.”

O then bespaik hir dochter dear, She was baith jimp and sma: “O row me in a pair o’ sheits, And tow me owre the wa.”

Thuy rowed hir in a pair o’ sheits, And towd hir owre the wa: But on the point of Gordons spear She gat a deadly fa.

O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, And cherry were her cheiks, And clear clear was hir zellow hair, Whereon the reid bluid dreips.

Then wi’ his spear he turnd hir owre, O gin[2] hir face was wan! He sayd, “ze are the first that eir I wisht alive again.”

He turnd hir owre and owre againe, O gin’ hir skin was white! “I might ha spared that bonnie face To hae been sum mans delyte.

“Busk and boun, my merry men a’, For ill dooms I doe guess; I cannae luik in that bonnie face, As it lyes on the grass.

“Thame luiks to freits, my master deir, Then freits wil follow thame: [3] Let neir be said brave Edom O’ Gordon Was daunted by a dame.”

But quhen the ladye see the fire Cum flaming owre hir head, She wept and kist her children twain, Sayd, “Bairns, we been but dead.”

The Gordon then his bougill blew, And said, “Awa’, awa’; This house o’ the Rodes is a’ in flame, I hauld it time to ga’.”

O then he spyed hir ain dear lord, As hee cam owr the lee; He sied his castle all in blaze Sa far as he could see.

Then sair, O sair his mind misgave, And all his hart was wae; “Put on, put on, my wighty men, So fast as ze can gae.

“Put on, put on, my wighty men, Sa fast as ze can drie; For he that is hindmost of the thrang Sall neir get guid o’ me.”

Than sum they rade, and sum they rin, Fou fast out-owr the bent; But eir the foremost could get up, Baith lady and babes were brent.

He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, And wept in teenefu’ muid: “O traitors, for this cruel deid ze sall weep teirs o’ bluid.”

And after the Gordon he is gane, Sa fast as he might drie. And soon i’ the Gordon’s foul hartis bluid He’s wroken his dear laděe.

- Since the foregoing Ballad was first printed, the subject of it has been found recorded in Abp. Spotswood’s History of the Church of Scotland, p. 259; who informs us, that

“Anno 1571. In the north parts of Scotland, Adam Gordon (who was deputy for his brother the earl of Huntley) did keep a great stir; and under colour of the queen’s authority, committed divers oppressions, especially upon the Forbes’s . . . Having killed Arthur Forbes, brother to the lord Forbes . . . Not long after he sent to summon the house of Tavoy pertaining to Alexander Forbes. The Lady refusing to yield without direction from her husband, he put fire unto it, and burnt her therein, with children and servants, being twenty-seven persons in all. “This inhuman and barbarous cruelty made his name odious, and stained all his former doings; otherwise he was held very active and fortunate in his enterprises.” This fact, which had escaped the Editor’s notice, was in the most obliging manner pointed out to him, by an ingenious writer who signs his name H. H. (Newcastle, May 9.) in the Gentleman’s Magazine for May, 1775. p. 219.

NOTES

1. 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 Farnham, was named Adam Gordon. 2. “O gin,” &c., A Scottish idiom to express great admiration. 3. Thame &c. i.e. them that look after omens of ill luck, ill luck will follow.

BOOK II I. Ballads that illustrate Shakspeare.

Our great dramatic poet having occasionally quoted many ancient ballads, and even taken the plot of one, if not more, of his plays from among them, it was judged proper to preserve as many of these as could be recovered, and, that they might he the more easily found, to exhibit them in one collective view. This SECOND BOOK is therefore set apart for the reception of such ballads as are quoted by Shakspeare, or contribute in any degree to illustrate his writings: this being the principal point in view, the candid reader will pardon the admission of some pieces that have no other kind of merit. The design of this book being of a dramatic tendency, it may not be improperly introduced with a few observations on the origin of the English Stage, and on the conduct of our first dramatic poets: a subject which, though not unsuccessfully handled by several good writers already,[1] will yet perhaps admit of some further illustration.

ON THE ORIGIN OF THE ENGLISH STAGE, ETC.

It is well known that dramatic poetry in this and most other nations of Europe owes its origin, or at least its revival, to those religious shows, which in the dark ages were usually exhibited on the more solemn festivals. At those times they were wont to represent in the churches the lives and miracles of the saints, or some of the more important stories of Scripture. And as the most mysterious subjects were frequently chosen, such as the Incarnation, Passion, and Resurrection of Christ, &c. these exhibitions acquired the general name of MYSTERIES. At first they were probably a kind of dumb shows, intermingled, it may be, with a few short speeches; at length they grew into a regular series of connected dialogues, formally divided into acts and scenes. Specimens of these in their most improved state (being at best but poor artless compositions) may be seen among Dodsley’s Old Plays and in Osborne’s Harleyan Miscel. How they were exhibited in their most simple form, we may learn from an ancient novel, often quoted by our old dramatic poets,[2] entitled . . . a merry jest of a man that was called Howleglass[3] &c. being a translation from the Dutch language, in which he is named Ulenspiegle. Howleglass, whose waggish tricks are the subject of this book, after many adventures comes to live with a priest, who makes him his parish-clerk. This priest is described as keeping a leman or concubine, who had but one eye, to whom Howleglas owed a grudge for revealing his rogueries to his master. The story thus proceeds, . . . “And than in the meane season, while Howleglas was parysh clarke, at Easter they should play the Resurrection of our Lorde: and for because than the men wer not learned, nor could not read, the priest toke his leman, and put her in the grave for an Aungell; and this seing Howleglas, toke to hym iij of the symplest persons that were in the towne, that played the iij Maries; and the Person [i.e. Parson or Rector] played Christe, with a baner in his hand. Than saide Howleglas to the symple persons, Whan the Aungel asketh you, whome you seke, you may saye, The parsons leman with one iye. Than it fortuned that the tyme was come that they must playe, and the Aungel asked them whom they sought, and than sayd they, as Howleglas had shewed and lerned them afore, and than answered they, We seke the priests leman with one iye. And than the prieste might heare that he was mocked. And whan the priestes leman heard that, she arose out of the grave, and would have smyten with her fist Howleglas upon the cheke, but she missed him and smote one of the simple persons that played one of the thre Maries; and he gave her another; and than toke she him by the heare [hair]; and that seing his wyfe, came running hastely to smite the priestes leaman; and than the priest seeing this, caste down hys baner and went to helpe his woman, so that the one gave the other sore strokes, and made great noyse in the churche. And than Howleglas seyng them lyinge together by the eares in the bodi of the churche, went his way out of the village, and came no more there.”[4] As the old Mysteries frequently required the representation of some allegorical personage, such as Death, Sin, Charity, Faith, and the like, by degrees the rude poets of those unlettered ages began to form complete dramatic pieces consisting entirely of such personifications. These they entitled Moral Plays, or Moralities. The Mysteries were very inartificial, representing the Scripture stories simply according to the letter. But the Moralities are not devoid of invention; they exhibit outlines of the dramatic art: they contain something of a fable or plot, and even attempt to delineate characters and manners. I have now before me two that were printed early in the reign of Henry VIII.; in which I think one may plainly discover the seeds of Tragedy and Comedy; for which reason I shall give a short analysis of them both. One of them is entitled Every-Man.[5] The subject of this piece is the summoning of man out of the world by death; and its moral, that nothing will then avail him but a well-spent life and the comforts of religion. This subject and moral are opened in a monologue spoken by the Messenger (for that was the name generally given by our ancestors to the Prologue on their rude stage); then God[6] is represented; who, after some general complaints on the degeneracy of mankind, calls for Deth, and orders him to bring before his tribunal Every-man, for so is called the personage who represents the human race. Every-man appears, and receives the summons with all the marks of confusion and terror. When Death is withdrawn, Every-man applies for relief in this distress to Fellowship, Kindred, Goods, or Riches, but they successively renounce and forsake him. In this disconsolate state he betakes himself to Good-dedes, who, after upbraiding him with his long neglect of her,[7] introduces him to her sister Knowledge, and she reads him to the “holy man Confession,” who appoints him penance: this he inflicts upon himself on the stage, and then withdraws to receive the sacraments of the priest. On his return he begins to wax faint, and after Strength, Beauty, Discretion, and Five Wits[8] have all taken their final leave of him, gradually expires on the stage; Good-dedes still accompanying to the last. Then an Aungell descends to sing his Requiem; and the Epilogue is spoken by a person called Doctour, who recapitulates the whole, and delivers the moral:

“C. This memoriall men may have in mynde, Ye herers, take it of worth old and youge, And forsake Pryde, for he disceyveth you in thende, And remembre Beaute, Five Witts, Strength and Discretion, They all at last do Every-man forsake; Save his Good Dedes there dothe he take; But beware, for and they be small, Before God he hath no helpe at all, &c.”

From this short analysis it may be observed, that Every Man is a grave solemn piece, not without some rude attempts to excite terror and pity, and therefore may not improperly be referred to the class of Tragedy. It is remarkable that in this old simple drama the fable is conducted upon the strictest model of the Greek Tragedy. The action is simply one, the time of action is that of the performance, the scene is never changed, nor the stage ever empty. Every-man, the hero of the piece, after his first appearance never withdraws, except when he goes out to receive the sacraments, which could not well be exhibited in public; and during his absence Knowledge descants on the excellence and power of the priesthood, somewhat after the manner of the Greek chorus. And indeed, except in the circumstance of Every- man’s expiring on the stage, the “Sampson Agonistes” of Milton is hardly formed on a severer plan.[9] The other play is entitled Hick-scorner[10], and bears no distant resemblance to Comedy: its chief aim seems to be to exhibit characters and manners, its plot being much less regular than the foregoing. The Prologue is spoken by Pity represented under the character of an aged pilgrim; he is joined by Contemplacyon and Perseverance, two holy men, who, after lamenting the degeneracy of the age, declare their resolution of stemming the torrent. Pity then is left upon the stage, and presently found by Frewyll, representing a lewd debauchee, who, with his dissolute companion Imaginacion, relate their manner of life, and not without humour describe the stews and other places of base resort. They are presently joined by Hick-Scorner, who is drawn as a libertine returned from travel, and, agreeably to his name, scoffs at religion. These three are described as extremely vicious, who glory in every act of wickedness: at length two of them quarrel, and Pity endeavours to part the fray; on this they fall upon him, put him in the stocks, and there leave him. Pity, thus imprisoned, descants in a kind of lyric measure on the profligacy of the age, and in this situation is found by Perseverance and Contemplacion, who set him at liberty, and advise him to go in search of the delinquents. As soon as he is gone, Frewyll appears again; and, after relating in a very comic manner some of his rogueries and escapes from justice, is rebuked by the two holy men, who, after a long altercation, at length convert him and his libertine companion Imaginacioun from their vicious course of life: and then the play ends with a few verses from Perseverance by way of Epilogue. This and every Morality I have seen conclude with a solemn prayer. They are all of them in rhyme; in a kind of loose stanza, intermixed with distichs. It would be needless to point out the absurdities in the plan and conduct of the foregoing play: they are evidently great. It is sufficient to observe, that, bating the moral and religious reflection of Pity, &c. the piece is of a comic cast, and contains a humorous display of some of the vices of the age. Indeed the author has generally been so little attentive to the allegory, that we need only substitute other names to his personages, and we have real characters and living manners. We see then that the writers of these Moralities were upon the very threshold of real Tragedy and Comedy; and therefore we are not to wonder that Tragedies and Comedies in form soon after took place, especially as the revival of Iearning about this time brought them acquainted with the Roman and Grecian models.

II. At what period of time the Moralities had their rise here, it is difficult to discover. But Plays of Miracles appear to have been exhibited in England soon after the Conquest. Matthew Paris tells us that Geoffrey, afterwards Abbot of St. Albans, a Norman, who had been sent for over by Abbot Richard to take upon him the direction of the school of that monastery, coming too late, went to Dunstable, and taught in the abbey there; where he caused to be acted (probably by his scholars) a MIRACLE-PLAY OF ST. CATHARINE, composed by himself.[11] This was long before the year 1119, and probably within the 11th century. The above play of St. Catharine was, for aught that appears, the first spectacle of this sort that was exhibited in these kingdoms: and an eminent French writer thinks it was even the first attempt towards the revival of dramatic entertainments in all Europe: being long before the representations of Mysteries in France; for these did not begin till the year 1398.[12]

But whether they derived their origin from the above exhibition or not, it is certain that Holy Plays, representing the miracles and sufferings of the Saints, were become common in the reign of Henry II.; and a lighter sort of interludes appear not to have been then unknown.[13] In the subsequent age of Chaucer, “Plays of Miracles” in Lent were the common resort of idle gossips.[14] They do not appear to have been so prevalent on the continent, for the learned historian of the Council of Constance[15] ascribes to the English the introduction of plays into Germany. He tells us that the Emperor, having been absent from the council for some time, was at his return received with great rejoicings, and that the English Fathers in particular did, upon that occasion, cause a sacred Comedy to be acted before him on Sunday January 31st, 1417; the subjects of which were: THE NATIVITY OF OUR SAVIOUR; THE ARRIVAL OF THE EASTERN MAGI; and THE MASSACRE BY HEROD. Thence it appears, says this writer, that the Germans are obliged to the English for the invention of this sort of spectacles, unknown to them before that period. The fondness of our ancestors for dramatic exhibitions of this kind, and some curious particulars relating to this subject, will appear from the Houshold Book of the fifth Earl of Northumberland, A.D. 1512,[16] whence I shall select a few extracts, which show that the exhibiting Scripture dramas on the great festivals entered into the regular establishment, and formed part of the domestic regulations of our ancient nobility; and, what is more remarkable, that it was as much the business of the Chaplain in those days to compose Plays for the family, as it is now for him to make Sermons. “MY lordes Chapleyns in Households vj. viz. The Almonar, and if he be a maker of INTERLUDYS, than he to have a servaunt to the intent for writynge of the PARTS; and ells to have non. The maister of gramer,” &c.— Sect. V. p. 44. “Item, my lorde usith and accustomyth to gyf yerely if is lordship kepe a chapell and be at home, them of his lordschipes chapell, if they doo play the Play of the Nativite uppon Cristynmes day in the mornnynge in my lords chapell befor his lordship — xxs.”- – Sect. XLIV. p. 343. “Item, . . . to them of his lordship chappell and other his lordshipis servaunts that doith play the Play befor his lordship uppon SHROF-TEWSDAY at night yerely in reward — xs.” Sect. XLIV. p.

345.

“Item, . . . to them . . . that playth the Play of resurrection upon estur day in the mornynge in my lordis ‘chapell’ befor his lordshipe — xxs.”— Ibid. “Item, My lorde useth and accustomyth yerly to gyf hym which is ordynede to be the MASTER OF THE REVELLS yerly in my lordis hous in cristmas for the overseyinge and orderinge of his lordschips Playes, Interludes and Dresinge that is plaid befor his lordship in his hous in the xijth dayes of Cristenmas and they to have in rewarde for that caul yerly — xxs.”— Ibid. p. 346. “Item, My lorde useth and accustomyth to gyf every of the iiij Parsones that his lordschip admyted as his PLAYERS to com to his lordship yerly at Cristynmes ande at all other such tymes as his lordship shall comande them for playing of Playe and Interludes affor his lordship in his lordshipis hous for every of their fees for an hole yere”— Ibid. p. 351. “Item, to be payd . . . for rewards to Players for Playes playd at Christynmas by Stranegeres in my house after xxd.[17] every play, by estimacion somme — xxxiijs. iiijd.[18] — Sect. I. p. 22. “Item, My lorde usith, and accustometh to gif yerely when his lord-shipp is at home, to every Erlis Players that comes to his Lordshipe betwixt Cristynmas ande Candelmas, if he be his special lorde & frende & kinsman — xxs.”— Sect. xliv. p. 340. “Item, My lorde usith and accustomyth to gyf yerely, when his lordship is at home to every Lordis Players, that comyth to his lordshipe betwixt Crystynmas and Candilmas — xs.”— Ibid. The Reader will observe the great difference in the rewards here given to such Players as were retainers of noble personages, and such as are styled Strangers, or as we may suppose, only Strollers. The profession of a Common Player was about this time held by some in low estimation. In an old satire, entitled Cock Lorreles Bote,[19] the Author enumerating the most common trades or callings, as carpenters, coopers, joyners, &c. mentions

“Players, purse-cutters, money-batterers, Golde-washers, tomblers, jogelers Pardoners, &c.”— Sign. B. vj.

III. It hath been observed already, that Plays of Miracles, or Mysteries, as they were called, led to the introduction of Moral Plays, or Moralities, which prevailed so early, and became so common, that, towards the latter end of K. Henry VIIth’s reign, John Rastel, brother-in-law to Sir Thomas More, conceived a design of making them the vehicle of science and natural philosophy. With this view he published ‘C. A new interlude and a mery of the nature of the iiii elements declaring many proper points of philosopy natural, and of of divers strange laundes’,&c.[20].

It is observable that the poet speaks of the discovery of America as then recent;

“Within this xx yere Westwarde be founde new landys That we never harde tell of before this,” &c.

The West Indies were discovered by Columbus in 1492, which fixes the writing of this play to about 1510 (two years before the date of the above Houshold Book). The play of Hick-Scorner was probably somewhat more ancient, as he still more imperfectly alludes to the American discoveries, under the name of “the Newe founde Ilonde.” Sign. A. vii. It is observable that in the older Moralities, as in that last mentioned, Every-man, &c., is printed no kind of stage directions for the exit and entrances of the personages, no division of acts and scenes. But in the moral interlude of Lusty Juventus,[21] written under Edward VI. the exits and entrances begin to be noted in the margin:[22] at length in Q. Elizabeth’s reign Moralities appeared formally divided into acts and scenes, with a regular prologue, &c. One of these is reprinted by Dodsley. Before we quit this subject of the very early printed plays, it may just be observed, that, although so few are now extant, it should seem many were printed before the reign of Q. Elizabeth, as at the beginning of her reign, her INJUNCTIONS in 1559 are particularly directed to the suppressing of “many Pamphlets, PLAYES, and Ballads; that no manner of person shall enterprize to print any such, &c.” but under certain restrictions. Vid. Sect. V. In the time of Henry VIII. one or two dramatic pieces had been published under the classical names of Comedy and Tragedy,[23] but they appear not to have been intended for popular use: it was not till the religious ferments had subsided that the public had leisure to attend to dramatic poetry. In the reign of Elizabeth, Tragedies and Comedies began to appear in form, and, could the poets have persevered, the first models were good. Gorboduc, a regular Tragedy, was acted in 1561;[24] and Gascoigne, in 1566, exhibited Jocasta, a translation from Euripides, as also The Supposes, a regular Comedy, from Ariosto: near thirty years before any of Shakspeare’s were printed. The people however still retained a relish for their old Mysteries and Moralites,[25] and the popular dramatic poets seem to have made them their models. From the graver sort of Moralities our modern Tragedy appears to have derived its origin; as our Comedy evidently took its rise from the lighter interludes of that kind. And as most of these pieces contain an absurd mixture of religion and buffoonery, an eminent critic[26] has well deduced from thence the origin of our unnatural Tragi-comedies. Even after the people had been accustomed to Tragedies and Comedies, Moralities still kept their ground: one of them entitled The New Custom[27] was printed so late as 1573: at length they assumed the name of Masques,[28] and, with some classical improvements, became in the two following reigns the favourite entertainments of the court.

IV. The old Mysteries, which ceased to be acted after the reformation, appear to have given birth to a Third Species of Stage exhibition, which, though now confounded with Tragedy and Comedy, were by our first dramatic writers considered as quite distinct from them both: these were Historical Plays, or Histories, a species of dramatic writing, which resembled the old Mysteries in representing a series of Historical events simply in the order of time in which they happened, without any regard to the three great unities. These pieces seem to differ from Tragedies, just as much as Historical poems do from Epic: as the Pharsalia does from the Ćneid.

What might contribute to make dramatic poetry take this form was, that soon after the Mysteries ceased to be exhibited, was published a large collection of poetical narratives, called The Mirrour for Magistrates,[29] wherein a great number of the most eminent characters in English history are drawn relating their own misfortunes. This book was popular, and of a dramatic cast; and therefore, as an elegant writer[30] has well observed, might have its influence in producing Historical Plays. These narratives probably furnished the subjects, and the ancient Mysteries suggested the plan. There appears indeed to have been one instance of an attempt at an HISTORICAL PLAY itself, which was perhaps as early as any Mystery on a religious subject; for such I think, we may pronounce the representation of a memorable event in English History, that was EXPRESSED IN ACTIONS AND RHYMES. This was the old Coventry Play of Hock Tuesday,[31] founded on the story of the Massacre of the Danes; as it happened on St. Brice’s night, November 13, 1002.[32] The play in question was performed by certain men of Coventry, among the other shows and entertainments at Kenelworth Castle, in July 1575, prepared for Queen Elizabeth, and this the rather “because the matter mentioneth how valiantly our English Women, for the love of their country, behaved themselves.” The writer, whose words are here quoted,[33] hath given a short description of the performance; which seems on that occasion to have been without Recitation or Rhymes, and reduced to mere dumb-show; consisting of violent skirmishes and encounters, first between Danish and English “lance-knights on horseback,” armed with spear and shield; and afterwards between “hosts” of footmen: which at length ended in the Danes being “beaten down, overcome, and many led captive by our English women.”[34] This play, it seems, which was wont to be exhibited in their city yearly, and which had been of great antiquity and long continuance there,[35] had of late been suppressed, at the instance of some well-meaning but precise preachers, of whose “sourness” herein the townsmen complain; urging that their play was “without example of ill-manners, papistry, or any superstition;”[36] which shows it to have been entirely distinct from a religious Mystery. But having been discontinued, and, as appears from the narrative, taken up of a sudden after the sports were begun, the Players apparently had not been able to recover the old Rhymes. or to procure new ones, to accompany the action; which, if it originally represented “the outrage and importable insolency of the Danes, the grievous complaint of Huna, king Ethelred’s chieftain in wars;”[37] his counselling and contriving the plot to dispatch them; concluding with the conflicts above mentioned, and their final suppression “expressed in Actions and Rhimes after their manner,”[38] one can hardly conceive a more regular model of a complete drama; and, if taken up soon after the event, it must have been the earliest of the kind in Europe.[39] Whatever this old play, or “storial show,”[40] was at the time it was exhibited to Q. Elizabeth, it had probably our young Shakspeare for a spectator, who was then in his twelfth year, and doubtless attended with all the inhabitants of the surrounding country at these “Princely pleasures of Kenelworth,”[41] whence Stratford is only a few miles distant. And as the Queen was much diverted with the Coventry Play, “whereat Her Majesty laught well,” and rewarded the performers with two bucks, and five marks in money: who, “what rejoicing upon their ample reward, and what triumphing upon the good acceptance, vaunted their Play was never so dignified, nor ever any Players before so beatified:” but especially if our young bard afterwards gained admittance into the castle to see a Play, which the same evening, after supper, was there “presented of a very good theme, but so set-forth by the actors’ well-handling, that pleasure and mirth made it seem very short, though it lasted two good hours and more,”[42] we may imagine what an impression was made on his infant mind. Indeed the dramatic cast of many parts of that superb entertainment, which continued nineteen days, and was the most splendid of the kind ever attempted in this kingdom; the addresses to the Queen in the personated characters of a Sybille, a Savage Man, and Sylvanus, as she approached or departed from the castle; and, on the water, by Arlon, a Triton, or the Lady of the Lake, must have had a very great effect on a young imagination, whose dramatic powers were hereafter to astonish the world. But that the Historical Play was considered by our old writers, and by Shakspeare himself, as distinct from Tragedy and Comedy, will sufficiently appear from various passages in their works. “Of late days,” says Stow, “in place of those Stage Playes[43] hath been used Comedies, Tragedies, Enterludes, and Histories both true and fayned.”[44] Beaumont and Fletcher, in the prologue to The Captain, say,

“This is nor Comedy, nor Tragedy, Nor HISTORY.”

Polonius in Hamlet commends the actors, as the best in the world, “either for Tragedie, Comedie, Historie, Pastorall,” &c. And Shakspcare’s friends, Heminge and Condell, in the first folio edit. of his plays, in 1623,[45] have not only entitled their book “Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies:” but in their table of contents have arranged them under those three several heads; placing in the class of Histories, “K. John, Richard II., Henry IV., 2 pts. Henry V., Henry VI., 3 pts. Rich. III., and Henry VIII.;” to which they might have added such of his other plays as have their subjects taken from the old Chronicles or Plutarch’s Lives. Although Shakspeare is found not to have been the first who invented this species of drama,[46] yet he cultivated it with such superior success, and threw upon this simple inartificial tissue of scenes such a blaze of genius, that his Histories maintain their ground in defiance of Aristotle and all the critics of the Classic school, and will ever continue to interest and instruct an English audience. Before Shakspeare wrote, Historical Plays do not appear to have attained this distinction, being not mentioned in Queen Elizabeth’s licence in 1574[47] to James Burbage and others, who are only impowered “to use, exercyse, and occupie the arte and facultye of playenge Comedies, Tragedies, Enterludes, Stage-Playes and such other like.” But when Shakspeare’s Histories had become the ornaments of the stage, they were considered by the public and by himself, as a formal and necessary species, and are thenceforth so distinguished in public instruments. They are particularly inserted in the licence granted by King James I. in 1603,[48] to W. Shakspeare himself, and the players his fellows; who are authorized “to use and exercise the arte and faculty of playing Comedies, Tragedies, Histories, Interludes, Morals, Pastorals, Stage-Plaies, and such like.” The same merited distinction they continued to maintain after his death, till the Theatre itself was extinguished; for they are expressly mentioned in a warrant in 1622, for licensing certain “late Comedians of Queen Anne deceased, to bring up children in the qualitie and exercise of playing Comedies, HISTORIES, Interludes, Morals, Pastorals, Stage-Plaies, and such like.”[49] The same appears in an admonition issued in 1637[50] by Philip Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery, then Lord Chamberlain, to the master and wardens of the company of Printers and Stationers; wherein is set forth the complaint of his Majesty’s servants the Players, that “diverse of their books of Comedyes and Tragedyes, CHRONICLE-HISTORYES, and the like,” had been printed and published to their prejudice, &c. This distinction, we see, prevailed for near half a century; but after the Restoration, when the Stage revived for the entertainment of a new race of auditors, many of whom had been exiled in France, and formed their taste from the French theatre, Shakspeare’s Histories appear to have been no longer relished; at least the distinction respecting them is dropt in the patents that were immediately granted after the King’s return. This appears not only from the allowance to Mr. William Beeston in June 1660,[51] to use the house in Salisbury-court “for a Play- house, wherein Comedies,Tragedies,Tragi-comedies, Pastoralls, and Interludes may be acted,” but also from the fuller Grant (dated August 21, 1670)[52] to Thomas Killigrew, esq. and Sir William Davenant, knt. by which they have authority to erect two companies of players, and to fit up two theatres, “for the representation of Tragydies, Comedyes, Playes, Operas, and all other entertainments of that nature.” But while Shakspeare was the favourite dramatic poet, his Histories had such superior merit, that he might well claim to be the chief, if not the only historic dramatist that kept possession of the English stage: which gives a strong support to the tradition mentioned by Gildon,[53] that, in a conversation with Ben Jonson, our bard vindicated his Historical Plays, by urging, that, as he had found “the nation in general very ignorant of history, he wrote them in order to instruct the people in this particular.” This is assigning not only a good motive, but a very probable reason for his preference of this species of composition; since we cannot doubt but his illiterate countrymen would not only want such instruction when he first began to write, notwithstanding the obscure dramatic chroniclers who preceded him; but also that they would highly profit by his admirable Lectures on English History so long as he continued to deliver them to his audience. And, as it implies no claim to his being the first who introduced our chronicles on the stage, I see not why the tradition should be rejected. Upon the whole we have had abundant proof, that both Shakspeare and his contemporaries considered his Histories, or Historical Plays, as of a legitimate distinct species, sufficiently separate from Tragedy and Comedy; a distinction which deserves the particular attention of his critics and commentators; who, by not adverting to it, deprive him of his proper defence and best vindication for his neglect of the unities, and departure from the classical dramatic forms. For, if it be the first canon of sound criticism to examine any work by whatever rule the author prescribed for his own observance, then we ought not to try Shakspeare’s Histories by the general laws of Tragedy or Comedy. Whether the rule itself be vicious or not, is another inquiry; but certainly we ought to examine a work only by those principles according to which it was composed. This would save a deal of impertinent criticism.

V. We have now brought the inquiry as low as was intended, but cannot quit it, without entering into a short description of what may be called the Economy of the ancient English Stage.

Such was the fondness of our forefathers for dramatic entertainments, that not fewer than Nineteen Playhouses had been opened before the year 1633, when Prynne published his Histriomastix.[54] From this writer it should seem that “tobacco, wine and beer,”[55] were in those days the usual accommodations in the theatre. With regard to the Players themselves, the several companies were (as hath been already shown)[56] retainers, or menial servants to particular noblemen,[57] who protected them in the exercise of their profession: and many of them were occasionally Strollers, that travelled from one gentleman’s house to another. Yet so much were they encouraged, that, notwithstanding their multitude, some of them acquired large fortunes. Edward Allen, master of the playhouse called the Globe, who founded Dulwich College, is a known instance. And an old writer speaks of the very inferior actors, whom he calls the Hirelings, as living in a degree of splendour, which was thought enormous in that frugal age.[58] At the same time the ancient prices of admission were often very low. Some houses had penny-benches.[59] The “two-penny gallery” is mentioned in the prologue to Beaumont and Fletcher’s Woman-Hater.[60] And seats of three-pence, and a groat seem to be intended in the passage of Pyrnne above referred to. Yet different houses varied in their prices: that play-house called the HOPE had seats of five several rates from six-pence to half-a-crown.[61] But the general price of what is now called the Pit, seems to have been a shilling.[62] The day originally set apart for theatrical exhibition appears to have been Sunday; probably because the first dramatic pieces were of a religious cast. During a great part of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, the playhouses were only licensed to be open on that day:[63] but before the end of her reign, or soon after, this abuse was probably removed. The usual time of acting was early in the afternoon,[64] plays being generally performed by day-light.[65] All female parts were performed by men, no English actress being ever seen on the public stage[66] before the Civil Wars. Lastly, with regard to the playhouse furniture and ornaments, a writer of King Charles the Second’s time,[67] who well remembered the preceding age, assures us, that in general “they had no other scenes nor decorations of the stage, but only old tapestry, and the stage strewed with rushes, with habits accordingly.”[68] Yet Coryate thought our theatrical exhibitions, &c. splendid, when compared with what he saw abroad. Speaking of the theatre for comedies at Venice, he says, “The house is very beggarly and base in comparison of our stately playhouses in England: neyther can their actors compare with ours for Apparrell, Shewes, and Musicke. Here I observed certaine things that I never saw before: for, I saw Women act, a thing that I never saw before, though I have heard that it hath been sometimes used in London: and they performed it with as good a grace, action, gesture, and whatsoever convenient for a Player, as ever I saw any masculine actor.”[69] It ought however to be observed, that, amid such a multitude of playhouses as subsisted in the metropolis before the civil wars, there must have been a great difference between their several accommodations, ornaments, and prices; and that some would be much more showy than others, though probably all were much inferior in splendour to the two great theatres after the Restoration. *** The preceding Essay, although some of the materials are new arranged, hath received no alteration deserving notice, from what it was in the second Edition, 1767, except in Section IV. which in the present impression hath been much enlarged. This is mentioned, because, since it was first published, the history of the English stage hath been copiously handled by Mr. Tho. Warton in his “History of English Poetry, 1774, &c.” 3 vols. 4to. (wherein is inserted whatever in these volumes fell in with his subject); and by Edmond Malone, esq. who, in his “Historical Account of the English Stage,” (Shakesp. vol. i. pt. ii. 1790), hath added greatly to our knowledge of the oeconomy and usages of our ancient theatres.

NOTES 1. Bp. Warburton’s Shakesp. vol. v. p. 338.— Pref. to Dodsley’s Old Plays.— Riccoboni’s Acct. of Theat. of Europe, &c. &c. These were all the Author had seen when he first drew up this Essay. 2. See Ben Jonson’s Poetaster, act iii. sc. 4, and his Masque of The Fortunate Isles. Whalley’s Edit. vol. ii. p. 49, vol. vi. p. 190. 3. Howleglass is said in the Preface to have died in M.CCCC.L. At the end of the book, in M.CCC.L. 4. C. Emprunted . . . by William Copland: without date, in 4to. bl.let. among Mr. Garrick’s Old Plays, K. vol. X. 5. This play has been reprinted by Mr. Hawkins in his Origin of the English Drama, 3 vols. 12mo. Oxford, 1773. See vol. i. p. 27. 6. The second person of the Trinity seems to be meant. 7. Those above mentioned are male characters. 8. i.e. The Five Senses. These are frequently exhibited as five distinct personages upon the Spanish stage; (see Riccoboni, p. 98.) but our moralist has represented them all by one character. 9. See more of Every-man, in Series II. Pref. to B. ii. Note. 10. Emprynted by me Wynkyn de Worde, no date: in 4to. bl. let. This play has also been reprinted by Mr. Hawkins in his Origin of the English Drama vol. i. p. 69. 11. Apud Dunestapliam . . . quendam ludum de sancta Katerina (quem MIRACULA vulgariter appellamus) fecit. Ad quć decoranda, petiit a sacrista sancti Albani, ut sibi Capć Chorales accommodarentur, et obtinuit. Et fuit ludus ille de sancta Katerina. Vita Abbat. ad fin. Hist. Mat. Paris, fol. 1639, p. 56. We see here that Plays of Miracles were become common enough in the time of Mat. Paris, who flourished about 1240. But that indeed appears from the more early writings of Fitz-Stephens: quoted below. 12. Vid. Abrégé Chron. de l’Hist. de France, par M. Henault. a l’ann,

1179.

13. See Fitz-Stephens’s Description of London, preserved by Stow, Londinia pro spectaculis theatralibus, pro ludis scenicis, ludas habet sanctiores, representationes miraculorum, &c. He is thought to have written in the reign of Hen. II. and to have died in that of Rich. I. It is true, at the end of this book we find mentioned Henricum regem tertium; but this is doubtless Henry the Second’s son, who was crowned during the life of his father, in 1170, and is generally distinguished as Rex juvenis, Rex filius, and sometimes they were jointly named Reges Anglić. From a passage in his Chap. De Religione, it should seem that the body of St. Thomas Becket was just then a new acquisition to the Church of Canterbury. 14. See Prologue to Wife of Bath’s Tale, v. 6137. Tyrwhitt’s Ed. 15. M. L’Enfant. Vid. Hist. du Conc. de Constance, vol. ii. p. 440. 16. “The Regulations and Establishments of the Houshold of Hen. Alg. Percy, 5th Earl of Northumb. Lond. 1770.” 8vo. Whereof a small impression was printed by order of the late Duke and Duchess of Northumberland to bestow in presents to their friends. Although begun in 1512, some of the Regulations were composed so late as 1525. 17. This was not so small a sum then as it may now appear; for in another part of this MS. the price ordered to be given for a fat ox is but 13s. 4d. and for a lean one 8s. 18. At this rate the number of Plays acted must have been twenty. 19. Pr. at the Sun in Fleet-street, by W. de Worde, no date, b. l. 4to 20. Mr. Garrick has an imperfect copy, (Old Plays, I. vol. iii.) The Dramatis Personae are, “C. The Messenger (or Prologue). Nature naturate. Humanyte. Studyous Desire. Sensuall Appetyte. The Taverner. Experyence. Ygnoraunce. (Also yf ye lyste ye may brynge in a dysgysynge).” Afterwards follows a table of the matters handled in the interlude; among which are, “C. Of certeyn conclusions prouvynge the yerthe must nedes be rounde, and that yt is in circumference above xxi. M. myle.”—”C. Of certeyne points of cosmographye — and of dyvers straunge regyons,— and of the new founde landys and the maner of the people.” This part is extremely curious, as it shows what notions were entertained of the new American discoveries by our own countrymen. 21. Described in Series II. Preface to Book ii. The Dramatis Personae of this piece are, “C. Messenger, Lusty Juventus, Good Counsail, Knowledge, Sathan the devyll, Hypocrisie, Fellowship, Abominable- lyving [an Harlot], God’s-merciful-promises.” 22. I have also discovered some few Exeats and Intrats in the very old Interlude of the Four Elements. 23. Bp. Bale had applied the name of Tragedy to his Mystery of Gods Promises, in 1538. In 1540 John Palsgrave, B.D. had republished a Latin comedy, called Acolastus, with an English version. Holingshed tells us (vol. iii. p. 850), that so early as 1520 the king had “a good comedie of Plautus plaied” before him at Greenwich; but this was in Latin, as Mr. Farmer informs us in his curious “Essay on the Learning of Shakespeare,” 8vo. p. 31. 24. See Ames, p. 316. This play appears to have been first printed under the name of Gorboduc; then under that of Ferrer and Porrer, in 1568; and again, under Gorboduc, 1590. Ames calls the first edition 4to; Langbane, 8vo; and Tanner, 12mo. 25. The general reception the old Moralities had upon the stage, will account for the fondness of all our first poets for allegory. Subjects of this kind were familiar with every one. 26. Bp. Warburt. Shakesp. vol. v. 27. Reprinted among Dodsley’s Old Plays, vol. i. 28. In some of these appeared characters full as extraordinary as in any of the old Moralites. In Ben Jonson’s Masque of Christmas, 1616, one of the personages is Minced Pye. 29. The first part of which was printed in 1559. 30. Catal. of Royal and Noble Authors, vol. i. p. 166, 7. 31. This must not be confounded with the Mysteries acted on Corpus Christi day by the Franciscans at Coventry, which were also called COVENTRY PLAYS, and of which an account is given from T. Warton’s Hist. of Eng. Poetry, &c. in Malone’s Shakspeare. vol. ii. part ii. pag 13, 14. 32. Not 1012, as printed in Laneham’s Letter, mentioned below. 33. Ro. Laneham, whose LETTER, containing a full description of the Shows, &c. is reprinted at large in Nichols’s “Progresses of Q. Elizabeth,” &c. vol. i. 4to. 1788. That writer’s orthography, being peculiar and affected, is not here followed. Laneham describes this play of Hock Tuesday, which was “presented in an historical cue by certain good-hearted men of Coventry” (p. 32), and which was “wont to be play’d in their citie yearly” (p. 33), as if it were peculiar to them, terming it “their old storial show” (p. 32). And so it might be as represented and expressed by them “after their manner” (p. 33): although we are also told by Bevil Higgons, that St. Brice’s Eve was still celebrated by the Northern English in commemoration of this massacre of the Danes, the women beating brass instruments, and singing old rhymes, in praise of their cruel ancestors. See his Short View of Eng. History, 8vo. p. 17. (The Preface is dated 1734). 34. Laneham, p. 37. 35. Ibid. p. 33. 36. Ibid. 37. Ibid. p. 32. 38. Laneham. p. 33. 39. The rhymes, &c. prove this play to have been in English: whereas Mr. Tho. Warton thinks the Mysteries composed before 1328 were in Latin. Malone’s Shakesp. vol. ii. pt. ii. p. 9. 40. Laneham, p. 32. 41. See Nichols’s Progresses, vol. 1. p. 57. 42. Laneham, pp. 38, 39. This was on Sunday evening, July 9. 43. The Creation of the World, acted at Skinners-well in 1409. 44. See Stow’s Survey of London, 1603, 4to. p. 94, (said in the title-page to be “written in the year 1598.”) See also Warton’s Observations on Spenser, vol. ii. p. 109. 45. The same distinction is continued in the 2d and 3d folios, inc. 46 See Malone’s Shakesp. vol. i. pt. ii. p. 31. 47. Ibid. vol. i. pt. ii. p. 37. 48. Ibid. vol. i. pt. ii.p. 40 49. Ibid. p. 49. Here Histories or Historical Plays, are found totally to have excluded the mention of Tragedies; a proof of their superior popularity. In an Order for the King’s Comedians to attend K. Charles I. in his summer’s progress, 1636, (ibid. p. 144.) Histories are not particularly mentioned; but so neither are Tragedies: they heing briefly directed to “act Playes, Comedyes, and Interlude, without any lett,” &c. 50. Ibid. p. 139. 51. This is believed to be the date by Mr. Malone, vol. ii. pt.. ii. p. 239. 52. Malone vol. ii. part ii. p. 244. 53. Ibid vol. vi. p. 427. 54. He speaks in p. 492, of the Playhouses in Bishopsgate-street, and on Ludgate-hill, which are not among the seventeen enumerated in the Preface to Dodsley’s Old Plays. Nay, it appears from Rymer’s MSS. that Twenty-three Playhouses had been at different periods open in London: and even Six of them at one time. See Malone’s Shakesp. vol. i. pt. ii. p. 48. 55. So, I think, we may infer from the following passage, viz. “How many are there, who, according to their several qualities, spend 2d. 3d. 4d. 6d. 12d. 18d. 2s. and sometimes 4s. or 5s. at a play-house day by day, if coach-hire, boat-hire, tobacco, wine, beere, and such like vaine expences, which playes do usually occasion, be cast into the reckoning?” Prynne’s Histriomastix. p. 322. But that tobacco was smoked in the playhouses, appears from Taylor the Water-poet, in his Proclamation for Tobacco’s Propagation. “Let Playhouses, drinking-schools, taverns, &c. be continually haunted with the contaminous vapours of it; nay (if it be possible) bring it into the Churches, and there chock up their preachers.”— Works, p. 253. And this was really the case at Cambridge: James I. sent a letter, in 1607, against “taking Tobacco” in St. Mary’s. So I learn from my friend Dr. Farmer. A gentleman has informed me, that once going into a church in Holland, he saw the male part of the audience sitting with their hats on, smoking tobacco, while the preacher was holding forth in his morning-gown. 56. See the extracts above, from the E. of Northumb. Houshold Book. 57. See the Pref. to Dodsley’s Old Plays. The author of an old Invective against the Stage, called, A third Blast of Retrait from Plaies, &c. 1580, 12mo. says, “Alas! that private affection should so raigne in the nobilitie, that to pleasure their servants, and to upholde them in their vanity; they should restraine the magistrates from executing their office! . . . They (the nobility) are thought to be covetous by permitting their servants . . . to live at the devotion or almes of other men, passing, from countrie to countrie, from one gentleman’s house to another, offering their service, which is a kind of beggerie. Who indeede, to speake more trulie, are become beggers for their servants. For commonlie the good-wil men beare to their lordes, makes them drew the stringes of their purses to extende their liberalitie.”— Vid. pp. 75, 76, &c. 58. Stephen Gosson, in his Schoole of Abuse, 1579, 12mo. fol.23, says thus of what he terms in his margin Players-men: “Over lashing in apparel is so common a fault, that the very hyerlings of some of our Players, which stand at revirsion of vi s. by the week, jet under gentlemens noses in sutis of silke, exercising themselves to prating on the stage, and common scoffing when they come abrode, where they look askance over the shoulder at every man, of whom the Sunday before they begged an almes. I speake not this, as though everye one that professeth the qualitie so abused himselfe, for it is well knowen, that some of them are sober, discreete, properly learned, honest housholders and citizens, well-thought on among their neighbours at home,” [he seems to mean Edward Allen above-mentioned] “though the pryde of their shadowes (I meane those hangbyes, whom they succour with stipend) cause them to be somewhat ill-talked of abroad.” In a subsequent period we have the following satirical fling at the showy exterior and supposed profits of the actors of that time. Vid. Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit, 1625, 4to. ‘What is your profession?’—’Truly, Sir, . . . I am a Player.’ ‘A Player? . . . I took you rather for a Gentleman of great living; for, if by outward habit men shall be censured, I tell you, you would be taken for a substantial man.’—’So I am where I dwell . . . What, though the world once went hard with me, when I was fayne to carry my playing- fardle a foot-backe: Tempora Mutantur . . . for my very share in playing apparrell will not be sold for two hundred pounds . . . Nay more, I can serve to make a pretty speech, for I was a country author, passing at a Moral, &c.’— See Roberto’s Tale, sign. D. 3. b. 59. So a MS. of Oldys, from Tom Nash, an old pamphlet-writer. And this is confirmed by Taylor the Water-poet, in his Praise of Beggerie, (p. 99).

“Yet have I seen a begger with his many, (sc. vermin) Come at a Play-house, all in for one penny.”

60. So in the Belman’s Night-Walks by Decker, 1616, 4to. “Pay thy twopence to a Player, in this gallery thou mayest sit by a harlot.” 61. Induct, to Ben Jonson’s Bartholomew-fair: An ancient satirical piece, called The Black Booke, Lond. 1604, 4to. talks of “The sixpenny roomes in Play-houses;” and leaves a legacy to one whom he calls “Arch-tobacco-taker of England, in ordinaries, upon stages both common and private.” 62. Shakesp. Prol. to Hen. VIII.— Beaum. and Fletch. Prol. to the Captain, and to the Mad-lover. The pit probably had its name from one of the play-houses having been a cock-pit. 63. So Ste. Gosson, in his Schoole of Abuse, 1579, 12mo, speaking of the Players, says, “These, because they are allowed to play every Sunday make iiii or v. Sundayes at least every week,” fol. 24. So the author of A Second and Third Blast of Retrait from Plaies, 1580, 12mo. “Let the magistrate but repel them from the libertie of plaeing on the Sabboth-daie . . To plaie on the Sabboth is but a priviledge of sufferance, and might with ease be repelled, were it thoroughly followed,”— pp. 61, 62. So again, “Is not the Sabboth of al other daies the most abused? . . . Wherefore abuse not so the Sabboth-daie, my brethren; leave not the temple of the Lord.” . . . “Those unsaverie morsels of unseemelie sentences passing out of the mouth of a ruffenlie plaier, doth more content the hungrie humors of the rude multitude, and carrieth better rellish in their mouthes, than the bread of the worde, &c.” Vide page 63, 65, 69, &c. I do not recollect that exclamations of this kind occur in Prynne, whence I conclude that this enormity no longer subsisted in his time. It should also seem, from the author of the Third Blast above quoted, that the churches still continued to be used occasionally for theatres. Thus, in p. 77, he says, that the Players (who, as hath been observed, were servants of the nobility), “under the title of their maisters, or as reteiners, are priviledged to roave abroad, and permitted to publish their mametree in everie temple of God, and that throughout England, unto the horrible contempt of praier.” 64. “He entertaines us,” says Overbury in his character of an actor “in the best leasure of our life, that is, betweene meales; the most unfit time either for study, or bodily exercise.” Even so late as in the reign of Charles II. plays generally began at three in the afternoon. 65. See Biogr. Brit. i. 117, n. d. 66. I say “no English Actress . . . on the Public Stage,” because Prynne speaks of it as an unusual enormity, that “they had French- women actors in a play not long since personated in Blackfriars Playhouse.” This was in 1629. And though female parts were performed by men or boys on the public stage, yet in masques at court, the queen and her ladies made no scruple to perform the principal parts, especially in the reigns of James I. and Charles I. Sir William Davenant, after the Restoration, introduced women, scenery, and higher prices. See Cibber’s Apology for his own Life. 67. See a short Discourse on the English Stage, subjoined to Flecknor’s “Love’s Kingdom,” 1674, 12mo. 68. It appears from an Epigram of Taylor the Water-poet, that one of the principal theatres in his time, viz. the Globe on the Bankside, Southwark (which Ben Jonson calls the Glory of the Bank, and Fort of the whole parish), had been covered with thatch till it was burnt down in 1613.— See Taylor’s Sculler, Epig. 22, p. 31. Jonson’s Execration on Vulcan. Puttenham tells us they used vizards in his time, “partly to supply the want of players, when there were more parts than there were persons, or that it was not thought meet to trouble . . . princes chambers with too many folkes.”— Art. of Eng. Poes. 1589, p. 26. From the last clause, it should seem that they were chiefly used in the Masques at Court. 69. Coryate’s Crudities, 4to. 1611, p. 247.

I. Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly.

These were three noted outlaws, whose skill in archery rendered them formerly as famous in the North of England, as Robin Hood 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 Englishwood, 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.

The father of Robin a Forrester was, 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:

For he brought Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clough, And William a Clowdéslee To shoot with our Forester for forty mark; And our Forester beat them all three. Collect. of Old Ballads, 1727, vol. i 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. Shakspeare, in his comedy of “Much Ado about Nothing,” act i. makes Benedicke confirm his resolves of not yielding to love, by this protestation, “If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat,[1] 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, act ii. sc. i. should be “Adam Cupid,” in allusion to our archer. Ben Jonson has mentioned Clym o’ the Clough in his Alchemist, act i. 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.

With loynes in canvas bow-case tyde:[2] Where arrowes stick with mickle pride; . . . . Like ghosts of Adam Bell and Clymme. Sol sets for fear they’l shoot at him.” Works, 1673, fol. p. 291.

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 Queen Elizabeth. See in Rymer’s Foedera, a letter from Lord William Howard to some of the officers of state, wherein he mentions them. As for the following stanzas, which will be judged from the style, orthography, and numbers, to be of considerable antiquity, they were here given (corrected in some places by a MS. copy in the Editor’s old folio) from a black-letter Quarto. Imprinted at London in Lothbury by Wyllyam Copland (no date). That old quarto edition seems to be exactly followed in “Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry, &c. Lond. 1791,” 8vo., the variations from which, that occur in the following copy, are selected from many others in the folio MS. above mentioned. In the same MS. this ballad is followed by another, entitled Younge Cloudeslee, being a continuation of the present story, and reciting the adventures of William of Cloudesly’s son: but greatly inferior to this both in merit and antiquity.

PART THE FIRST

MERY it was in the grene forest Amonge the leves grene, Wheras men hunt east and west Wyth bowes and arrowes kene;

To raise the dere out of theyr denne; Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene; As by thre yemen of the north countrčy, By them it is I meane.

The one of them hight Adam Bel, The other Clym of the Clough,[3] The thyrd was William of Cloudesly, And archer good ynough.

They were outlawed for venyson, These yemen everychone; They swore them brethren upon a day, To Englyshe wood for to gone.

Now lith and lysten, gentylmen, That of myrthes loveth to here: Two of them were single men, The third had a wedded fere.

Wyllyam was the wedded man, Muche more then was hys care: He sayde to hys brethren upon a day, To Carleile he would fare,

For to speke with fayre Alyce his wife, And with hys chyldren thre. “By my trouth,” sayde Adam Bel, “Not by the counsell of me:”

“For if ye go to Carlile, brother, And from thys wylde wode wende, If that the justice may you take, Your lyfe were at an ende.”

“If that I come not to-morowe, brother, By pryme to you agayne, Truste you then that I am taken, Or else that I am slayne.”

He toke hys leave of hys brethren two, And to Carlile he is gon There he knocked at hys owne windňwe Shortlye and anone.

“Wher be you, fayre Alyce,” he sayd, “My wife and chyldren three? Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbŕnde, Wyllyam of Cloudeslee.”

“Alas!” then sayde fayre Alyce, And syghed wonderous sore, Thys place hath ben besette for you Thys halfe a yere and more.”

“Now am I here,” sayde Cloudeslee, “I would that in I were. Now fetche us meate and drynke ynoughe, And let us make good chere.”

She fetched hym meate and drynke plentye, Lyke a true wedded wyfe; And pleased hym with that she had, Whome she loved as her lyfe.

There lay an old wyfe in that place, A lytle besyde the fyre, Whych Wyllyam had found of charytye More than seven yere.

Up she rose, and forth shee goes, Evill mote shee speede therfore; For she had sett no foote on ground In seven yere before.

She went unto the justice hall, As fast as she could hye: “Thys night, shee sayd, is come to town Wyllyam of Cloudeslye.”

Thereof the justice was full fayne, And so was the shirife also; “Thou shalt not trauaile hither, dame, for nought, Thy meed thou shalt have ere thou go.”

They gave to her a ryght good goune, Of scarlate, and of graine: She toke the gyft, and home she wente And couched her doune agayne.

They raysed the towne of mery Carleile In all the haste they can; And came thronging to Wyllyames house, As fast as they might gone.

There they besette that good yeman Round about on every syde: Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes, That thither-ward fast hyed.

Alyce opened a backe windňwe, And loked all aboute, She was ware of the justice and shirife bothe, Wyth a full great route.

“Alas! treason,” cryed Alyce, “Ever wo may thou be! Goe into my chamber, my husband,” she sayd, “Swete Wyllyam of Cloudeslee.”

He toke hys sweard and hys bucler, Hys bow and hys chyldren thre, And wente into hys strongest chamber, Where he thought surest to be.

Fayre Alyce, like a lover true, Took a pollaxe in her hande Said, “He shall dye that cometh in Thys dore, whyle I may stande.”

Cloudeslč bente a right good bowe, That was of a trusty tre, He smot the justise on the brest, That hys arowe burst in three.

“A curse on his harte,” saide William, “Thys day thy cote dyd on; If it had ben no better then myne, It had gone nere thy bone.”

“Yelde the Cloudeslč,” sayd the justise, “And thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.” “A curse on hys hart,” sayd fair Alyce, That my husband councelleth so.

“Set fyre on the house,” saide the sherife, “Syth it wyll no better be, “And brenne we therin William,” he saide, “Hys wyfe and chyldren thre.”

They fyred the house in many a place, The fyre flew up on hye: “Alas!” then cryed fayre Alice, “I se we here shall dy.”

William openyd a backe wyindňw, That was in hys chamber hie, And there with sheetes he did let downe His wyfe and children three.

“Have you here my treasure,” sayde William, My wyfe and my chyldren thre: “For Christes love do them no harme, But wreke you all on me.”

Wyllyam shot so wonderous well, Tyll hys arrowes were all agoe, And the fyre so fast upon hym fell, That hys bowstryng brent in two.

The sparkles brent and fell upon Good Wyllyam of Cloudeslč: Than was he a wofull man, and sayde, “Thys is a cowardes death to me.

“Lever had I, sayde Wyllyam, With my sworde in the route to renne, Then here among myne enemyes wode Thus cruelly to bren.”

He toke hys sweard and hys buckler, And among them all he ran, Where the people were most in prece, He smot downe many a man.

There myght no man abyde hys stroakes, So fersly on them he ran: Then they threw wyndowes and dores on him, And so toke that good yeman.

There they hym bounde both hand and fote, And in a deepe dungeon him cast: Now, “Cloudeslč,” sayd the justice, “Thou shalt be hanged in hast.”

“A payre of new gallowes,” sayd the sherife, “Now shal I for thee make; And the gates of Carleil shal be shutte: No man shal come in therat.

“Then shall not helpe Clym of the Cloughe, Nor yet shall Adam Bell, Though they came with a thousand mo, Nor all the devels in hell.”

Early in the mornynge the justice uprose, To the gates first can he gone, And commaunded to be shut full close Lightilč everychone.

Then went he to the markett place, As fast as he coulde hye; There a payre of new gallowes he set up Besyde the pyllorye.

A lytle boy among them asked, “What meaneth that gallow-tre?” They sayde “to hange a good yeman, Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslč.

That lytle boye was the towne swyne-heard, And kept fayre Alyces swyne; Oft he had seene William in the wodde, And geuen hym there to dyne.

He went out att a crevis of the wall, And lightly to the woode dyd gone; There met he with these wightye yemen Shortly and anone.

“Alas!” then sayde the lytle boye, “Ye tary here all too longe; Cloudeslee is taken, and dampned to death, And readye for to honge.”

“Alas!” then sayd good Adam Bell, “That ever we saw thys daye! He had better have tarryed with us, So ofte as we dyd him praye.

“He myght have dwelt in grene forčste, Under the shadowes grene, And have kepte both hym and us att reste, Out of all trouble and teene.”

Adam bent a ryght good bow, A great hart sone hee had slayne: “Take that, chylde,” he sayde, to thy dynner, “And bryng me myne arrowe agayne.”

“Now go we hence,” sayed these wightye yeomen, Tarry we no longer here; We shall hym borowe by God his grace, Though we buy itt full dere.”

To Caerleil wente these bold yemen, All in a mornyng of maye. Here is a FYT[4] of Cloudeslye, And another is for to saye.

PART THE SECOND

AND when they came to mery Carleile, All in the mornyng tyde, They founde the gates shut them untyll About on every syde.

“Alas!” then sayd good Adam Bell, “That ever we were made men! These gates be shut so wonderous fast, We may not come therein.”

Then bespake him Clym of the Clough, “Wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng; Let us saye we be messengers, Streyght come nowe from our king.”

Adam said, “I have a letter written, Now let us wysely werke, We wyl saye we have the kynges seale; I holde the porter no clerke.”

Then Adam Bell bete on the gates With strokes great and stronge: The porter marveiled, who was therat, And to the gates he thronge.

“Who is there now,” sayde the porter, “That maketh all thys knockinge?” “We be tow messengers,” quoth Clim of the Clough, “Be come ryght from our kyng.”

“We have a letter,” sayd Adam Bel, “To the justice we must itt bryng; Let us in our message to do, That we were agayne to the kyng.”

“Here commeth none in,” sayd the porter, “By hym that dyed on a tre, Tyll a false thefe be hanged, Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslč.”

Then spake the good yeman Clym of the Clough, And swore by Mary fre, “And if that we stande long wythout, Lyke a thefe hanged shalt thou be.

“Lo here we have the kyngčs seale: What, lurden, art thou wode? The porter went[5] it had been so, And lyghtly dyd off hys hode.

“Welcome is my lordes seale,” he saide; “For that ye shall come in.” He opened the gate full shortlye: An euyl openyng for him.

“Now are we in,” sayde Adam Bell, “Wherof we are full faine; But Christ he knowes, that harowed hell, How we shall com out agayne.”

“Had we the keys,” said Clim of the Clough, “Ryght wel then shoulde we spede, Then might we come out wel ynough When we se tyme and nede.”

They called the porter to counsell, And wrang his necke in two, And caste hym in a depe dongeňn, And toke hys keys hym fro.

“Now am I porter,” sayd Adam Bel, “Se brother, the keys are here, The worst porter to merry Carleile That ye had thys hundred yere.

“And now wyll we our bowes bend, Into the towne wyll we go, For to delyuer our dere brother, That lyeth in care and wo.”

Then they bent theyr good ewe bowes, And loked theyr stringes were round,[6] The markett place in mery Carleile They beset that stound.

And, as they loked them besyde, A paire of new galowes they see, And the justice with a quest of squyers, That judged William hanged to be.

And Cloudeslč lay redy there in a cart, Fast bound both fote and hand; And a stronge rop about hys necke, All readye for to hange.

The justice called to him a ladde, Cloudeslčs clothes hee shold have, To take the measure of that yemčn, Therafter to make hys grave.

“I have sene as great mervaile,” said Cloudesle, “As betweyne thys and pryme, He that maketh a grave for mee, Hymselfe may lye therin.”

“Thou speakest proudlye,” said the justice, “I will thee hange with my hande.” Full wel herd this his brethren two, There styll as they dyd stande.

Then Cloudeslč cast his eyen asyde And saw hys brethren twaine At a corner of the market place, Redy the justice for to slaine.

“I se comfort,” sayd Cloudeslč, “Yet hope I well to fare, If I might have my handes at wyll Ryght lytle wolde I care.”

Then spake good Adam Bell To Clym of the Clough so free, “Brother, se you marke the justyce wel; Lo yonder you may him se:

“And at the shyrife shote I wyll Strongly wyth an arrowe kene; A better shote in mery Carleile Thys seven yere was not sene.”

They loosed their arrowes both at once, Of no man had they dread; The one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe, That both theyr sides gan blede.

All men voyded, that them stode nye, When the justice fell to the grounde, And the sherife nye hym by; Eyther had his deathes wounde.

All the citezens fast gan flye, They durst no longer abyde: There lyghtly they losed Cloudeslee, Where he with ropes lay tyde.

Wyllyam start to an officer of the towne, Hys axe from hys hand he wronge, On eche syde he smote them downe, Hee thought he taryed to long.

Wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two, “Thys daye let us lyve and die, If ever you have nede, as I have now, The same shall you finde by me.”

They shot so well in that tyde, Theyr stringes were of silke ful sure, That they kept the stretes on every side; That batŕyle did long endure.

They fought together as brethren true, Lyke hardy men and bolde, Many a man to the ground they threw, And many a herte made colde.

But when their arrowes were all gon, Men preced to them full fast, They drew theyr swordčs then anone, And theyr bowes from them cast.

They went lyghtlye on theyr way, Wyth swordes and buclers round; By that it was the mydd of the day, They made many a wound.

There was an out-horne[7] in Carleil blowen, And the belles bacwŕrd dyd ryng, Many a woman sayde alas! And many theyr handes dyd wryng.

The mayre of Carleile forth com was, Wyth hym a ful great route: These yemen dred hym full sore, Of theyr lyves they stode in great doute.

The mayre came armed a full great pace, With a pollaxe in hys hande; Many a strong man wyth him was, There in that stowre to stande.

The mayre smot at Cloudeslč with his bil, Hys bucler he brast in two, Full many a yeman with great evyll “Alas! treason” they cryed for wo. Kepe well the gates fast, they bad, That these traytours therout not go.

But al for nought was that they wrought, For so fast they downe were layde, Tyll they all thre, that so manfulli fought, Were gotten without at a braide.

“Have here your keys,” sayd Adam Bel, “Myne office I here forsake, And yf you do by my counsell A new porter do ye make.”

He threw theyr keys at theyr heads, And bad them evell to thryve, And all that letteth any good yeman To come and comfort his wyfe.

Thus be these good yeman gon to the wod, As lyghtly as lefe on lynde; The lough and be mery in theyr mode, Theyr enemyes were ferr behynd.

When they came to Englyshe-wode, Under the trusty tre, There they found Bowes full good, And arrowes full great plentye.

“So God me help,” sayd Adam Bell, And Clym of the Clough so fre, “I wold we were in mery Carleile, Before that fayre meynye.”

They set them downe, and made good chere, And eate and dranke full well. A second FYT of the wightye yeomen: Another I wyll you tell.

PART THE THIRD

As they sat in Englyshe-wood, Under the green-wode tre, They thought they heard a woman wepe, But her they mought not se.

Sore then syghed the fayre Alyce: “That ever I sawe thys day! For nowe is my dere husband slayne: Alas! and wel-a-way!

“Myght I have spoken wyth hys dere brethren, Or with eyther of them twayne, To show them what him befell, My hart were out of payne.”

Cloudeslč walked a lytle beside, He looked under the grene wood lynde, He was ware of his wife, and chyldren three, Full wo in harte and mynde.

“Welcome, wyfe,” then sayde Wyllyam, “Under this trusti tre: I had wende yesterday, by sweete saynt John, Thou sholdest me never have se.”

“Now well is me that ye be here, My harte is out of wo.” “Dame,” he sayde, “be mery and glad, And thanke my brethren two.

“Herof to speake,” said Adam Bell, “I-wis it is no bote: The meate, that we must supp withall, It runneth yet fast on fote.”

Then went they downe ěnto a launde, These noble archares all thre; Eche of them slew a hart of greece, The best that they cold se.

“Have here the best, Alyce, my wyfe,” Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudeslye; “By cause ye so bouldly stode by me When I was slayne full nye.”

Then went they to suppere Wyth suche meate as they had; And thanked God of ther fortune: They were both mery and glad.

And when they had supped well, Certayne withouten lease, Cloudeslč sayd, “We wyll to our kyng, To get us a charter of peace.

“Alyce shal be at our sojournyng In a nunnery here besyde; My tow sonnes shall wyth her go, And there they shall abyde.

“Myne eldest son shall go wyth me; For him have you no care: And he shall bring you worde agayn, How that we do fare.

Thus be these yemen to London gone, As fast as they myght he,[8] Tyll they came to the kynges pallace, Where they woulde nedes be.

And whan they came to the kynges courte, Unto the pallace gate, Of no man wold they aske no leave, But boldly went in therat.

They preced prestly into the hall, Of no man had they dreade: The porter came after, and dyd them call, And with them began to chyde.

The usher sayde, “Yemen, what wold ye have? I pray you tell to me: You myght thus make offycers shent: Good syrs, of whence be ye?”

“Syr, we be out-lawes of the forest Certayne withouten lease; And hether we be come to the kyng, To get us a charter of peace.”

And whan they came before the kyng, As it was the lawe of the lande, The kneled downe without lettyng, And eche held up his hand.

The sayed, “Lord, we beseche the here, That ye wyll graunt us grace; For we have slayne your fat falow dere In many a sondry place.”

“What be your nams,” then said our king, “Anone that you tell me?” They sayd, “Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudeslč.”

“Be ye those theves,” then sayd our kyng, “That men have tolde of to me? Here to God I make an avowe, Ye shal be hanged al thre.

“Ye shal be dead without mercy, As I am kynge of this lande.” He commanded his officers everichone, Fast on them to lay hande.

There they toke these good yemen, And arested them al thre: “So may I thryve,” sayd Adam Bell, “Thys game lyketh not me.

“But, good lorde, we beseche you now, That yee graunt us grace, Insornuche as frely we be to you come, As frely we may fro you passe.

“With such weapons, as we have here, Tyll we be out of your place; And yf we lyve this hundreth yere, We wyll aske you no grace.”

“Ye speake proudly,” sayd the kynge; “Ye shall be hanged all thre.” “That were great pitye,” then sayd the quene, “If any grace myght be.”

“My lorde, whan I came fyrst into this lande To be your wedded wyfe, The fyrst boone that I wold aske, Ye would graunt it me belyfe:

“And I asked you never none tyll now; Therefore, good lorde, graunt it me.” “Now aske it,” madam, sayd the kynge, “And graunted it shal be.”

“Then, good my lord, I you beseche, These yemen graunt ye me.” “Madame, ye myght have asked a boone, That shuld have been worth them all thre.

“Ye myght have asked towres, and townes, Parkes and forestes plenté” “None soe pleasant to my pay,” shee sayd; “Nor none so lefe to me.”

“Madame, sith it is your desyre, Your askyng graunted shal be; But I had lever had given you Good market townes thre.”

The quene was a glad woman, And sayde, “Lord, gramarcy; “I dare undertake for them, That true men shal they be.”

But, good my lord, speke som mery word, That comfort they might se.” “I graunt you grace,” then sayd our king; “Washe, felos, and to meate go ye.”

They had not setten but a whyle Certayne without lesynge, There came messengers out of the north With letters to our kyng.

And whan the came before our kynge, They knelt downe on theyr kne; And sayd, “Lord, your officers grete you well, Of Carleile in the north cuntre.”

“How fareth my justice,” sayd the kyng, “And my sherife also? Syr, they be slayne without leasynge, And many an officer mo.”

“Who hath them slayne?” sayd the kyng; “Anone that thou tell me.” “Adam Bell, and Clime of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudeslč.”

“Alas for rewth!” then sayd our kynge: “My hart is wonderous sore; I had lever than a thousande pounde, I had knowne of thys before:

“For I have graunted them grace, And that forthynketh me: But had I knowne of this before, They had been hanged all thre.”

The kyng he opened the letter anon; Himselfe he red it thro, And founde how these outlawes had slain Thre hundred men and mo:

Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe, And the mayre of Carleile towne; Of all the constables and catchipolles Alyve were scant left one:

The baylyes, and the bedyls both, And the sergeauntes of the law, And forty fosters of the fe, These outlawes had yslaw:

And broke his parks, and slayne his dere; Of all they chose the best; So perelous out-lawes, as they were, Walked not by easte nor west.

When the kynge this letter had red, In hys harte he syghed sore: “Take up the tables anone,” he bad, “For I may eat no more.”

The kyng called hys best archars To the buttes wyth hym to go: “I wyll se these felowes shote,” he sayd, “In the north have wrought this wo.”

The kynges bowmen buske them blyve, And the quenes archers also; So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen With them they thought to go.

There twyse, or thryse they shote about For to assay theyr hande; There was no shote these yemen shot, That any prycke[9] myght stand.

Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslč; “By Him that for me dyed, I hold hym never a good archar, That shoteth at buttes so wyde.”

“At what a butte now wold ye shote?, I pray thee tell to me?” “At suche a but, Syr,” he sayd, “As men use in my countrč.”

Wyllyam wente into a fyeld, And with him his two brethren: There they set up two hasell roddes Twenty score paces betwene.

“I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslč, That yonder wande cleveth in two.” “Here is none suche, sayd the kyng, “Nor none that can so do.”

“I shall assaye, Syr,” sayd Cloudeslč, “Or that I farther go.” Cloudesly with a bearyng arowe Clave the wand in two.

“Thou art the best archer,” then said the king, “Forsothe that ever I se.” “And yet for your love,” sayd Wyllyam, I will do more maystery.

“I have a sonne is seven yere olde, He is to me full deare; I wyll hym tye to a stake; All shall se, that be here;

And lay an apple upon his head, And go syxe score paces hym fro, And I my selfe with a brode arňw Shall cleve the apple in two.”

“Now haste the,” then sayd the kyng, “By Hym that dyed on a tre, But if thou do not, as thou hest sayde Hanged shalt thou be.

“And thou touche his head or gowne, In syght that men may se, By all the sayntes that be in heaven, I shall hange you all thre.”

“That I have promised,” said Wyllyam, “That I wyll never forsake.” And there even before the kynge In the earth he drove a stake

And bound therto his eldest sonne, And bad him stand styll thereat; And turned the childes face him fro, Because he should not start.

An apple upon his head he set, And then his bowe he bent: Syxe score paces they were meaten, And thether Cloudeslč went.

There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe, Hys bow was great and long; He set that arrowe in his bowe, That was both styffe and stronge.

He prayed the people, that wer there, That they all still wold stand, “For he that shoteth for suche a wager Behoveth a stedfast hand.”

Muche people prayed for Cloudeslč, That his lyfe saved myght be, And whan he made hym redy to shote, There was many weeping ee.

But Cloudeslč he clefte the apple in two, As many a man might see. “Over Gods forbode,” sayde the kinge, “That thou shold shote at me.

“I geve thee eightene pence a day, And my bowe shalt thou here, And over all the north countrč I make the chyfe rydčre.”

“And I thyrtene pence a day,” said the quene, By God, and by my fay; Come feche thy payment when thou wylt, No man shall say the nay.”

“Wyllyam, I make the a gentleman Of clothyng, and of fe: And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre, For they are so semely to se.

“Your sonne, for he is tendre of age, Of my wyne-seller he shall be; And when he cometh to man’s estate, Better avaunced shall he be.”

“And, Wyllyam, bringe me your wife,” said the quene, “Me longeth her sore to se: She shall be my chefe gentlewoman, To governe my nurserye.”

The yemen thanked them all curteously. “To some byshop wyl we wend, Of all the synnes, that we have done, To be assoyld at his hand.”

So forth be gone these good yemen, As fast as they might he;[8] And after came and dwelled with the kynge, And dyed good men all thre.

Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen; God send them eternal blysse; And all, that with a hand-bowe shoteth: That of heven may never mysse. Amen.

NOTES

1. 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 show their dexterity in escaping before the contents fall upon them. 2. i.e. Each with a canvas bow-case tied round his loins. 3. Clym of The Clough means Clem (Clement) of the Cliff: for so Clough signifies in the north. 4. See Gloss. 5. i.e. weened, thought, (which last is the reading of the folio manuscript,) Calais or Rouen, was taken from the English by showing the governor, who could not read, a letter with the king’s seal, which was all he looked at. 6. 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. 7. Outhorne is an old term signifying calling forth of subjects to arms by the sound of a horn.— See Cole’s Lat. Dict., Bailey, &c. 8. i.e. hie, hasten. 9. i.e. mark.

II. The Aged Lover Renounceth Love.

The grave-digger’s song in Hamlet, act v. is taken from three stanzas of the following poem, though greatly altered and disguised, as the same were corrupted by the ballad-singers of Shakspeare’s time; or perhaps so designed by the poet himself, the better to suit 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 on 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 Museum.[1] 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 Book iv. no. viii

I LOTHE that I did love, In youth that I thought swete, As time requires: for my behove Me thinkes they are not mete.

My lustes they do me leave, My fansies all are fled; And tract of time begins to weave Gray heares upon my hed.

For Age with steling steps Hath clawde me with his crowch, And lusty Youthe awaye he leapes, As there had bene none such.

My muse doth not delight Me, as she did before: My hand and pen are not in plight, As they have bene of yore.

For Reason me denies, All youthly idle rime; And day by day to me she cries, Leave off these toyes in tyme.

The wrinkles in my brow, The furrowes in my face, Say, Limping age will lodge him now, Where youth must geve him place.

The harbenger of death, To me I se him ride, The cough, the cold, the gasping breath, Doth bid me to provide

A pikeax and a spade, And eke a shrowding shete, A house of clay for to be made For such a guest most mete.

Me thinkes I heare the clarke, That knoles the carefull knell; And bids me leave my wearye warke, Ere nature me compell.

My keepers[2] knit the knot, That youth doth laugh to scorne, Of me that shall bee cleane forgot, As I had ne’er bene borne.

Thus must I youth geve up, Whose badge I long did weare: To them I yeld the wanton cup, That better may it beare.

Lo here the bared skull; By whose balde signe I know, That stouping age away shall pull What youthful yeres did sow.

For Beautie with her band, These croked cares had wrought, And shipped me into the land, From whence I first was brought.

And ye that bide behinde, Have ye none other trust: As ye of claye were cast by kinde, So shall ye turne to dust.

NOTES

1. Harl. MSS. Num. 1703, § 25. The text is printed from the “Songs, &c. of the Earl of Surrey and others, 1557, 4to.” 2. Alluding perhaps to Eccles. xii. 3.

III. Jephthah Judge of Israel.

In Shakspeare’s Hamlet, act ii. the hero of the play takes occasion to banter Polonius with some scraps of an old ballad, which has never yet appeared 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. It has been said, that the original ballad, in black-letter, is among Anthony ŕ Wood’s Collections in the Ashmolean Museum. But, upon application lately made, the volume which contained this song was missing, so that it can only now be given as in the former edition. The banter of Hamlet is as follows:

“Hamlet. ‘O Jeptha, 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 Jeptha? Pol. If you call me Jeptha, my lord, I have a daughter, that I love passing well. Ham. Nay, that follows not. Pol. What follows 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 pious chanson will shew you more.”— Edit. 1793, vol. xv. p. 133

HAVE you not heard these many years ago, Jeptha 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 when he was appointed judge, And chieftain of the company, A solemn vow to God he made; If he returned with victory, At his return To burn The first live thing,

- *

That should meet with him then, Off his house when he should return agen.

It came to pass, the wars was o’er, And he returned 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.

But when he saw his daughter dear Coming on most foremostly, He wrung his hands, and tore his hair, And cryed out most piteously; “Oh! it’s thou, said he,” “That have brought me Low, And troubled me so, That I know not what to do. For I have made a vow, he sed, The which must be replenished;”

- *

“What thou hast spoke Do not revoke: What hast thou said, Be not affraid; Altho’ it be I; Keep promises to God on high.

“But, dear father, grant me one request, 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 Robyn, Jolly Robyn.

In his Twelfth Night, Shakspeare introduces the Clown singing part of the two first stanzas of the following song; which has been recovered from an ancient manuscript of Dr. Harrington’s at Bath, preserved among the many literary treasures transmitted to the ingenious and worthy possessor by a long line of most respectable ancestors. Of these only a small part hath been printed in the Nugć Antiquć, 3 vols. 12mo.; a work which the public impatiently wishes to see continued. The song is thus given by Shakspeare, act iv. sc. 2. (Malone’s edit, iv. 93.)

“Clown. Hey Robin, jolly Robin, [singing.] Tell me how thy lady does. Malvolio. Fool.— Clown. My lady is unkind, perdy. Mal. Fool.— Clown. Alas, why is she so? Mal. Fool, I say.— Clown. She loves another. Who calls, ha?”

Dr. Farmer has conjectured that the song should begin thus:

“Hey, jolly Robin, tell to me How does thy lady do? My lady is unkind perdy Alas, why is she so?”

But this ingenious emendation is now superseded by the proper readings of the old song itself, which is here printed from what appears the most ancient of Dr. Harrington’s poetical manuscripts, and which has, therefore, been marked No. I. (scil. p. 68.) That volume seems to have been written in the reign of King Henry VIII. and, as it contains many of the poems of Sir Thomas Wyat, hath had almost all the contents attributed to him by marginal directions written with an old but later hand, and not always rightly, as, I think, might be made appear by other good authorities. Among the rest, this song is there attributed to Sir Thomas Wyat, also; but the discerning reader will probably judge it to belong to a more obsolete writer. In the old manuscript, to the third and fifth stanzas is prefixed this title, Responce, and to the fourth and sixth, Le Plaintif; but in the last instance so evidently wrong, that it was thought better to omit these titles, and to mark the changes of the Dialogue by inverted commas. In other respects the manuscript is strictly followed, except where noted in the margin. Yet the first stanza appears to be defective, and it should seem that a line is wanting, unless the four first words were lengthened in the tune.

A Robyn, Jolly Robyn, Tell me how thy leman doeth, And thou shalt knowe of myn.

“My lady is unkynde perde.” Alack! why is she so? “She loveth an other better than me; And yet she will say no.”

I fynde no such doublenes: I fynde women true. My lady loveth me dowtles, And will change for no newe.

“Thou art happy while that doeth last, But I say, as I fynde, That women’s love is but a blast, And torneth with the wynde.”

Suche folkes can take no harme by love, That can abide their torn. “But I alas can no way prove In love, but lake and morn.”

But if thou wilt avoyde thy harme Lerne this lessen of me, At others fieres thy selfe to warme, And let them warme with the.

V. A Song to the Lute in Musicke.

This sonnet (which is ascribed to Richard Edwards,[1] in the “Paradise of Daintie Devises,” fo. 31, b.) is by Shakspeare made the subject of some pleasant ridicule in his Romeo and Juliet, act iv. sc. 5, where he introduces Peter putting this question to the musicians.

“Peter . . . why ‘Silver Sound? why ‘Musicke with her silver sound?’” what say you, Simon Catling? 1st. Musician. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! what say you, Hugh Rebecke? 2nd. 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 it for you: It is ‘Musicke with her silver sound,’ because musicians have no gold for sounding.”— Edit. 1793, vol. xiv. p. 529.

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 manuscript in the Cotton Library [Vesp. A. 25], intitled, “Divers things of Hen. viij’s time:” with some corrections from The Paradise of Dainty Devises, 1596.

WHERE gripinge grefes the hart would wounde, 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 joye yt maks our mirthe abounde, 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 Gods by musicke have theire prayse; 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.

O heavenly gyft, that rules the mynd, Even as the sterne dothe rule the shippe! O musicke, whom the Gods assinde To comforte manne, whom cares would nippe! Since thow both man and beste doest move, What beste ys he, wyll the disprove?

NOTES

1. See Wood’s Athen., Tanner’s Biblioth. and Hawkins’s Hist. of Music.

VI. King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid.

This story is often alluded to by our old dramatic writers. Shakspeare, in his Romeo and Juliet, act. ii. sc. 1, makes Mercutio say,

“— Her (Venus’s) purblind son and heir, Young Adam[1] Cupid, he that shot so true, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid.”

As the thirteenth line of the following ballad seems here particularly alluded to, it is not improbable that Shakspeare 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.[2] In the Second Part of Hen. IV. act v. 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 that it never existed. Many dramatic pieces are referred to by old writers, which are not now extant, or even mentioned in any list.[3] In the infancy of the stage, plays were often exhibited that were never printed. It is probably in allusion to the same play that Ben Jonson says, in his Comedy of “Every Man in his Humour,” act iii. 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.

I READ that once in Affrica 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 hapened on a day, As he out of his window lay, He saw a beggar all in gray, The which did cause his paine.

The blinded boy, that shootes so trim, 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?”

Then from the window he did come, 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 prove 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.

And, as he musing thus did lye, 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 Gods preserve your majesty,” The beggers all gan cry: “Vouchsafe to give your charity Our childrens food to buy.” The king to them his purse 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.

“For thou,” quoth he, “shalt be my wife, 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,[4] O king,” quoth she; With that she made a lowe courtsey; A trim one as I weene.

Thus hand in hand along they walke Unto the king’s pallŕce: The king with curteous comly talke This beggar doth imbrace: The begger blusheth scarlet red, And straight againe as pale as lead, But 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 from your choyce, And my degree’s so base.”

And when the wedding day was come, The king commanded strait The noblemen both all and some Upon the queene to wait. And she behaved herself that day, As if she had never walkt the way; [5] She had forgot her gown 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.

Here you may read, Cophetua, 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,[6] But pitty now thy servant heere, Least that it hap to thee this yeare, As to that king it did.

And thus they led a quiet life Duringe their princely raigne; And in a tombe were buried both, As writers sheweth [7] 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.[8]

NOTES

1. See above, Preface to Song i. Book ii. 2. Since this conjecture first occurred, it has been discovered that shot so trim was the genuine reading.— See Shaksp. ed, 1793, xiv.

393.

3. See Mere’s Wits Treas. fol. 283. Arte of Eng. Poes. 1589, p. 51,

111, 143, 169.

4. Shakspeare (who alludes to this ballad in his Love’s Labour Lost, act iv. sc. 1.) gives the Beggars 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 King Rich. II. act v. sc.

3.

5. i.e. Tramped the streets. 6. Here the poet addresses himself to his mistress. 7. Sheweth was anciently the plural number. 8. An ingenious friend thinks the last two stanzas should change place.

VII. Take Thy Auld Cloak About Thee.

This is supposed to have been originally a Scotch ballad. The reader here has an ancient copy in the English idiom, with an additional stanza (the second) never before printed. This curiosity is preserved in the Editor’s folio manuscript, but not without corruptions, which are here removed by the assistance of the Scottish edition. Shakspeare, in his Othello, act ii. has quoted one stanza, with some variations, which are here adopted.

THIS winters weather it waxeth cold, And frost doth freese on every hill, And Boreas blowes his blasts sae bold, That all our cattell are like to spill; Bell my wiffe, who loves noe strife, She sayd unto me quietlye, “Rise up, and save cow Crumbockes life, Man, put thine old cloake about thee.”

HE

“O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne? Thou kenst my cloak is very thin: Itt is soe bare and overworne A cricke he theron cannot runn: 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 beene alwayes true to the payle, Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow, And other things shee will not fayle; I wold be loth to see her pine, Good husband, counsell take of mee, It is not for us to go soe fine, Man, take thine old cloake about thee.”

HE

“My cloake it was a verry 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 yeere: Sometime itt was of cloth in graine, ‘Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see, It will neither hold out winde nor raine; And Ile have a new cloake about mee.”

SHE

“It is four and fortye yeeres agoe Since the 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 thyselfe 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 cladd 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.”

SHE

“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 this 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 gave oer the plea: As wee began wee now will leave, And Ile take mine old cloake about mee.”

VIII. Willow, Willow, Willow.

It is from the following stanzas that Shakspeare has taken his song of the Willow, in his Othello, act iv. sc. 3, though somewhat varied and applied by him to a female character. He makes Desdemona introduce it in this pathetic and affecting manner:—

My mother had a maid call’d Barbara: She was in love; and he she lov’d prov’d mad, And did forsake her. She had a song of — Willow. An old thing ‘twas, but it express’d her fortune, And she died singing it. Ed. 1793, vol. xv. p. 613.

This is given from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, thus entitled, “A Lovers Complaint, being forsaken of his Love. To a pleasant tune.”

A POORE soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree; 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 garlŕnd.

He sigh’d in his singing, and after each grone, 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 garlŕnd.

“My love she is turned; untrue she doth prove: O willow, &c. She renders me nothing but hate for my love. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“O pitty me” (cried he), “ye lovers, each one; O willow, &c. Her heart’s hard as marble; she rues not my mone. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.”

The cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept apace; O willow, &c. The salt tears fell from him, which drowned his face: O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

The mute birds sate by him, made tame by his mones O willow, &c. The salt tears fell from him, which softened the stones. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!

“Let nobody blame me, her scornes I do prove; O willow, &c. She was borne to be faire; I, to die for her love. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow &c.

“O that beauty should harbour a heart that’s so hard! O willow, &c. My true love rejecting without all regard. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“Let love no more boast him in palace, or bower; O willow, &c. For women are trothles, and flote in an houre. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“But what helps complaining? In vaine I complaine O willow, &c. I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“Come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me, O willow, &c. He that ‘plaines of his false love, mine’s falser than she. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“The willow wreath weare I, since my love did fleet; O willow, &c. A garland for lovers forsaken most meete. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garlŕnd!”

PART THE SECOND

“LOWE lay’d by my sorrow, begot by disdaine; 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 garlŕnd!

“O love too injurious, to wound my poore heart! O willow, &c. To suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart: O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“O willow, willow, willow! the willow garlŕnd, O willow, &c. A sign of her falsenesse before me doth stand: O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“As here it doth bid to despair and to dye, 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 garlŕnd.

“In grave where I rest mee, hang this to the view, O willow, &c. Of all that do knowe her, to blaze her untrue. O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“With these words engraven, as epitaph meet, O willow, &c. ‘Here lyes one, drank poyson for potion most sweet.’ O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“Though she thus unkindly hath scorned my love, O willow, &c. And carelesly smiles at the sorrowes I prove; O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“I cannot against her unkindly exclaim, O willow, &c. Cause once well I loved her, and honoured her name: O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“The name of her sounded so sweete in mine eare, 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 garlŕnd.

“As then ‘twas my comfort, it now is my griefe; O willow, &c. It now brings me anguish; then brought me relief O willow, &c. Sing, O the greene willow, &c.

“Farewell, faire false hearted: plaints end with my breath! 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 garlŕnd.”

IX. Sir Lancelot du Lake

This ballad is quoted in Shakspeare’s second part of Henry IV. act ii. The subject of it is taken from the ancient romance of King Arthur (commonly called Morte Arthur), being a poetical translation of Chap. cvii. 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 folio MS.[1] In the same play of 2 Henry 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.

All this beheard three wighty yeomen, ‘Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John: With that they espy’d the jolly Pindŕr As he sate under a throne.

That ballad may be found on every stall, and therefore is not here reprinted.

WHEN Arthur first in court began, And was approved king, By force of armes great victorys wanne, And conquest home did bring;

Then into England straight he came With fifty good and able Knights, that resorted unto him, And were of his round table:

And he had justs and turnaments, Wherto were many prest, Wherin some knights did far excel And eke surmount the rest.

But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, Who was approved well, He for his deeds and feats of armes All others did excell.

When he had rested him a while, In play, and game, and sportt, He said he wold goe prove himselfe In some adventurous sort.

He armed rode in a forrest wide, And met a damsell faire, Who told him of adventures great, Wherto he gave great eare.

“Why shold I not?” quoth Lancelott tho “For that cause came I hither.” “Thou seemest,” quoth shee, “a knight full good, And I will bring thee thither.

“Wheras[2] a mighty knight doth dwell, That now is of great fame: Therfore tell me what wight thou art, And what may be thy name.”

“My name is Lancelot du Lake.” Quoth she, “It likes me than: Here dwelles a knight who never was Yet matcht with any man:

“Who has in prison threescore knights And four, that he did wound; Knights of King Arthurs court they be, And of his table round.”

She brought him to a river side, And also to a tree, Whereon a copper bason hung, And many shields to see.

He struck soe hard, the bason broke; And Tarquin soon he spyed: Who drove a horse before him fast, Whereon a knight lay tyed.

“Sir knight,” then sayd Sir Lancelňtt, Bring me that horse-load hither, And lay him downe, and let him rest; Weel try our force together:

“For, as I understand, thou hast, So far as thou art able, Done great despite and shame unto The knights of the Round Table.”

“If thou be of the Table Round, Quoth Tarquin speedilye Both thee and all thy fellowship I utterly defye.”

“That’s over much,” quoth Lancelott tho, “Defend thee by and by.” They sett their speares unto their steeds, And eache att other flie.

They coucht theire speares (their horses ran, As though there had beene thunder), And strucke them each immidst their shields, Wherewith they broke in sunder.

Their horsses backes brake under them, The knights were both astound: To avoyd their horsses they made haste And light upon the ground.

They tooke them to their shields full fast, Their swords they drewe out than, With mighty strokes most eagerlye Each at the other ran.

They wounded were, and bled full sore, They both for breath did stand. And leaning on their swords awhile, Quoth Tarquine, “Hold thy hand,

“And tell to me what I shall aske.” “Say on,” quoth Lancelot tho. “Thou art,” quoth Tarquine, “the best knight That ever I did know;

“And like a knight, that I did hate: Soe that thou be not hee, I will deliver all the rest, And eke accord with thee.”

“That is well said,” quoth Lancelott; But sith it must be soe, What knight is that thou hatest thus? I pray thee to me show.”

“His name is Lancelot du Lake, He slew my brother deere; Him I suspect of all the rest: I would I had him here.”

“Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, I am Lancelot du Lake, Now knight of Arthurs Table Round; King Hauds son of Schuwake;

“And I desire thee to do thy worst.” “Ho, ho,” quoth Tarquin tho, “One of us two shall ende our lives Before that we do go.

“If thou be Lancelot du Lake, Then welcome shalt thou bee: Wherfore see thou thyself defend, For now defye I thee.”

They buckled them together so, Like unto wild boares rashing;[3] And with their swords and shields they ran At one another slashing:

The ground besprinkled was with blood: Tarquin began to yield; For he gave backe for wearinesse, And lowe did beare his shield.

This soone Sir Lancelot espyde, He leapt upon him then, He pull’d him downe upon his knee, And rushing off his helm,

Forthwith he strucke his necke in two, And, when he had soe done, From prison threescore knights and four Delivered everye one.

NOTES

1. The folio MS. Copy of this ballad is so mutilated that we owe more than half the present version to the ingenuity of Percy.— Editor. 2. Where is often used by our old writers for whereas, here it is just the contrary. 3. Rashing seems to be the old hunting term to express the stroke made by the wild-boar with his fangs. To rase has apparently a meaning something similar. See Mr. Steevens’s Note on King Lear, act iii. sc. 7. (ed. 1793, vol. xiv. p. 193.) where the quartos read,

“. . . . Nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh rash boarish fangs.”

So in King Richard III. act iii. sc. 2. (vol. x. p. 567, 583.)

“. . . He dreamt To night the boar had rased off his helm.”

X. 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 Shakspeare’s Twelfth Night, act ii. sc. 3.— It is found in a little ancient miscellany, intitled, The Golden Garland of Princely Delights, 12mo. black-letter.

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. i. pp. 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:

THE BALLAD OF CONSTANT SUSANNA.

“There dwelt a man in Babylon Of reputation great by fame; He took to wife a faire woman, 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.

FAREWELL, dear love; since thou wilt needs be gone, 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.

Farewell, farewell; since this I find is true, 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.

Ten thousand times farewell;— yet stay a while:— 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.

Once more adieu, I see loath to depart 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.

What shall I doe? my love is now departed. 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.

XI. Gernutus, the Jew of Venice.

In the Life of Pope Sixtus V, translated from the Italian 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 flesh it is a lie. 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 from whatever part of the Jew’s body he pleased. The truth of the account was soon confirmed; and the Jew was almost distracted, when he was informed, that Secchi had solemnly swore he would compel him to an exact performance of his contract. A report of this transaction was brought to the Pope, who sent for the parties, and, being informed of the whole affair, said, When contracts are made, it is but just they should be fulfilled, as this shall; Take a knife, therefore, Secchi, and cut a pound of flesh from any part you please of the Jew’s body. We advise you, however, to be very careful; for, if you cut but a scruple more or less than your due, you shall certainly be hanged.” 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. i. page 128, has referred it to the following ballad. Mr. Warton thinks this ballad was written before Shakspeare’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 mere 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. i. No. 16. After all, one would he 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,[1] which was printed in that year. As for Shakspeare’s Merchant of Venice, the earliest edition known of it is in quarto, 1600; though it had been exhibited in the year 1598, being mentioned, together with eleven others of his plays, in Mere’s Wits Treasury, &c. 1598, 12mo. Fol. 282.— See Malone’s Shakspere. The following is printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection,[2] 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

IN Venice towne not long agoe A cruel Jew did dwell, Which lived all on usurie, As Italian writers tell.

Gernutus called was the Jew, Which never thought to dye, Nor ever yet did any good To them in streets that lie.

His life was like a barrow hogge, That liveth many a day, Yet never once doth any good, Until men will him slay.

Or like a filthy heap of dung, That lyeth in a whoard; Which never can do any good, Till it be spread abroad.

So fares it with the usurer, He cannot sleep in rest, For feare the thiefe will him pursue To plucke him from his nest.

His heart doth thinke on many a wile, How to deceive the poore; His mouth is almost ful of muche, Yet still he gapes for more.

His wife must lend a shilling, For every weeke a penny, Yet bring a pledge, that is double worth, If that you will have any.

And see, likewise, you keepe your day, Or else you loose it all: This was the living of the wife, Her cow[3] she did it call.

Within that citie dwelt that time A marchant of great fame, Which being distressed in his need, Unto Gernutus came:

Desiring him to stand his friend For twelve month and a day, To lend to him an hundred crownes And he for it would pay

Whatsoever he would demand of him, And pledges he should have. “No,” (quoth the Jew with flearing lookes) “Sir, aske that you will have.

“No penny for the loane of it For one year you shall pay; You may doe me as good a turne, Before my dying day.

“But we will have a merry jeast, For to be talked long: You shall make me a bond, quoth he, That shall be large and strong:

“And this shall be the forfeyture; Of your owne fleshe a pound. If you agree, make you the bond, And here is a hundred crownes.”

“With right good will!” the marchant says: And so the bond was made. When twelve month and a day drew on That backe it should be payd,

The marchants ships were all at sea, And money came not in; Which way to take, or what to doe To thinke he doth begin:

And to Gernutus strait he comes With cap and bended knee, And sayde to him, “Of curtesie I pray you beare with mee.”

“My day is come, and I have not The money for to pay: And little good the forfeyture Will doe you, I dare say.”

“With all my heart,” Gernutus sayd, “Commaund it to your minde: In thinges of bigger weight than this You shall me ready finde.”

He goes his way; the day once past Gernutus doth not slacke To get a sergiant presently; And clapt him on the backe:

And layd him into prison strong, And sued his bond withall; And when the judgement day was come, For judgement he did call.

The marchants friends came thither fast, With many a weeping eye, For other means they could not find, But he that day must dye.

THE SECOND PART

“Of the Jews crueltie; setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the Judge towards the Marchant. To the tune of Blacke and Yellow.”

SOME offered for his hundred crownes Five hundred for to pay; And some a thousand, two or three, Yet still he did denay.

And at the last ten thousand crownes They offered him to save. Gernutus sayd, “I will no gold: My forfeite I will have.

“A pound of fleshe is my demand, And that shall be my hire.” Then sayd the judge, “Yet, good my friend, Let me of you desire

“To take the flesh from such a place, As yet you let him live: Do so, and lo! an hundred crownes To thee here will I give.”

“No, no,” quoth he; “no, judgement here For this it shall be tride, For I will have my pound of fleshe From under his right side.”

It grieved all the companie His crueltie to see, For neither friend nor foe could helpe But he must spoyled bee.

The bloudie Jew now ready is With whetted blade in hand,[4] To spoyle the bloud of innocent, By forfeit of his bond.

And as he was about to strike In him the deadly blow: “Stay” (quoth the judge) thy crueltie; I charge thee to do so.

“Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have, Which is of flesh a pound: See that thou shed no drop of bloud, Nor yet the man confound.

“For if thou doe, like murderer, Thou here shalt hanged be: Likewise of flesh see that thou cut No more than longes to thee:

“For if thou take either more or lesse To the value of a mite, Thou shalt be hanged presently, As is both law and right.”

Gernutus now waxt franticke mad, And wotes not what to say: Quoth he at last, “Ten thousand crownes I will that he shall pay;

“And so I graunt to set him free.” The judge doth answere make; “You shall not have a penny given; Your forfeyture now take.”

At the last he doth demaund But for to have his owne. “No,” quoth the judge, “doe as you list, Thy judgement shall be showne.

“Either take your pound of flesh;” quoth he, “Or cancell me your bond.” “O cruell judge,” then quoth the Jew, “That doth against me stand!”

And so with griping grieved mind He biddeth them fare-well. Then all the people prays’d the Lord, That ever this heard tell.

Good people, that doe heare this song, For trueth I dare well say, That many a wretch as ill as hee Doth live now at this day;

That seeketh nothing but the spoyle Of many a wealthey man, And for to trap the innocent Deviseth what they can.

From whome the Lord deliver me, 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 Shakspeare 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 entitled, Il Pecorone, nel quale si contengono Cinquanta Novelle antiche, &c. republished at Florence about the year 1748, or 9. The author was Ser. Giovanni Fiorentino, who wrote in 1378; thirty years after the time in which the scene of Boccace’s Decameron is laid.— Vid. Manni, Istoria del Decamerone di Giov. Boccac. 4to. Fior. 1744.

That Shakspeare 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. 2. 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 Shakspeare’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 Shakspeare is taken, translated from the Italian. To which is added a Translation of a Novel from the Decamerone of Boccacio.” London, printed for M. Cooper, 1755, 8vo.

NOTES

1. Warton, ubi supra. 2. Compared with the Ashmole copy. 3. her cow, &c. seems to have suggested to Shakspeare Shylock’s argument for usury taken from Jacob’s management of Laban’s sheep, act i. to which Antonio replies:

“Was this inserted to make interest good? Or are your gold and silver ewes and rams? Shylock. I cannot tell, I make it breed as fast.” 4. The passage in Shakspeare 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.”

XII. The Passionate Shepherd to his Love.

This beautiful sonnet is quoted in The Merry Wives of Windsor, act iii. sc. i. and hath been usually ascribed (together with the Reply) to Shakspeare himself by the modern editors of his smaller poems. A copy of this madrigal, containing only four stanzas (the 4th and 6th being wanting), accompanied with the first stanza of the answer, being printed in The Passionate Pilgrime, and Sonnets to sundry Notes of Musicke, by Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Lond. printed for W. Jaggard, 1599. Thus was this sonnet, &c. published as Shakspeare’s in his life-time. And yet there is good reason to believe that (not Shakspeare, 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,[1] 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 in the old Poetical Miscellany, intitled England’s Helicon, it is printed with the name of Chr. Marlow subjoined to it; and the Reply is signed Ignoto, which is known to have been a signature of Sir Walter Raleigh. With the same signature Ignoto, in that collection, is an imitation of Marlow’s beginning thus:

“Come live with me, and be my dear, 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; notwithstanding the authority of Shakspeare’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 John Oldcastle, The London Prodigal, and The Yorkshire Tragedy, were printed with his name at full length in the title-pages, while he was living, which yet were afterwards rejected by his first editors Heminge and Condell, who were his intimate friends (as he mentions both in his will), and therefore no doubt had good authority for setting them aside.[2] 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:

Come live with me and be my love, 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.

COME live with me, and be my love, And we wil all the pleasures prove That hils and vallies, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Imbrodered all with leaves of mirtle;

A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Slippers lin’d choicely from the cold; With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivie buds, With coral clasps, and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

THE NYMPH’S REPLY

IF that the World and Love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s toung, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yield: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivie buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber studs; All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joyes no date, nor age no need; Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.

NOTES

1. First printed in the year 1653, but probably written some time before. 2. Since the above was written, Mr. Malone, with his usual discernment, hath rejected the stanzas in question from the other sonnets, &c. of Shakspeare, in his correct edition of the Passionate Pilgrim, &c. See his Shakspere vol. x. p. 340.

XIII. 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 that the one was borrowed from the other: but which of them was the original, it is not easy to decide. And yet, if the argument offered above in the preface to Book ii. no. 9, for the priority of the ballad of the “Jew of Venice” may be admitted, somewhat of the same kind may be urged here; for this ballad differs from the play in several particulars, which a simple ballad-writer would be less likely to alter than an inventive tragedian. Thus in the ballad is no mention of the contest for the empire between the two brothers, the composing of which makes the ungrateful treatment of Titus afterwards the more flagrant: neither is there any notice taken of his sacrificing one of Tamora’s sons, which the tragic poet has assigned as the original cause of all her cruelties. In the play Titus loses twenty-one of his sons in war, and kills another for assisting Bassianus to carry off Lavinia: the reader will find it different in the ballad. In the latter she is betrothed to the emperor’s son: in the play to his brother. In the tragedy only two of his sons fall into the pit, and the third being banished returns to Rome with a victorious army, to avenge the wrongs of his house: in the ballad all three are entrapped and suffer death. In the scene the emperor kills Titus, and is in return stabbed by Titus’s surviving son. Here Titus kills the emperor, and afterwards himself. 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 Shakspeare with a few fine touches of his pen, than originally written 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 Shakspeare was but 25: an earlier date than can be found for any other of his pieces:[1] and if it does not clear him entirely of it, shows at least it was a first attempt.[2] 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.— Printed for E. Wright.— Unluckily none of these have any dates.

You noble minds, and famous martial wights, That in defence of native country fights, Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Rome, Yet reaps disgrace at my returning home.

In Rome I lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres, My name beloved was of all my peeres Full five and twenty valiant sonnes I had, Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad.

For when Romes foes their warlike forces bent, Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent; Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre.

Just two and twenty of my sonnes were slaine Before we did returne to Rome againe: Of five and twenty sonnes, I brought but three Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see.

When wars were done, I conquest home did bring, 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.

The emperour did make this queen his wife, 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.

The moore soe pleas’d this new-made empress’ eie, That she consented to him secretlye For to abuse her husbands marriage bed, And soe in time a blackamore she bred.

Then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde, Consented with the Moore of bloody minde Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes, In cruell sort to bring them to their endes.

Soe when in age I thought to live in peace, Both care and griefe began then to increase: Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter brighte, Which joy’d, and pleased best my aged sight;

My deare Lavinia was betrothed than To Cesars sonne, a young and noble man: Who in a hunting by the emperours wife, And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life.

He, being slaine, was cast in cruel wise, 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.

The Moore then fetcht the emperour with speed, 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.

But nowe, behold! what wounded most my mind, The empresses two sonnes of savage kind My daughter ravished without remorse, And took away her honour, quite perforce.

When they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre, Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre, They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell How that dishonoure unto her befell.

Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, Whereby their wickednesse she could not write; Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe The bloudye workers of her direfull woe.

My brother Marcus found her in the wood, Staining the grassie ground with purple blond, That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes: Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes.

But when I sawe her in that woefull case, With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face: For my Lavinia I lamented more Then for my two and twenty sonnes before.

When as I sawe she could not write nor speake, With grief mine aged heart began to breake; We speed an heape of sand upon the ground, Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found.

For with a staffe, without the helpe of hand, She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand: “The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperesse Are doers of this hateful wickednesse.”

I tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head, 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.

The Moore delighting still in villainy 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.

The Moore I caus’d to strike it off with speede, Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed, But for my sonnes would willingly impart, And for their ransome send my bleeding heart.

But as my life did linger thus in Paine, They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe, And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes, Which filld my dying heart with fresher moanes.

Then past reliefe I upp and downe did goe, And with my tears writ in the dust my woe: I shot my arrows[3] towards heaven hie, And for revenge to hell did often crye.

The empresse then, thinking that I was mad, 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.

I fed their foolish veines[4] a certaine space, 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.

I cut their throates, my daughter held the pan Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the blood it ran; And then I ground their bones to powder small, And made a paste for pyes streight therewithall.

Then with their fleshe I made two mighty pyes, And at a banquet served in stately wise: Before the empresse set this loathsome meat; So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat.

Myselfe bereav’d my daughter then of life, The empresse then I slew with bloudy knife, And stabb’d the emperour immediatelie, And then myself: even soe did Titus die.

Then this revenge against the Moore was found, Alive they sett him halfe into the ground, Whereas he stood until such time he starv’d. And soe God send all murderers may be serv’d.

NOTES

1. Mr. Malone thinks 1591 to be the era when our author commenced a writer for the stage. See in his Shakspeare the ingenious “attempt to ascertain the order in which the plays of Shakspeare were written.” 2. Since the above was written, Sbakspeare’s memory has been fully vindicated from the charge of writing the above play by the best critics.— See what has been urged by Steevens and Malone in their excellent editions of Shakspeare, &c. 3. 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. lxiv. 3. 4. i e. encouraged them in their foolish humours or fancies.

XIV. Take Those Lips Away.

The first stanza of this little sonnet, which an eminent critic[1] justly admires for its extreme sweetness, is found in Shakspeare’s Measure for Measure. act iv. sc.1. Both the stanzas are preserved in Beaum. and Fletcher’s Bloody Brother, act v. sc. 2. Sewel and Gildon have printed it among Shakspeare’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 Shakspeare’s Passionate Pilgrim,[2] &c.

TAKE, oh take those lips away, That so sweetlye were forsworne And those eyes, the breake of day, Lights, that do misleade the morne: But my kisses bring againe, Scales of love, but seal’d in vaine.

Hide, oh hide those hills of snowe, 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.

NOTES

1. Dr. Warburton in his Shakspeare. 2. Mr. Malone, in his improved edition of Shakspeare’s Sonnets, &c. hath substituted this instead of Marlow’s Madrigal, printed above; for which he hath assigned reasons, which the reader may see in his vol. x. p. 340.

XV. 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,[1] bears so exact an analogy to the argument of Shakspeare’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[2] do not mention, as also the extravagant cruelty exercised on him by his daughters. In the death of Lear they likewise very exactly coincide. The misfortune is, that there is nothing to assist us in ascertaining the date of the ballad but what little evidence arises from within; this the reader must weigh, and judge for himself. It may be proper to observe, that Shakspeare 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 entitled 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 Shakspeare 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 Shakspeare concurs with this ballad. But to form a true judgment of Shakspeare’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 Shakspeare, republished from the quarto impressions by George Steevens, Esq. with such elegance and exactness as led us to expect that fine edition of all the works of our great dramatic poet, which he hath since published. The following ballad is given from an ancient copy in the Golden Garland, bl. Let., entitled, A lamentable Song of the Death of King Leir and his Three Daughters. To the tune of When flying Fame.

KING LEIR once rulčd in this land With princely power and peace; And had all things with hearts content, That might his joys increase. Amongst those things that nature gave, Three daughters fair had he, So princely seeming beautiful, As fairer could not be.

So on a time it pleas’d the king 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.”

To whom the eldest thus began; “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.”

“And so will I,” the second said; “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; That sweet content and quietness Discomforts may remove.”

“In doing so, you glad my soul,” 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.”

“And wilt thou shew no more,” quoth he, “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.

“Thy elder sisters loves are more Then 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.”

Thus flattering speeches won renown, 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:

Untill at last in famous France 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.

Her father king Leir this while 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.

For whereas twenty men were wont To wait with bended knee: She gave allowance but to ten, 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.

“Am I rewarded thus,” quoth he, “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.”

Full fast he hies then to her court; 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.

When he had heard, with bitter tears, He made his answer then; “In what I did let me be made Example to all men. I will return again,” quoth he, “Unto my Ragan’s court; She will not use me thus, I hope, But in a kinder sort.”

Where when he came, she gave command 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.

But there of that he was deny’d, 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.

And calling to remembrance then 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, Grew frantick mad; for in his mind He bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milk-white locks, 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.

Even thus possest with discontents, 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:

And by a train of noble peers, 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.

And so to England came with speed, 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.

But when he heard Cordelia’s death, Who died indeed for love Of her dear father, in whose cause She did this battle 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 lords and nobles when they saw 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.

NOTES

1. Mrs. Lennox, Shakspeare Illustrated, vol. iii. p. 302. 2. See Jeffery of Monmouth, Holingshed, &c. who relate Leir’s History in many respects the same as the ballad.

XVI. Youth And Age.

This song is found in the little collection of Shakspeare’s Sonnets, intitled The Passionate Pilgrime,[1] the greatest part of which seems 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 four more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner pen.

CRABBED Age and Youth 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 nimble, Age is lame: 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!

- See Malone’s Shakespeare, vol. x. p. 325.

NOTES

1. Mentioned above, Book ii Song xii.

XVII. The Frolicksome Duke, or the Tinker’s Good Fortune.

The following ballad is upon the same subject as the Induction to Shakspeare’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,[1] 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 was now tired with cards, dice, &c. and such other domestick sports, or to see ladies dance; with some of his courtiers, he would in the evening walke disguised all about the towne. It so fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found a countrey fellow dead drunke, snorting on a bulke; he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, and there stripping him of his clothes, and attyring him after the court fashion, when he awakened, he and they were all ready to attend upon his excellency, and persuade him that he was some great Duke. The poor fellow admiring how he came there, was served in state all day long: after supper he saw them dance, heard musicke, and all the rest of those court-like pleasures: but late at night, when he was well tipled, and again fast asleepe, they put on his old rodes, and so conveyed him to the place where they first found hin. Now the fellow had not made them so good sport the day before as he did now, when he returned to himself: all the jest was to see how he looked upon it. In conclusion, after some little admiration, the poore man told his friends he had seen a vision; constantly believed it; would not otherwise be persuaded, and so the jest ended.”— Burton’s Anat. of Melancholy, pt. ii. sec. 2. memb. 4. 2d ed. 1624, fol. This ballad is given from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, which is intitled as above. “To the tune of Fond Boy.”

Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, 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.

The Duke said to his men, “William, Richard, and Ben, 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.

Having pull’d off his shirt, which was all over durt, 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.

Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, He desired 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.

Tho’ he seem’d something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, 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.

From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace 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.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, 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 plac’d sweet, With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, 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 than ever before.

Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, And restore him his old leather garments again: ‘T was 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.

For his glory to him so pleasant did seem, 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.”

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, 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.”

Then the tinker reply’d, “What! must Joan my sweet bride 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.”

NOTES

1. By Ludov. Vives in Epist. and by Pont. Heuter. Rerum Burgund. b. iv.

XVIII. The Friar of Orders Gray.

Dispersed through Shakspeare’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.

IT was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire, Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes.

“Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see.”

“And how should I know your true love From many another one?” “O by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoone.[l]

“But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d, And eyne of lovely blue.”

“O lady, he is dead and gone Lady, he’s dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone.

“Within these holy cloysters long He languisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes Iove, And ‘playning of her pride.

“Here bore him barefac’d on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew’d his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall.”

“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone! And didst thou die for love of me! Break, cruel heart of stone.”

“O weep not, lady, weep not soe; Some ghostly comfort seek: Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne teares bedew thy cheek.”

“O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e’er won ladyes love.

“And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I’ll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye.”

“Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrowe is in vaine: For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne’er make grow againe.

“Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy losse, Grieve not for what is past.”

“O say not soe, thou holy friar; I pray thee, say not soe: For since my true-love dyed for mee, ‘Tis meet my tears should flow.

“And will he ne’er come again? Will he ne’er come again?” “Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain.”

“His cheek was redder than the rose; The comliest youth was he! But he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas, and woe is me!”

“Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever: One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never.

“Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy.”

“Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not soe; My love he had the truest heart: O he was ever true!

“And art thou dead, thou much-lov’d youth, And didst thou dye for mee? Then farewell home; for ever-more A pilgrim I will bee.

“But first upon my true-love’s grave My weary limbs I’ll lay, And thrice I’ll kiss the green-grass turf, That wraps his breathless clay.”

“Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile Beneath this cloyster wall: See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzly rain doth fall.”

“O stay me not, thou holy friar; O stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away.”

“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears; For see beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears.

“Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.

“But haply for my year of grace[2] Is not yet past away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay.”

“Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part.”

- As the foregoing song has been thought to have suggested to our late excellent poet, Dr. Goldsmith, the plan of his beautiful ballad of Edwin and Emma (first printed in his Vicar of Wakefield), it is but justice to his memory to declare, that his poem was written first, and that if there is any imitation in the case, they will be found both to be indebted to the beautiful old ballad Gentle Herdsman, &c. printed in Series II. Book i. No. 14, of this work, which the Doctor had much admired in manuscript, and has finely improved.

NOTES

1. 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. Shaksp. vol. viii. p. 224. 2. The year of probation, or noviciate.

BOOK III

I. The more modern Ballad of Chevy Chace.

At the beginning of Book i. 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 an agreeable entertainment to the curious to compare them together, and to see how far the latter bard has excelled his predecessor, and where he has fallen short of him. For though he has everywhere improved the versification, and generally the sentiment and diction; yet some few passages retain more dignity in the ancient copy; at least the obsoleteness of the style serves as a veil to hide whatever may appear too familiar or vulgar in them. Thus, for instance, the catastrophe of the gallant Witherington is in the modern copy exprest in terms which never fail at present to excite ridicule: whereas in the original it is related with a plain and pathetic simplicity, that is liable to no such unlucky effect: See the stanza, which, in modern orthography, &c. would run thus:

“For Witherington my heart is woe, 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 some what more elevated in the ancient copy:

“The dint it was both sad and sore, He on Montgomery set: The swan-feathers his arrow bore With his heart’s 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 warriors chiefly depended on the use of the spear: this characteristic difference never escapes our ancient bard, whose description of the first onset 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 their 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, though 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:[1]

“To drive the deer with hound and horn 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: though he gives to his own countrymen the credit of beng the smaller number.

“Of fifteen hundred archers of England 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:

“Of fifteen hundred Scottish spears 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. 240 and 249. From that edition I have here reformed the Scottish names 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 Queen Elizabeth, I think may be made appear; nor yet does it seem to be older than the beginning of the last century.[2] Sir Philip Sidney, when he complains of the antiquated phrase of Chevy Chace, could never have seen this improved copy, the language of which is not more ancient than he himself used. It is probable that the encomiums of so admired a writer excited some bard to revise the ballad, and to free it from those faults he had objected to it. That it could not be much later than that time, appears from the phrase doleful dumps; which in that age carried no ill sound with it, but to the next generation became ridiculous. We have seen it pass uncensured in a sonnet that was at that time in request, and where it could not fail to have been taken notice of, had it been in the least exceptionable (see above, Book ii. Song 5. ver. 2.): yet, in about half a century after it was become burlesque.— See Hudibras, Part i. c. iii. ver. 95. 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.[3] With regard to its subject, it has already been considered. The conjectures there offered will receive confirmation from a passage in the Memoirs of Carey, Earl of Monmouth, 8vo. 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’ he had given especiall order that they should shed as little blood as possible.” They were in effect overpowered and taken prisoners, and only released on their promise to abstain from such licentious sporting for the future. The following text is given from 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, &c.

GOD prosper long our noble king, Our liffes and safetyes all; A woefull hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall;

To drive the deere with hound and horne, Erle Percy took his way, The child may rue that is unborne, The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summers days to take;

The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace To kill and beare away: These tydings to Erle Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay:

Who sent Erle Percy present word, He wold prevent his sport. The English erle, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of neede To ayme their shafts arright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, To chase the fallow deere; On Munday they began to hunt, Ere day-light did appeare;

And long before high noone they had An hundred fat buckes slaine; Then having dined, the drovyers went To rouze the deare againe.

The bow-men mustered on the hills Well able to endure; Theire backsides all, with speciall care, That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deere to take,[4] That with their cryes the hills and dales An eccho shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughter’d deere; “Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised This day to meet me heere:

“But if I thought he wold not come, Noe longer wold I stay.” With that, a brave younge gentleman Thus to the Erle did say:

“Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, His men in armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish speres All marching in our sight;

“All men of pleasant Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweede.” “O cease your sports,” Erle Percy said, “And take your bowes with speede:

“And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For there was never champion yett, in Scotland nor in France,

“That ever did on horsebacke come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spere.”

Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, Most like a baron bolde, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold.

“Show me,” sayd hee, “whose men you bee, That hunt soe boldly heere, That, without my consent, doe chase And kill my fallow-deere.”

The first man that did answer make Was noble Percy hee; Who sayd, “Wee list not to declare, Nor shew whose men wee bee:

“Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, Thy cheefest harts to slay.” Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, And thus in rage did say,

“Ere thus I will out-braved bee, One of us two shall dye I know thee well, an erle thou art; Lord Percy, soe am I.

“But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, And great offence to kill Any of these our guiltlesse men, For they have done no ill.

“Let thou and I the battell trye, And set our men aside. Accurst bee he,” Erle Percy sayd, “By whome this is denyed.”

Then stept a gallant squier forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, “I wold not have it told To Henry our king for shame,

“That ere my captaine fought on foote, And I stood looking on. You be two erles,” sayd Witherington, “And I a squier alone:

“Ile doe the best that doe I may, While I have power to stand: While I have power to weeld my sword Ile fight with hart and hand.”

Our English archers bent their bowes, Their harts were good and trew; Att the first flight of arrowes sent, Full four-score Scots they slew.

[5][Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, As Chieftain stout and good. As valiant Captain, all unmov’d The shock he firmly stood.

His host he parted had in three, As Leader ware and try’d, And soon his spearmen on their foes Bare down on every side.

Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound: But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground:

And throwing strait their bows away, They grasp’d their swords so bright: And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light.]

They closed full fast on every side, Noe slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground.

O Christ! it was a griefe to see, And likewise for to heare, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scattered here and there.

At last these two stout erles did meet, Like captaines of great might: Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, And made a cruell fight:

They fought untill they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steele; Untill the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling downe did feele.

“Yeeld thee, Lord Percy,” Douglas sayd “In faith I will thee bringe, Where thou shalt high advanced bee By James our Scottish king:

“Thy ransome I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most couragious knight, That ever I did see.”

“Noe, Douglas,” quoth Erle Percy then, “Thy proffer I doe scorne; I will not yeelde to any Scott, That ever yett was borne.”

With that, there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, A deepe and deadlye blow:

Who never spake more words than these, “Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall.”

Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke The dead man by the hand; And said, “Erle Douglas, for thy life Wold I had lost my land!

“O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure, a more redoubted knight Mischance cold never take.”

A knight amongst the Scotts there was Which saw Erle Douglas dye, Who streight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye:

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call’d, Who, with a spere most bright, Well-mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight;

And past the English archers all, Without all dread or feare; And through Earl Percyes body then He thrust his hatefull spere;

With such a vehement force and might He did his body gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard, and more.

So thus did both these nobles dye, Whose courage none could staine An English archer then perceiv’d The noble erle was slaine;

He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Up to the head drew hee:

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, So right the shaft he sett, The grey goose-winge that was thereon, In his harts bloode was wette.

This fight did last from breake of day, Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell,[6] The battel scarce was done.

With stout Erle Percy there was slaine Sir John of Egerton,[7] Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James that bold barren:

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wayle, As one in doleful dumpes;[8] For when his leggs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumpes.

And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine Sir Hugh Montgomerye, Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld One foote wold never flee.

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, His sisters sonne was bee; Sir David Lamb, so well esteem’d, Yet saved cold not bee.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Erle Douglas dye: Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, Scarce fifty-five did flye.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, Under the greene woode tree.

Next day did many widowes come, Their husbands to bewayle; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle.

Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, They bare with them away: They kist them dead a thousand times, Ere they were cladd in clay.

The news was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scottlands king did raigne, That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaine.

“O heavy newes,” King James did say, “Scotland may witnesse bee, I have not any captaine more Of such account as hee.”

“Like tydings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:

“Now God be with him,” said our king, “Sith it will noe better bee; I trust I have, within my realme, Five hundred as good as hee:

“Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take: I’ll be revenged on them all, For brave Erie Percyes sake.”

This vow full well the king perform’d After, at Humbledowne; In one day, fifty knights were slayne, With lords of great renowne

And of the rest, of small acount, Did many thousands dye: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, Made by the Erle Percy.

God save our king, and bless this land With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth, that foule debate Twixt noblemen may cease!

- Since the former impression of these volumes, hath been published a new edition of Collins’s Peerage, 1779, &c. nine vols. 8vo. which contains, in volume ii, p. 344, an historical passage, which may be thought to throw considerable light on the subject of the preceding ballad: viz.

“In this . . . . year, 1436, according to Hector Boethius, was fought the Battle of Pepperden, not far from the Cheviot Hills, between the Earl of Northumberland [2d Earl, son of Hotspur] and Earl William Douglas, of Angus, with a small army of about four thousand men each, in which the latter had the advantage. As this seems to have been a private conflict between these two great chieftains of the borders, rather than a national war, it has been thought to have given rise to the celebrated old ballad of Chevy-Chace; which to render it more pathetic and interesting, has been heightened with tragical incidents wholly fictitious.” See Ridpath’s Border Hist. 4to. p. 401. 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, Ver. 202. Egerton.] This name is restored (instead of Ogerton, com. ed.) from the Editor’s folio manuscript. The pieces in that manuscript 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 Bridgewater; 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. Ver. 203. Ratcliff.] This was a family much distinguished in Northumberland. Edw. Radcliffe, mil. was sheriff of that county in 17 of Henry VII, 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. Ver. 204. Baron.] This is apparently altered (not to say corrupted) from Hearone. Ver. 207. 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. manuscript, and looks like a corruption of Rugby or Rokeby, an eminent family in Yorkshire. 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. Ver. 215. Murray.] So the Scottish copy. In the com. edit. it is Carrel or Currel; and Morrell in the fol. manuscript. Ver. 217. Murray.] So the Scot. edit. The common copies read Murrel. The folio manuscript gives the line in the following peculiar manner,

“Sir Roger Heuer of Harcliffe too.”

Ver. 219. Lamb.] The folio manuscript has

“Sir David Lambwell, well esteemed.”

This seems evidently corrupted from Lwdale or Liddell, in the old copy of the ballad.

NOTES

1. In the present edition, instead of the unmeaning lines here censured, an insertion is made of four stanzas modernized from the ancient copy. 2. A late writer has started a notion that the 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 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,

God prosper long our noble queen,

as was the case with The Blind Beggar of Bednal Green. See Vol. 1 book v. no. 10. 3. In the Spectator, No. 70. 74. 4. The Chiviot Hills and circumjacent wastes are at present void of deer, and almost stript of their woods: but formerly they had enough of both to justify the description attempted here and in the ancient Ballad of “Chevy-Chase.” 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 Hills stretchethe xx miles. There is greate plente of redde-dere, and roo bukkes.”— Itinerary, vol. vii. p. 56. This passage, which did not occur when the older ballad (book i. no. i.) was printed off, confirms the accounts there given of the “stagge” and the “roe.” 5. The four stanzas here inclosed in brackets, which are borrowed chiefly from the ancient copy, are offered to the reader instead of the following lines, which occur it the editor’s fol MS.

“To drive the deere with hound and horne, Douglas bade on the bent; Two captaines moved with mickle might Their speres to shivers went.” 6. Sc. the Curfew bell, usually rung at 8 o’clock: to which the modernizer apparently alludes, instead of the Evensong-bell, or bell for vespers of the original author, before the Reformation. 7. For the surnames, see the note above. 8. i.e. “I, as one in deep concern, must lament.” The construction here has generally been misunderstood. The old MS. reads wofull dumpes.

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 October 29, 1666, ćt. 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 King Charles II.

THE glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate: Death lays his icy hands on kings: Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, 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.

The garlands wither on your brow, 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 so fatal to Thomas Percy, the seventh Earl of Northumberland. 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 Queen 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 Queen 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 sumnmonses 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 on 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.[1] 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 to the crown firmly settled, and to prevent the destruction of the ancient nobility, &c. Their common banner[2] (on which was displayed the cross, together with the five wounds of Christ,) was borne by an ancient gentleman, Richard Norton, Esq. of Norton-Conyers: who with his sons (among whom Christopher, Marmaduke, and Thomas, are expressly named by Camden,) distinguished himself on this occasion. Having entered Durham, they tore the Bible, &c. and caused mass to be said there: they then marched on to Clifford-moor near Wetherby, where they mustered their men. Their intention was to have proceeded to York; but, altering their minds, they fell upon Barnard’s castle, which Sir George Bowes held out against them for eleven days. The two earls, who spent their large estates in hospitality, and were extremely beloved on that account, were masters of little ready money; the Earl of Northumberland bringing with him only 8000 crowns, and the Earl of Westmoreland nothing at all for the subsistence of their forces, they were not able to march to London, as they at first intended. In these circumstances, Westmoreland began so visibly to despond, that many of his men slunk away, though Northumberland still kept up his resolution, and was master of the field till December 13, when the Earl of Sussex, accompanied with Lord Hunsdon and others, having marched out of York at the head of a large body of forces, and being followed by a still larger army under the command of Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, the insurgents retreated northward towards the borders, and there dismissing their followers, made their escape into Scotland. Though this insurrection had been suppressed with so little bloodshed, the Earl of Sussex and Sir George Bowes, marshal of the army, put vast numbers to death by martial law, without any regular trial. The former of these caused at Durham sixty-three constables to be hanged at once. And the latter made his boast, that for sixty miles in length, and forty in breadth, betwixt Newcastle and Wetherbye, there was hardly a town or village wherein he had not executed some of the inhabitants. This exceeds the cruelties practised in the West after Monmouth’s rebellion: but that was not the age of tenderness and humanity. 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 manuscript 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.

LISTEN, lively lordings all, Lithe and listen unto mee, And I will sing of a noble earle, The noblest earle in the north countrěe.

Earle Percy is into his garden gone, And after him walkes his faire laděe;[3] “I heard a bird sing in mine eare, That I must either fight, or flee.”

“Now heaven forefend, my dearest lord, That ever such harm should hap to thee: But goe to London to the court, And faire fall truth and honestie.”

“Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay, Alas! thy counsell suits not mee; Mine enemies prevail so fast, That at the court I may not bee.”

“O goe to the court yet, good my lord, And take thy gallant men with thee: If any dare to doe you wrong, Then your warrant they may bee.”

“Now nay, now nay, thou lady faire, The court is full of subtiltěe And if I goe to the court, ladye, Never more I may thee see.”

“Yet goe to the court, my lord, she sayes, And I myselfe will ryde wi’ thee: At court then for my dearest lord, His faithfull borrowe I will bee.”

“Now nay, now nay, my lady deare; Far lever had I lose my life, Than leave among my cruell foes My love in jeopardy and strife.

“But come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come thou hither unto mee, To Maister Norton[4] thou must goe In all the haste that ever may bee.

“Commend me to that gentleman, And beare this letter here fro mee; And say that earnestly I praye, He will ryde in my companie.”

One while the little foot-page went, And another while he ran; Untill he came to his journeys end, The little foot-page never blan.

When to that gentleman he came, Down he kneeled on his knee; And tooke the letter betwixt his hands, And lett the gentleman it see.

And when the letter it was redd Affore that goodlye companye, I wis, if you the truthe wold know, There was many a weeping eye.

He sayd, “Come thither, Christopher Norton, A gallant youth thou seemest to bee; What doest thou counsell me, my sonne, Now that good erle’s in jeopardy?”

“Father, my counselle’s fair and free; That erle he is a noble lord, And whatsoever to him you bight, I wold not have you breake your word.”

“Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne, Thy counsell well it liketh mee, And if we speed and scape with life, Well advanced shalt thou bee.

Come you hither, my nine good sonnes, Gallant men I trowe you bee: How many of you, my children deare, Will stand by that good erle and mee?”

Eight of them did answer make, Eight of them spake hastilie, “O father, till the daye we dye We’ll stand by that good erle and thee.”

“Gramercy now, my children deare, You showe yourselves right bold and brave And whethersoe’er I live or dye, A fathers blessing you shall have.

“But what sayst thou, O Francis Norton, Thou art mine eldest sonn and heire: Somewhat lyes brooding in thy breast; Whatever it bee, to mee declare.”

“Father, you are an aged man, Your head is white, your bearde is gray; It were a shame at these your yeares For you to ryse in such a fray.”

“Now fye upon thee, coward Francis, Thou never learnedst this of mee: When thou wert yong and tender of age, Why did I make soe much of thee?”

“But, father, I will wend with you, Unarm’d and naked will I bee; And he that strikes against the crowne, Ever an ill death may he dee.”

Then rose that reverend gentleman, And with him came a goodlye band To join with the brave Erle Percy, And all the flower o’ Northumberland.

With them the noble Nevill came, The Erle of Westmorland was hee: At Wetherbye they mustred their host, Thirteen thousand faire to see.

Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde, The Dun Bull he rays’d on hye, And three Dogs with golden collars Were there sett out most royallye.[5]

Erle Percy there his ancyent spred, The Halfe-Moone shining all soe faire:[6] The Nortons ancyent had the crosse, And the five wounds our Lord did Beare.

Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose, After them some spoyle to make: Those noble erles turn’d backe againe, And aye they vowed that knight to take.

That baron he to his castle fled, To Barnard castle then fled hee. The uttermost walles were eathe to win, The earles have wonne them presentlie.

The uttermost walles were lime and bricke; But thoughe they won them soon alone, Long e’er they wan the innermost walks, For they were cut in rocke of stone.

Then newes unto leeve London came In all the speede that ever might bee, And word is brought to our royall queene Of the rysing in the North countrie.

Her grace she turned her round about, And like a royall queene shee swore,[7] I will ordayne them such a breakfast, As never was in the North before.

Shee caus’d thirty thousand men be rays’d, With horse and harneis faire to see; She caused thirty thousand men be raised, To take the earles i’ th’ North countrie.

Wi’ them the false Erle Warwick went, Th’ Erle Sussex and the Lord Hunsden Untill they to Yorke castle came I wiss, they never stint ne blan.

Now spred thy ancyent, Westmorland, Thy dun bull faine would we spye: And thou, the Erle o’ Northumberland, Now rayse thy half moone up on hye.

But the dun bulle is fled and gone, And the halfe moone vanished away: The Erles, though they were brave and bold, Against soe many could not stay.

Thee, Norton, wi’ thine eight good sonnes, They doom’d to dye, alas! for ruth! Thy reverend lockes thee could not save, Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.

Wi’ them full many a gallant wight They cruellye bereav’d of life: And many a childe made fatherlesse, And widowed many a tender wife.

NOTES

1. This circumstance is overlooked in the ballad. 2. Besides this, the ballad mentions the separate banners of the two noblemen. 3. This was Anne, daughter of Henry Somerset, Earl of Worcester. 4. It is well known that the fate of the Nortons forms the theme of Wordsworth’s White Doe of Rylstone.— Editor. 5. Dun Bull, &c.] 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 manuscript, 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:

Sett me up my faire dun bull, Wi’ th’ gilden hornes, hee beares all soe hye. 6. The Halfe-Moone, &c.] The Silver Crescent is a well-known crest or badge of the Northumberland family, It was probably brought home from some of the Crusades against the Saracens. 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 Algerman, often borne by the Percies; who, he says, were

“. . . Gernons fyrst named of Brutys bloude of Troy: Which valliantly fyghtynge in the land of Persč (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 enemys, and to deth them persue: And therefore the Persčs [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. 7. This is quite in character: her majesty would sometimes swear at 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 had seen himself forsaken of his followers, he endeavoured to withdraw into Scotland, but falling into the hands of the thievish borderers, was stript and otherwise ill-treated by them. At length he reached the house of Hector of Harlow, an Armstrong, with whom he hoped to lie concealed: for Hector had engaged his honour to be true to him, and was under great obligations to this unhappy nobleman. But this faithless wretch betrayed his guest for a sum of money to Murray the Regent of Scotland, who sent him to the castle of Loughleven, then belonging to William Douglas. All the writers of that time assure us, that Hector, who was rich before, fell shortly after into poverty, and became so infamous, that to take Hector’s cloak, grew into a proverb to express a man who betrays his friend. See Camden, Carleton, Holingshed, &c. 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 upon 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 Loughleven, had suffered death for the pretended crime of witchcraft; who, it is presumed, is the witch-lady alluded to in verse 133. The following is selected (like the former) from two copies, which contained great variations; one of them in the Editor’s folio manuscript. In the other copy some of the stanzas at the beginning of this ballad are nearly the same with what in that manuscript are made to begin another ballad on the escape of the Earl of Westmoreland, who got safe into Flanders, and is feigned in the ballad to have undergone a great variety of adventures.

“How long shall fortune faile me nowe, And harrowe me with feare and dread? How long shall I in bale abide, In misery my life to lead?

“To fall from my bliss, alas the while It was my sore and heavye lott: And I must leave my native land, And I must live a man forgot.

“One gentle Armstrong I doe ken, A Scot, he is much bound to mee: He dwelleth on the border side, To him I’ll goe right privilěe.”

Thus did the noble Percy ‘plaine, With a heavy heart and wel-away, When he with all his gallant men On Bramham moor had lost the day.

But when he to the Armstrongs came, They delt with him all treacherouslye; For they did strip that noble earle: And ever an ill death may they dye.

False Hector to Earl Murray sent, To shew him where his guest did hide: Who sent him to the Lough-leven, With William Douglas to abide.

And when he to the Douglas came, He halched him right curteouslie: Say’d, “Welcome, welcome, noble earle, Here thou shalt safelye bide with mee.”

When he had in Lough-leven been Many a month and many a day; To the regent[1] the lord warden[2] sent, That bannisht earle for to betray.

He offered him great store of gold, And wrote a letter fair to see Saying, “Good my lord, grant me my boon, And yield that banisht man to mee.”

Earle Percy at the supper sate With many a goodly gentleman: The wylie Douglas then bespake, And thus to flyte with him began:

“What makes you be so sad, my lord, And in your mind so sorrowfullye? To-morrow a shooting will be held Among the lords of the North countrye.

“The butts are sett, the shooting’s made, And there will be great royaltye: And I am sworne into my bille, Thither to bring my Lord Percye.”

“I’ll give thee my hand, thou gentle Douglas, And here by my true faith,” quoth hee, “If thou wilt ryde to the worldes end, I will ryde in thy companye.”

And then bespake a lady faire, Mary ŕ Douglas was her name: “You shall byde here, good English lord, My brother is a traiterous man.

“He is a traitor stout and stronge, As I tell you in privitie: For he hath tane liverance of the earle,[3] Into England nowe to ‘liver thee.”

“Now nay, now nay, thou goodly lady, The regent is a noble lord: Ne for the gold in all England The Douglas would not break his word.”

“When the regent was a banisht man, With me he did faire welcome find; And whether weal or woe betide, I still shall find him true and kind.

“Betweene England and Scotland it wold breake truce, And friends againe they wold never bee, If they shold ‘liver a banisht erle Was driven out of his own countrie.”

“Alas! alas! my lord,” she sayes, “Nowe mickle is their traitorie; Then lett my brother ryde his wayes, And tell these English lords from thee,

“How that you cannot with him ryde, Because you are in an ile of the sea,[4] Then ere my brother come againe To Edenborrow castle[5] Ile carry thee.

“To the Lord Hume I will thee bring, He is well knowne a true Scots lord, And he will lose both land and life, Ere he with thee will break his word.”

“Much is my woe,” Lord Percy sayd, “When I thinke on my own countrie, When I thinke on the heavye happe My friends have suffered there for mee.

“Much is my woe,” Lord Percy sayd, “And sore those wars my minde distresse; Where many a widow lost her mate, And many a child was fatherlesse.

“And now that I a banisht man Shold bring such evil happe with mee, To cause my faire and noble friends To be suspect of treacherie

“This rives my heart with double woe; And lever had I dye this day, Than thinke a Douglas can he false, Or ever he will his guest betray.”

“If you’ll give me no trust, my lord, Nor unto mee no credence yield; Yet step one moment here aside, Ile showe you all your foes in field.”

“Lady, I never loved witchcraft, Never dealt in privy wyle; But evermore held the high-waye Of truth and honour, free from guile.”

“If you’ll not come yourselfe, my lorde, Yet send your chamberlaine with mee; Let me but speak three words with him, And he shall come again to thee.”

James Swynard with that lady went, She showed him through the weme of her ring How many English lords there were Waiting for his master and him.

“And who walkes yonder, my good lady, So royallyč on yonder greene?” “O yonder is the Lord Hunsden:[6] Alas! he’ll doe you drie and teene.”

“And who beth yonder, thou gay ladye, That walkes so proudly him beside?” “That is Sir William Drury,[7] shee sayd, A keene captaine hee is and tryde.”

“How many miles is itt, madame, Betwixt yon English lords and mee?” “Marry it is thrice fifty miles, To saile to them upon the sea.

“I never was on English ground, Ne never save it with mine eye, But as my book it sheweth mee, And through my ring I may descrye.

“My mother shee was a witch ladye, And of her skille she learned mee: She wold let me see out of Lough-leven What they did in London citie.”

“But who is yond, thou lady faire, That looketh with sic an austerne face?” “Yonder is Sir John Foster,”[8] quoth shee, “Alas! he’ll do ye sore disgrace.”

He pulled his hatt down over his browe; He wept; in his heart he was full of woe: And he is gone to his noble Lord, Those sorrowful tidings him to show.

“Now nay, now nay, good James Swynard, I may not believe that witch laděe: The Douglasses were ever true, And they can ne’er prove false to mee.

“I have now in Lough-leven been The most part of these years three, Yett have I never had noe outrake, Ne no good games that I cold see.

“Therefore I’ll to yon shooting wend, As to the Douglas I have hight: Betide me weale, betide me woe, He ne’er shall find my promise light.”

He writhe a gold ring from his finger, And gave itt to that gay laděe: Sayes, “It was all that I cold save, In Harley woods where I cold bee.”[9]

“And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord, Then farewell truth and honestěe; And farewell heart and farewell hand; For never more I shall thee see.”

The wind was faire, the boatmen call’d, And all the saylors were on borde; Then William Douglas took to his boat, And with him went that noble lord.

Then he cast up a silver wand, Says, “Gentle lady, fare thee well!” That lady fett a sigh soe deep, And in a dead swoone down shee fell.

“Now let us goe back,” Douglas, he sayd, “A sickness hath taken yond faire laděe If ought befall yond lady but good, Then blamed for ever I shall bee.”

“Come on, come on, my lord,” he sayes; “Come on, come on, and let her bee: There’s ladyes enow in Lough-leven For to cheere that gay laděe.”

“If you’ll not turne yourself,” my lord, “Let me goe with my chamberlaine; We will but comfort that faire lady, And wee will return to you againe.”

“Come on, come on, my lord,” he sayes, “Come on, come on, and let her bee: My sister is craftye, and wold beguile A thousand such as you and mee.”

When they had sayled[10] fifty myle, Now fifty mile upon the sea; Hee sent his man to ask the Douglas, When they shold that shooting see.

“Faire words,” quoth he, “they make fooles faine, And that by thee and thy lord is seen: You may hap to thinke itt soone enough, Ere you that shooting reach, I ween.”

Jamye his hatt pulled over his browe, He thought his lord then was betray’d; And he is to Erle Percy againe, To tell him what the Douglas sayd.

“Hold upp thy head, man,” quoth his lord; “Nor therefore lett thy courage fayle, He did it but to prove thy heart, To see if he cold make it quail.”

When they had other fifty sayld, Other fifty mile upon the sea, Lord Percy called to Douglas himselfe, “Sayd, What wilt thou nowe doe with mee?”

“Looke that your brydle be wight, my lord, And your horse goe swift as shipp att sea Looke that your spurres be bright and sharpe, That you may pricke her while she’ll away.”

“What needeth this, Douglas?” he sayth; “What needest thou to flyte with mee? For I was counted a horseman good Before that ever I mett with thee.

“A false Hector hath my horse, Who dealt with mee so treacherouslie: A false Armstrong hath my spurres, And all the geere belongs to mee.”

When they had sayled other fifty mile, Other fifty mile upon the sea; They landed low by Berwicke side, A deputed laird landed Lord Percye.

Then he at Yorke was doomde to dye, It was, alas a sorrowfull sight Thus they betrayed that noble earle, Who ever was a gallant wight.

NOTES

1. James Douglas Earl of Morton, elected Regent of Scotland, November

24, 1572.

2. Of one of the English Marches. Lord Hunsden. 3. Of the Earl of Morton, the Regent. 4. i.e. Lake of Leven, which hath communication with the sea.. 5. At that time in the hands of the opposite faction. 6. The Lord Warden of the East Marches. 7. Governor of Berwick. 8. Warden of the Middle March. 9. i.e. where I was. An ancient idiom. 10. 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, act i. sc. i. where an impatient person says,

“I am no such pil’d cynique to believe That beggery is the onely happinesse, Or, with a number of these patient fooles, To sing, ‘My minde to me a kingdoms is,’ When the lanke hungrie belly barkes for foode.”

It is here chiefly printed from a thin quarto music hook, intitled “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 Majesties 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. 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, intitled My Minde to me a Kingdom is. To the tune of In Crete,” &c.” Some of the stanzas in this poem were printed by Byrd separate from the rest they are here given in what seemed the most natural order.

My minde to me a kingdome is; 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.

Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice; I presse to beare no haughtie sway; Look what I lack my mind supplies. Loe! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plentie surfets oft, 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 princely pompe, nor welthie store, No force to winne the 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 despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave, 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 live.

I laugh not at anothers losse, I grudge not at anothers gaine; No worldly wave my mind can tosse, I brooke that is anothers bane: I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend; I lothe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly blisse; 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 wish but what I have at will; I wander not to seeke for more; I like the plaine, I clime no hill; In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, And laugh at them that toile in vaine To get what must be lost againe.

I kisse not where I wish to kill; I feigne 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.

The court, ne cart, I like, ne loath; 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.

My welth is health, and perfect ease; 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 subject of this tale is taken from the entertaining Colloquy of Erasmus, intitled, Uxor ??????????[Greek:Memphigamos], sive Conjugium: which has been agreeably modernized by the late Mr. Spence, in his little miscellaneous publication, intitled, “Moralities, &c. by Sir Harry Beaumont,” 1753, 8vo. p. 42. The following stanzas are extracted from an ancient poem intitled Albion’s England, written by W. Warner, a celebrated poet in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, though his name and works are now equally forgotten. The reader will find some account of him in book v. song. 24. The following stanzas are printed from the author’s improved edition of his work, printed in 1602, 4to.; the third impression of which appeared so early as 1592, in black-letter, 4to. The edition in 1602 is in thirteen Books; and so it is reprinted in 1612, 4to.; yet in 1606 was published “A Continuance of Albion’s England, by the first author, W. W. Lond. 4to.:” this contains Books xiv. xv. xvi. In Ames’s Typography is preserved the memory of another publication of this writer’s, intitled, Warner’s Poetry, printed in 1580, 12mo. and reprinted in 1602. There is also extant, under the name of Warner, “Syrinx, or seven fold Hist. pleasant, and profitable, comical, and tragical,” 4to. It is proper to premise that the following lines were not written by the author in stanzas, but in long Alexandrines of fourteen syllables: which the narrowness of our page made it here necessary to subdivide.

IMPATIENCE chaungeth smoke to flame, 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.

An earle there was had wedded, lov’d; Was lov’d, and lived long Full true to his fayre countesse; yet At last he did her wrong.

Once hunted he untill the chace, Long fasting, and the heat Did house him in a peakish graunge Within a forest great.

Where knowne and welcom’d (as the place And persons might afforde) Browne bread, whig, bacon, curds and milke Were set him on the borde.

A cushion made of lists, a stoole Half backed with a hoope Were brought him, and he sitteth down Besides a sorry coupe.

The poore old couple wisht their bread Were wheat, their whig were perry, Their bacon beefe, their milke and curds Were creame, to make him merry.

Mean while (in russet neatly clad, With linen white as swanne, Herselfe more white, save rosie where The ruddy colour ranne:

Whome naked nature, not the aydes 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.

Yet fals he to their homely fare, And held him at a feast: But as his hunger slaked, so An amorous heat increast.

When this repast was past, and thanks, And welcome too; he sayd Unto his host and hostesse, in The hearing of the mayd:

“Ye know,” quoth he, that I am lord Of this, and many townes; I also know that you be poore, And I can spare you pownes.

“Soe will I, so yee will consent, 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?”

First they mislike, yet at the length For lucre were misled; And then the gamesome earle did wowe The damsell for his bed.

He took her in his armes, as yet So coyish to be kist, As mayds that know themselves belov’d, And yieldingly resist.

In few, his offers were so large She lastly did consent; With whom he lodged all that night, And early home he went.

He tooke occasion oftentimes In such a sort to hunt. Whom when his lady often mist, Contrary to his wont.

And lastly was informed of His amorous haunt elsewhere It greev’d her not a little, though She seem’d it well to beare.

And thus she reasons with herselfe, “Some fault perhaps in me; Somewhat is done, that soe he doth: Alas? what may it be?

“How may I winne him to myself? He is a man, and men Have imperfections; it behoves Me pardon nature then.

“To checke him were to make him checke,[1] Although hee now were chaste: A man controuled of his wife, To her makes lesser haste.

“If duty then, or daliance may Prevayle to alter him; I will be dutifull, and make My selfe for daliance trim.”

So was she, and so lovingly Did entertaine her lord, As fairer, or more faultles none Could be for bed or bord.

Yet still he loves his leiman, and 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:

When long she had been wrong’d, and sought The foresayd meanes in vaine, She rideth to the simple graunge But with a slender traine.

She lighteth, entreth, greets them well 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.

When she had seen the beauteous wench (Then blushing fairnes fairer) Such beauty made the countesse hold Them both excus’d the rather.

Who would not bite at such a bait? Thought she: and who (though loth) So poore a wench, but gold might tempt? Sweet errors lead them both.

Scarse one in twenty that had bragg’d Of proffer’d gold denied, Or of such yeelding beautie baulkt, But, tenne to one, had lied.

Thus thought she: and she thus declares Her cause of coming thether “My lord, oft hunting in these partes, Through travel, night or wether,

“Hath often lodged in your house; I thanke you for the same; For why? it doth him jolly ease To lie so neare his game.

“But, for you have no furniture Beseeming such a guest, I bring his owne, and come myselfe To see his lodging drest.”

With that two sumpters were discharg’d, In which were hangings brave, Silke coverings, curtens, carpets, plate, And al such turn should have.

When all was handsomly dispos’d, She prayer them to have care That nothing hap in their default, That might his health impair:

“And, Damsell,” quoth shee, “for it seemes This houshold is but three, And for thy parents age, that this Shall chiefely rest on thee;

“Do me that good, else would to God He hither come no more.” So tooke she horse, and ere she went Bestowed gould good store.

Full little thought the countie that His countesse had done so; Who now return’d from far affaires Did to his sweet-heart go.

No sooner sat he foote within The late deformed cote, But that the formall change of things His wondring eies did note.

But when he knew those goods to be His proper goods; though late, Scarce taking leave, he home returnes The matter to debate.

The countesse was a-bed, and he With her his lodging tooke; “Sir, welcome home” (quoth shee); “this night For you I did not looke.”

Then did he question her of such His stuffe bestowed soe. “Forsooth,” quoth she, “because I did Your love and lodging knowe:

“Your love to be a proper wench, Your lodging nothing lesse; I held it for your health, the house More decently to dresse.

“Well wot I, notwithstanding her, Your lordship loveth me; And greater hope to hold you such By quiet, then brawles, you see.

“Then for my duty, your delight, And to retaine your favour, All done I did, and patiently Expect your wonted ‘haviour.”

Her patience, witte and answer wrought 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.

NOTES

1. 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 chide. It is in this verse used in both senses.

VII. Dowsabel.

The following stanzas were written by Michael Drayton, a poet of some eminence in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, James I. and Charles II.[1] They are inserted in one of his Pastorals, the first edition of which bears this whimsical title. “Idea. The Shepheards Garland fashioned in nine Eglogs. Rowlands sacrifice to the nine Muses.” Lond. 1393, 4to. They are inscribed with the author’s name at length “To the noble and valerous gentleman master Robert Dudley,” &c. It is very remarkable that when Drayton reprinted them in the first folio edit. of his works, 1619, he had given those eclogues so thorough a revisal, that there is hardly a line to be found the same as in the old edition. This poem had received the fewest corrections, and therefore is chiefly given from the ancient copy, where it is thus introduced by one of his shepherds:—

“Listen to mee, my lovely shepheards joye, And thou shalt heare, with mirth and mickle glee, A pretie tale, which when I was a boy, My toothles grandame oft hath told to me.”

The author has professedly imitated the style and metre of some of the old metrical romances, particularly that of Sir Isenbras,[2] (alluded to in v. 3.) as the reader may judge from the following specimen:

“Lordynges, lysten, and you shal here, &c.”

- * * * * * * *

“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 than he was Lyved none with breade. He was lyvely, large, and lunge, With shoulders broade, and armes stronge, That myghtie was to se: He was a hardye man, and hye, 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 manuscript copy of the same romance containing the greatest variations. They are probably two different translations of some French original.

FARRE in the countrey of Arden, 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.

He had, as antique stories tell, 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.

The silke well couth she twist and twine, And make the fine march-pine, And with the needle werke; And she couth helpe the priest to say His mattins on a holy-day, And sing a psalme in kirke.

She ware a frock of frolicke greene, 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.

Her features all as fresh above, 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.

This mayden in a morne betime 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.

Thus, as she wandred here and there, Y-picking of the bloomed breere, She chanced to espie A shepheard sitting on a bancke, Like chanteclere he crowed crancke, And pip’d full merrilie.

He lear’d his sheepe as he him list, 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.

In favour this same shepheards swayne Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,[3] Which helde prowd kings in awe: But meeke he was as lamb mought be; An innocent of ill as he[4] Whom his lewd brother slaw.

The shepheard ware a sheepe-gray cloke, Which was of the finest loke, That could he cut with sheere: His mittens were of bauzens skinne, His cockers were of cordiwin, His hood of meniveere.

His aule and lingell in a thong, His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong, His breech of coyntrie blewe: Full crispe and curled were his lockes, His browes as white as Albion rocks: So like a lover true,

And pyping still he spent the day, 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.

At length she tucked up her frocke, 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.

“Thy sheepe,” quoth she, “cannot be leane, That have a jolly shepherds swayne, The which can pipe so well.” “Yea but,” sayth he, “their shepheard may, If pyping thus he pine away In love of Dowsabel.”

“Of love, fond boy, take thou no keepe,” Quoth she; “looke thou unto thy sheepe, Lest they should hap to stray.” Quoth he, “So had I done full well, Had I not seen fayre Dowsabell Come forth to gather maye.”

With that she gan to vaile her head, 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.

Sayth she, “I may not stay till night, And leave my summer-hall undight, And all for long of thee.” “My coate,” sayth he, “nor yet my fouled Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould, Except thou favour mee.”

Sayth she, “Yet lever were I dead, 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.

“And I to thee will be as kinde, As Colin was to Rosalinde, Of curtesie the flower.” “Then will I be as true,” quoth she, “As ever mayden yet might be Unto her paramour.”

With that she bent her snow-white knee, Down 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.”

NOTES

1. He was born in 1563, and died 1631.— Biog. Brit. 2. As also Chaucer’s Rhyme of Sir Topas, ver. 6. 3. Alluding to Tamburlaine the great, or the Scythian Shepheard, 1590, 8vo, an old ranting play ascribed to Marlowe. 4. Sc. Abel.

VIII. The Farewell fo Love.

From Beaumont and Fletcher’s play, entitled The Lover’s Progress, act iii. sc. I.

ADIEU, fond love! farewell you wanton powers! I am free again. Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours, Betwitching pain, Fly to fools, that sigh away their time! My nobler love to heaven doth climb, And there behold beauty still young, 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.

IX. Ulysses and the Syren.

This 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.[1] 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 vols. 12mo. 1718.

SYREN

“Come, worthy Greeke, Ulysses come, Possesse these shores with me, The windes and seas are troublesome, 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 spende the night in sleepe.”

ULYSSES

“Faire nymph, if fame or honour were To be attain’d with ease, Then I would 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!”

ULYSSES

“Delicious nymph, suppose there were Nor honor, nor 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 seethes 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: And with the thought of actions past 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.”

SYREN

“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.”

NOTES

1. In this edition it is collated with a copy printed at the end of his “Tragedie of Cleopatra Lond, 1607,” 12mo.

X. 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 fourth edition of Davison’s Poems,[1] &c. 1621. It is also found in a later miscellany, intitled, Le Prince d’Amour, 1660, 8vo. Francis Davison, editor of the poems above referred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state, who suffered so much from the affair of Mary Queen 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 some 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.

IT chanc’d of late a shepherd swain, That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket on a plain Espied a dainty nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o’erspread her face; Her careless arms abroad were cast; Her quiver had her pillows place; Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood and gaz’d his fill; Nought durst he do; nought durst he say; Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will, Did guide the god of love that way.

The crafty boy that sees her sleep, Whom if she wak’d he durst not see; Behind her closely seeks to creep, Before her nap should ended bee.

There come, he steals her shafts away, And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay, But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.

Scarce was he gone, but she awakes, And spies the shepherd standing by: Her bended bow in haste she takes, And at the simple swain lets flye.

Forth flew the shaft, and pierc’d his heart. That to the ground he fell with pain: Yet up again forthwith he start, And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain: The more his wounds, the more his might, Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears, She blames her hand, she blames her skill; The bluntness of her shafts she fears, And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft, Each little touch will pierce thy heart: Alas! thou know’st not Cupids craft; Revenge is joy; the end is smart.

Yet try she will, and pierce some bare; Her hands were glov’d, but next to hand Was that fair breast, that breast so rare, That made the shepherd senseless stand.

That breast she pierc’d; and through that breast Love found an entry to her heart: At feeling of this new-come guest, Lord! how this gentle nymph did start!

She runs not now; she shoots no more; Away she throws both shaft and bow: She seeks for what she shunn’d before, She thinks the shepherd’s haste too slow.

Though mountains meet not, lovers may: What other lovers do, did they: The god of love sate on a tree, And laught that pleasant sight to see.

NOTES

1. See the full title in Book vi. No. iv.

XI. The Character of a Happy Life.

This little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eton in 1639. At. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, intitled, Reliquić Wottonianć, 1631, 12mo.; compared with one or two other copies.

How happy is he born or taught, That serveth not anothers will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill:

Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepar’d for death; Not ty’d unto the world with care Of princes ear, or vulgar breath:

Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat: Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruine make oppressors great:

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise, Or vice: who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertaines the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himselfe, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

XII. Gilderoy.

Gilderoy was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richelieu, 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. ii. 1733, 8vo., is a copy of this ballad, which, though corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity: in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary Queen of Scots: ex. gr.

“The Queen of Scots possessed nought, That my love let me want: For cow and ew to me he brought, And ein whan they were scant.”

These lines perhaps might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that appears to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruning- hook.

GILDEROY was a bonnie boy, 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.

Oh! sike twa charming een he had, 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.

My Gilderoy and I were born, Baith in one toun together, We scant were seven years beforn, We gan to luve each other; Our dadies and our mammies thay Nere fill’d wi’ mickle joy, To think upon the bridal day, Twixt me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy that luve of mine, 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.

Wi’ mickle joy we spent our prime, 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.

Oh! that he still had been content, 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.

And when of me his leave he tuik, The tears they wat mine ee, I gave tull him a parting luik, “My benison gang wi’ thee; God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart, For gane is all my joy; My heart is rent sith we maun part, My handsome Gilderoy.”

My Gilderoy, baith far and near, 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.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws, 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.

Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, He mought hae banisht been; Ah! what sair 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.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, 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.

Thus having yielded up his breath, 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.

XIII. Winifreda.

This beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine Muses, was, I believe, first printed in a volume of “Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands, published by D. [David] Lewis,” 1726, 8vo. It is there said, how truly I know not, to be a translation “from the ancient British language.”

AWAY! let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What tho’ no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood; We’ll shine in more substantial honors, And to be noble we’ll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where-e’er ‘tis spoke: And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune’s lavish bounty No mighty treasures we possess; We’ll find within our pittance plenty, And be content without excess.

Still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason, And that’s the only life to live.

Through youth and age in love excelling, We’ll hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung; To see them look their mother’s features, To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue.

And when with envy time transported, 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.

XIV. The Witch of Wokey.

This ballad was published in a small collection of poems, intitled, Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony, &c., 1756, written, in 1748, by the ingenious Dr. Harrington, of Bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. The following contains some variations from the original copy, which it is hoped the reader will pardon, when he is informed they come 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. Through a very narrow entrance, it opens into a very 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.

IN aunciente days tradition showes A base and wicked elfe 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.

Deep in the dreary dismall cell, Which seem’d and was ycleped hell, This blear-eyed hag did hide: Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne, She chose to form her guardian trayne, And kennel near her side.

Here screeching owls oft made their nest, 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 haggard face was foull to see; 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.

All in her prime, have poets sung, 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 charms.

From Glaston came a lerned wight, Full bent to marr her fell dispight, And well he did, I weene: Sich mischief never had been known, And, since his mickle lerninge shown, Sich mischief ne’er has been.

He chauntede out his godlie booke, He crost the water, blest the brooks, Then — pater noster done, — The ghastly hag he sprinkled o’er; When lo! where stood a hag before, Now stood a ghastly stone.

Full well ‘tis known adown the dale: 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.

But tho’ this lernede clerke did well; 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.

For lo! even as the fiend did say, The sex have found it to this day, That men are wonderous scant: Here’s beauty, wit, and sense combin’d, With all that’s good and virtuous join’d, Yet hardly one gallant.

Shall then sich maids unpitied moane? 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!

Yet stay — nor thus despond, ye fair; Virtue’s the gods’ peculiar care; I hear the gracious voice: Your sex shall soon be blest agen, We only wait to find such men, As best deserve your choice.

XV. Bryan and Pereene, A WEST-INDIAN BALLAD.

This piece is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island of St. Christopher’s about the middle of the last century. The Editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. James Grainger,[1] who was an eminent physician in that island when this tragical accident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented in 1767. To this ingenious gentleman the public are indebted for the fine Ode on Solitude, printed in the fourth volume of Dodsley’s Miscelllanies, p. 229, in which are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature. The reader will pardon the insertion of the first stanza here, for the sake of rectifying the two last lines, which were thus given by the author;

“O Solitude, romantic maid, Whether by nodding towers you tread. Or haunt the desart’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 north-east wind did briskly blow, The ship was safely moor’d; Young Bryan thought the boat’s-crew slow, And so leapt over-board.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames, His heart long held in thrall; And whoso his impatience blames, I wot, ne’er lov’d at all.

A long long year, one month and day He dwelt on English land, Nor once in thought or deed would stray, Tho’ ladies sought his hand.

For Bryan he was tall and strong, Right blythsome roll’d his een, Sweet was his voice whene’er he sung, He scant had twenty seen.

But who the countless charms can draw, That grac’d his mistress true? Such chums the old world seldom saw, Nor oft I ween the new.

Her raven hair plays round her neck, Like tendrils of the vine; Her cheeks red dewy rose buds deck, Her eyes like diamonds shine.

Soon as his well-known ship she spied, She cast her weeds away, And to the palmy shore she hied, All in her best array.

In sea-green silk so neatly clad, She there impatient stood; The crew with wonder saw the lad Repel the foaming flood.

Her hands a handkerchief display’d, Which he at parting gave; Well pleas’d the token he survey’d, And manlier beat the wave.

Her fair companions, one and all, Rejoicing crowd the strand; For now her lover swam in call, And almost touch’d the land.

Then through the white surf did she haste, To clasp her lovely swain; When, ah! a shark bit through his waist: His heart’s blood dy’d the main!

He shriek’d! his half sprang from the wave, Streaming with purple gore, And soon he found a living grave, And ah! was seen no more.

Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray, Fetch water from the spring: She falls, she swoons, she dies away, And soon her knell they ring.

Now each May morning round her tomb, Ye fair, fresh flowerets strew, So may your lovers scape his doom, Her hapless fate scape you.

NOTES

1. Author of a poem on the Culture of the Sugar-Cane, &c.,

XVI. Gentle River, Gentle River. TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH.

Although the English are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps a 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,[1] &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 those beautiful pieces. The Spanish editor pretends (how truly I know not) that they are translations from the Arabic or Morisco language. Indeed, from the plain unadorned nature of the verse, and the native simplicity of the language and sentiment, which runs through these poems, one would judge them to be composed soon after the conquest of Granada above mentioned; as the prose narrative in which they were inserted was published about a century after. It should seem, at least, that they were written before the Castilians had formed themselves so generally, as they have done since, on the model of the Tuscan poets, or had imported from Italy that fondness for conceit and refinement, which has for near two centuries past so much infected the Spanish poetry, and rendered it so frequently affected and obscure. 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 ballads: it is of the most simple construction, and is still used by the common people in their extemporaneous songs, as we learn from Baretti’s Travels. It runs in short stanzas of four lines, of which the second and fourth line 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 areco noble canas muere gamo

Yet 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, Madrid, 1694. One of them hath the rhymes ending in aa, the other in ia. It is the former of these that is here reprinted. They both of them begin with the same line:

Rio verde, rio verde.[2]

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 easy simplicity; and therefore a more simple epithet was adopted, though less poetical or expressive.

‘Rio verde, rio verde, Quanto cuerpo en ti se bańa De Christianos y de Moros Muertos por la dura espada!

‘Y tus ondas cristalinas De roxa sangre se esmaltan: Entre Moros y Christianos Muy gran batalla se trava.

‘Murieron Duques y Condes, Grandes senores de salva: Murio gente de valia De la nobleza de Espańa.

‘En ti murio don Alonso, Que de Aguilar se llamaba; El valeroso Urdiales, Con don Alonso acabada.

‘Por un ladera arriba El buen Sayavedra marcha; Naturel es de Sevilla, De la gente mas granada.

‘Tras el iba un Renegado, Desta manera le habla; “Date, date, Sayavedra, No huyas de la batalla.

“‘Yo te conozco muy bien, Gran tiempo estuve en tu casa Y en la Plaça de Sevilla Bien te vide jugar canas.

“‘Conozco a tu padre y madre, Y a tu muger Dońa Clara; Siete ańos fui tu cautivo, Malamente me tratabas.

“‘Y aura le seras mio, Si Mahoma me ayudara; Y tambien te tratare, Como a mi me tratabas.”

‘Sayavedra que lo oyera, Al Moro bolvio la cara Tirole el Moro una flecha, Pero nunca la acertaba.

‘Hiriole Sayavedra De una herida muy mala: Muerto cayo el Renegado Sin poder hablar palabra.

‘Sayavedra fue cercado De mucha Mora canalla, Y al cabo cayo alli muerto De una muy mala lançada.

‘Don Alonso en este tiempo Bravamente peleava, Y el cavallo le avian muerto, Y le tiene por muralla.

‘Mas cargaron tantos Moros Que mal le hieren y tratan: De la sangre, que perdia, Don Alonso se desmaya.

Al fin, al fin cayo muerto Al pie de un pena alta.— -- Muerto queda don Alonso, Eterna fama ganara.’

- * * * * * *

GENTLE river, gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stain’d with gore, Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow’d shore.

All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors Join’d in fierce and mortal fight.

Lords, and dukes, and noble princes On thy fatal banks were slain: Fatal banks that gave to slaughter All the pride and flower of Spain.

There the hero, brave Alonzo, Full of wounds and glory died: There the fearless Urdiales Fell a victim by his side.

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra Thro’ their squadrons slow retires Proud Seville, his native city, Proud Seville his worth admires.

Close behind a renegado Loudly shouts with taunting cry; “Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra, Dost thou from the battle fly?

“Well I know thee, haughty Christian, Long I liv’d beneath thy roof; Oft I’ve in the lists of glory Seen thee win the prize of proof.

“Well I know thy aged parents, Well thy blooming bride I know; Seven years I was thy captive, Seven years of pain and woe.

May our prophet grant my wishes, Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow, Which I drank when I was thine.”

Like a lion turns the warrior, Back he sends an angry glare: Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, Vainly whizzing through the air.

Back the hero full of fury Sent a deep and mortal wound; Instant sunk the Renegado, Mute and lifeless on the ground.

With a thousand Moors surrounded, Brave Saavedra stands at bay: Wearied out but never daunted, Cold at length the warrior lay.

Near him fighting great Alonzo Stout resists the Paynim bands; From his slaughter’d steed dismounted Firm intrench’d behind him stands.

Furious press the hostile squadron, Furious he repels their rage: Loss of blood at length enfeebles: Who can war with thousands wage

Where yon rock the plain o’ershadows, 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.

“Sayavedra, que lo oyera, Como un leon rebolbia.”

NOTES

1. i.e. the ballad-singer. 2. Literally, Green river, green river. Rio Verde is said to be the name of a river in Spain; which ought to have been attended to by the translator had he known it.

XVII. 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

Por la calle de su dama, Passeando se anda, &c.

SOFTLY blow the evening breezes, Softly fall the dews of night; Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor, Shunning every glare of light.

In yon palace lives fair Zaida, Whom he loves with flame so pure: Lovliest she of Moorish ladies; He a young and noble Moor.

Waiting for the appointed minute, Oft he paces to and fro; Stopping now, now moving forwards, Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.

Hope and fear alternate tease him, Oft he sighs with heart-felt care.--- See, fond youth, to yonder window Softly steps the timorous fair.

Lovely seems the moon’s fair lustre To the lost benighted swain, When all silvery bright she rises, Gilding mountain, grove, and plain.

Lovely seems the sun’s full glory To the fainting seaman’s eyes, When some horrid storm dispersing O’er the wave his radiance flies.

But a thousand times more lovely To her longing lover’s sight Steals half seen the beauteous maiden Thro’ the glimmerings of the night.

Tip-toe stands the anxious lover, Whispering forth a gentle sigh: “Alla[1] keep thee, lovely lady; Tell me, am I doom’d to die?

“Is it true the dreadful story, Which thy damsel tells my page, That seduc’d by sordid riches Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age?

“An old lord from Antiquera Thy stern father brings along; But canst thou, inconstant Zaida, Thus consent my love to wrong?

“If ‘tis true now plainly tell me, Nor thus trifle with my woes; Hide not then from me the secret, Which the world so clearly knows.”

Deeply sigh’d the conscious maiden, While the pearly tears descend: “Ah! my lord, too true the story; Here our tender loves must end.

“Our fond friendship is discover’d, Well are known our mutual vows; All my friends are full of fury; Storms of passion shake the house.

“Threats, reproaches, fears surround me My stern father breaks my heart: Alla knows how dear it costs me, Generous youth, from thee to part.

“Ancient wounds of hostile fury Long have rent our house and thine; Why then did thy shining merit Win this tender heart of mine?

“Well thou know’st how dear I lov’d thee Spite of all their hateful pride, Tho’ I fear’d my haughty father Ne’er would let me be thy bride.

“Well thou know’st what cruel chidings Oft I’ve from my mother borne; What I’ve suffer’d here to meet thee Still at eve and early morn.

“I no longer may resist them; All to force my hand combine; And to-morrow to thy rival This weak frame I must resign.

“Yet think not thy faithful Zaida Can survive so great a wrong; Well my breaking heart assures me That my woes will not be long.

“Farewell then, my dear Alcanzor Farewell too my life with thee! Take this scarf, a parting token; When thou wear’st it think on me.

“Soon, lov’d youth, some worthier maiden Shall reward thy generous truth; Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida Died for thee in prime of youth.”

— To him all amaz’d, confounded, Thus she did her woes impart: Deep he sigh’d, then cry’d,— “O Zaida! Do not, do not break my heart.

“Canst thou think I thus will lose thee? Canst thou hold my love so small? No! a thousand times I’ll perish!--- My curst rival too shall fall.

“Canst thou, wilt thou yield thus to them? O break forth, and fly to me This fond heart shall bleed to save thee, These fond arms shall shelter thee.”

“‘Tis in vain, in vain, Alcanzor, Spies surround me, bars secure: Scarce I steal this last dear moment, While my damsel keeps the door.

“Hark, I hear my father storming! Hark, I hear my mother chide! I must go: farewell for ever! Gracious Alla be thy guide!”

NOTES

1. Alla is the Mahometan name of God.

BOOK IV I. Richard of Almaigne. “A ballad made by one of the adherents to Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester, soon after the battle of Lewes, which was fought May 14,

1264.”

This piece affords a curious specimen of ancient satire, and shews that the liberty, assumed by the good people of this realm, of abusing their kings and princes at pleasure, is a privilege of very long standing. To render this antique libel intelligible, the reader is to understand that just before the battle of Lewes, which proved so fatal to the interests of Henry III. the barons had offered his brother Richard King of the Romans 30,000l. to procure a peace upon such terms as would have divested Henry of all his regal power, and therefore the treaty proved abortive. The consequences of that battle are well known: the king, prince Edward his son, his brother Richard, and many of his friends, fell into the hands of their enemies: while two great barons of the king’s party, John Earl of Warren, and Hugh Bigot the king’s Justiciary, had been glad to escape into France. In the 1st stanza the aforesaid sum of 30,000l. is alluded to; but, with the usual misrepresentation of party malevolence, is asserted to have been the exorbitant demand of the king’s brother. With regard to the 2nd stanza, the reader is to note that Richard, along with the earldom of Cornwall, had the honours of Wallingford and Eyre confirmed to him on his marriage with Sanchia, daughter of the Count of Provence, in 1243. Windsor castle was the chief fortress belonging to the king, and had been garrisoned by foreigners: a circumstance which furnishes out the burthen of each stanza. The third stanza alludes to a remarkable circumstance which happened on the day of the battle of Lewes. After the battle was lost, Richard King of the Romans took refuge in a windmill, which he barricadoed, and maintained for some time against the barons, but in the evening was obliged to surrender.— See a very full account of this in the Chronicle of Mailros. Oxon. 1684. p. 229. The fourth stanza is of obvious interpretation: Richard, who had been elected King of the Romans in 1256, and had afterwards gone over to take possession of his dignity, was in the year 1259 about to return into England, when the barons raised a popular clamour, that he was bringing with him foreigners to over-run the kingdom: upon which he was forced to dismiss almost all his followers, otherwise the barons would have opposed his landing. In the fifth stanza, the writer regrets the escape of the Earl of Warren; and, in the sixth and seventh stanzas, insinuates, that, if he and Sir Hugh Bigot once fell into the hands of their adversaries, they should never more return home; a circumstance which fixes the date of this ballad; for in the year 1265, both these noblemen landed in South Wales, and the royal party soon after gained the ascendant. See Holinshed, Rapin, &c. The following is copied from a very ancient manuscript in the British Museum. [Harl. MSS. 2253. s. 23.] This manuscript is judged, from the peculiarities of the writing, to be not later than the time of Richard II.; th being every where expressed by the character ţ [thorn]; the y is pointed after the Saxon manner, and the í hath an oblique stroke over it. Prefixed to this libel on the government was a small design, which the engraver intended should correspond with the subject. One the one side a Satyr (emblem of Petulance and Ridicule) is trampling on the ensigns of Royalty; on the other, Faction, under the mask of Liberty, is inciting Ignorance and Popular Rage to to deface the royal image, which stands on a pedestal inscribed MAGNA CHARTA, to denote that the rights of a king, as well as those of the people, are founded upon laws, and that to attack one, is in effect to demolish both.

SITTETH alle stille, ant herkneth to me; The Kyng of Alemaigne, bi mi leaute, Thritti thousent pound askede he For te make the pees in the countre, Ant so he dude more. Richard, thah thou be ever trichard, Tricthen shalt thou never more.

Richard of Alemaigne, whil that he wes trying, He spende al is tresour opon swyvyng, Haveth he nout of Walingford oferlyng, Let him habbe, ase he brew, bale to dryng, Maugre Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.

The Kyng of Alemaigne wende do ful wel, He saisede the mulne for a castel, With hare sharpe swerdes he grounde the stel, He wende that the sayles were mangonel To helpe Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.

The Kyng of Alemaigne gederede ys host, Makede him a castel of a mulne post, Wende with is prude, ant is muchele bost, Brohte from Alemayne mony sori gost To store Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.

By God, that is aboven ous, he dude much synne, That lette passen over see the Erl of Warynne: He hath robbed Engelond, the mores, ant the fenne, The gold, ant the selver, and y-boren henne, For love of Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.

Sire Simond de Mountfort hath suore bi ys chyn, Hevede he nou here the Erl of Waryn, Shuld he never more come to is yn, Ne with sheld, ne with spere, ne with other gyn, To help of Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.

Sire Simon de Montfort hath suore bi ys cop, Hevede he nou here Sire Hue de Bigot: Al he shulde grante here twelfmoneth scot Shulde he never more with his sot pot To helpe Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c.

Be the luef, be the loht, Sire Edward, Thou shalt ride sporteles o thy lyard Al the ryhte way to Dovere-ward, Shalt thou never more breke foreward; Ant that reweth sore Edward, thou dudest as a shreward, Forsoke thyn emes lore Richard, &c.

- This ballad will rise in its importance with the reader, when he finds, that it is even believed to have occasioned a law in our Statute Book, viz. “Against slanderous reports or tales, to cause discord betwixt king and people.”— Westm. Primer, c. 34. anno 3. Edw. I. That it had this effect, is the opinion of an eminent writer. See “Observations upon the Statutes, &c.” 4to. 2d. edit. 1766, p. 71.

However, in the Harl. Collection may be found other satirical and defamatory rhymes of the same age, that might have their share in contributing to this first law against libels.

II. On the Death of K. Edward the First.

We have here an early attempt at elegy. Edward I. died July 7, 1307, in the 35th year of his reign, and 69th of his age. This poem appears to have been composed soon after his death. According to the modes of thinking peculiar to those times, the writer dwells more upon his devotion, than his skill in government; and pays less attention to the martial and political abilities of this great monarch, in which he had no equal, than to some little weaknesses of superstition, which he had in common with all his contemporaries. The king had in the decline of life vowed an expedition to the Holy Land; but finding his end approach, he dedicated the sum of 32,000l., to the maintenance of a large body of knights (140 say historians, 80 says our poet), who were to carry his heart with them into Palestine, This dying command of the king was never performed. Our poet, with the honest prejudices of an Englishman, attributes this failure to the advice of the King of France, whose daughter Isabel, the young monarch, who succeeded, immediately married. But the truth is, Edward and his destructive favourite Piers Gavestone spent the money upon their pleasures. To do the greater honour to the memory of his hero, our poet puts his eloge in the mouth of the Pope, with the same poetic licence, as a more modern bard would have introduced Britannia, or the Genius of Europe, pouring forth his praises. This antique elegy is extracted from the same manuscript volume as the preceding article; is found with the same peculiarities of writing and orthography; and, though written at near the distance of half a century, contains little or no variation of idiom: whereas the next following poem by Chaucer, which was probably written not more than 50 or 60 years after this, exhibits almost a new language. This seems to countenance the opinion of some antiquaries that this great poet made considerable innovations in his mother tongue, and introduced many terms, and new modes of speech from other languages.

ALLE, that beoth of huerte trewe, A stounde herkneth to my song Of duel, that Deth hath diht us newe, That maketh me syke, ant sorewe among; Of a knyht, that wes so strong, Of wham God hath don ys wille; Me-thuncheth that deth hath don us wrong, That he so sone shall ligge stille.

Al Englond ahte for te kuowe Of wham that song is, that y synge; Of Edward kyng, that lith so lowe, Zent al this world is nome con springe Trewest mon of alle thinge, Ant in werre war ant wys, For him we ahte our honden wrynge, Of Christendome he ber the prys.

Byfore that oure kyng was ded, He spek ase mon that wes in care, “Clerkes, knyhtes, barons,” he sayde, “Y charge ou by oure sware, That ye to Engelonde be trewe. Y deze, y ne may lyven na more; Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe, For he is nest to buen y-core.

“Ich biqueth myn herte arhyt, That hit be write at my devys, Over the see that Hue[1] be diht, With fourscore knyhtes al of prys, Iu werre that buen war ant wys, Azein the hethene for te fyhte, To wynne the croiz that lowe lys, Myself ycholde zef that y myhte.”

Kyng of Fraunce, thou hevedest sinne, That thou the counsail woldest fonde, To latte the wille of Edward kyng To wende to the holy londe That oure kyng hede take on honde All Engelond to zeme ant wysse, To wenden in to the holy londe To wynnen us heveriche blisse.

The messager to the pope com, And seyde that our kynge was ded: Ys oune hond the lettre he nom, Ywis his herte was full gret: The Pope him self the lettre redde, And spec a word of gret honour. “Alas!” he seid, “is Edward ded? Of Christendome he ber the flour.”

The Pope to is chaumbre wende, For dol ne mihte he speke na more; Ant after cardinals he sende, That muche couthen of Cristes lore, Bothe the lasse, ant eke the more, Bed hem bothe rede ant synge Gret deol me myhte se thore, Mony mon is honde wrynge.

The Pope of Peyters stod at is masse With full gret solempnetč, Ther me con the soule blesse: “Kyng Edward honoured thou be: God love thi sone come after the, Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne, The holy crois y-mad of tre, So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne.

“Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore The flour of al chivalrie Now Kyng Edward liveth na more: Alas! that he zet shulde deye! He wolde ha rered up ful heyze Oure banners, that bueth broht to grounde; Wel! longe we mowe clepe and crie Er we a such kyng han y-founde.”

Nou is Edward of Carnarvan King of Engelond al aplyht, God lete him ner be worse man Then his fader, ne lasse of myht, To holden is pore meit to ryht, And understonde good counsail, Al Engelond for to wysse and dyht; Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail.

Thah mi tonge were mad of stel, Ant min herte yzote of bras, The godness myht y never telle, That with Kyng Edward was: Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour, In uch bataille thou hadest prys; God bringe thi soule to the honour, That ever wes, ant ever ys.[2]

NOTES

1. This is probably the name of the person who was to preside over this business. 2. Here follow in the original three lines more, which, as seemingly redundant, we choose to throw to the bottom of the page, viz.

That lasteth ay withouten ende, Bidde we God, ant oure Ledy to thilke blisse Jesus us sende. Amen.

III. An original Ballad by Chaucer.

This little sonnet, which hath escaped all the editors of Chaucer’s works, is now printed for the first time from an ancient manuscript in the Pepysian Library, that contains many other poems of its venerable author. The versification is of that species, which the French call Rondeau, very naturally Englished by our honest countrymen Round O. Though so early adopted by them, our ancestors had not the honour of inventing it: Chaucer picked it up, along with other better things, among the neighbouring nations. A fondness for laborious trifles hath always prevailed in the dark ages of literature. The Greek poets have had their wings and axes: the great father of English poesy may therefore be pardoned one poor solitary rondeau. Geoffrey Chaucer died Oct. 25, 1400, aged 72.

I. 1.

YOURE two eyn will sle me sodenly, I may the beaute of them not sustene, So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene.

2.

And but your words will helen hastely My hertis wound, while that it is grene, Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly.

3.

Upon my trouth I sey yow feithfully, That ye ben of my life and deth the quene; For with my deth the trouth shal be sene. Youre two eyn, &c.

II. 1.

So hath youre beauty fro your herte chased Pitee, that me n’ availeth not to pleyn; For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

2.

Giltless my deth thus have ye purchased; I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to fayn: So hath your beaute fro your herte chased.

3.

Alas, that nature hath in yow compassed So grete beaute, that no man may atteyn To mercy, though he sterve for the peyn. So hath youre beaute, &c.

III .1.

Syn I fro love escaped am so fat, I nere think to ben in his prison lene; Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene.

2.

He may answere, and sey this and that, I do no fors, I speak ryght as I mene: Syn I fro love escaped am so fat.

3.

Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat, And he is strike out of my bokes clene: For ever mo ther is non other mene. Syn I fro love escaped, &c.

IV. The Turnament of Tottenham; OR, THE WOOEING, WINNING, AND WEDDING OF TIBBE, THE REEV’S DAVGHTER THERE.

[1] It does honour to the good sense of this nation, that while all Europe was captivated with the bewitching charms of chivalry and romance, two of our writers in the rudest times could see through the false glare that surrounded them, and discover whatever was absurd in them both. Chaucer wrote his rhyme of Sir Thopas in ridicule of the latter; and in the following poem we have a humorous burlesque of the former. Without pretending to decide whether the institution of chivalry was upon the whole useful or pernicious in the rude ages, a question that has lately employed many good writers,[2] it evidently encouraged a vindictive spirit, and gave such force to the custom of duelling, that there is little hope of its being abolished. This, together with the fatal consequences which often attended the diversion of the Turnament, was sufficient to render it obnoxious to the graver part of mankind. Accordingly the Church early denounced its censures against it, and the State was often prevailed on to attempt its suppression. But fashion and opinion are superior to authority: and the proclamations against tilting were as little regarded in those times, as the laws against duelling are in these. This did not escape the discernment of our poet, who easily perceived that inveterate opinions must be attacked by other weapons, besides proclamations and censures; he accordingly made use of the keen one of ridicule. With this view he has here introduced with admirable humour a parcel of clowns, imitating all the solemnities of the Tourney. Here we have the regular challenge — the appointed day — the lady for the prize — the formal preparations — the display of armour — the scutcheons and devices — the oaths taken on entering the lists — the various accidents of the encounter — the victor leading off the prize — and the magnificent feasting — with all the other solemn fopperies that usually attended the pompous Turnament. And how acutely the sharpness of the author’s humour must have been felt in those days, we may learn from what we can perceive of its keenness now, when time has so much blunted the edge of its ridicule. The Turnament of Tottenham was first printed from an ancient manuscript in 1631, 4to., by the Rev. Wilhelm Bedwell, rector of Tottenham, who was one of the translators of the Bible. He tells us, it was written by Gilbert Pilkington, thought to have been some time parson of the same parish, and author of another piece, intitled, Passio Domini Jesu Christi. Bedwell, who was eminently skilled in the oriental and other languages, appears to have been but little conversant with the ancient writers of his own; and he so little entered into the spirit of the poem he was publishing, that he contends for its being a serious narrative of a real event, and thinks it must have been written before the time of Edward III. because Turnaments were prohibited in that reign. “I do verily believe,” says he, “that this Turnament was acted before this proclamation of King Edward. For how durst any to attempt to do that, although in sport, which was so straightly forbidden, both by the civill and ecclesiasticall power? For although they fought not with lances, yet, as our author sayth, ‘It was no childrens game.’ And what would have become of him, thinke you, which should have slayne another in this manner of jesting? Would he not, trow you, have been hang’d for it in earnest? yea, and have bene buried like a dogge?” It is, however, well known that Turnaments were in use down to the reign of Elizabeth. In the former editions of this work, Bedwell’s copy was reprinted here, with some few conjectural emendations; but as Bedwell seemed to have reduced the orthography at least, if not the phraseology, to the standard of his own time, it was with the greatest pleasure that the Editor was informed of an ancient manuscript copy preserved in the Museum [Harl. MSS. 5396.] which appeared to have been transcribed in the reign of King Henry VI. about 1456. This obliging information the Editor owed to the friendship of Thomas Tyrwhitt, Esq. and he has chiefly followed that more authentic transcript, improved however by some readings from Bedwell’s book.

OF all thes kene conquerours to carpe it were kynde; Of fele feyztyng folk ferly we fynde, The Turnament of Totenham have we in mynde; It were harme sych hardynes were holden byhynde, In story as we rede Of Hawkyn, of Herry, Of Tomkyn, of Terry, Of them that were dughty And stalworth in dede.

It befel in Totenham on a dere day, Ther was mad a shurtyng be the hy-way: Theder corn al the men of the contray, Of Hyssylton, of Hy-gate, and of Hakenay. And all the swete swynkers. Ther hopped Hawkyn, Ther daunsed Dawkyn, Ther trumped Tomkyn, And all were trewe drynkers.

Tyl the day was gon and evyn-song past, That thay schuld reckyn ther scot and ther counts cast Perkyn the potter into the press past, And sayd, “Randol the refe, a dozter thou hast, Tyb the dere: Therfor faine wyt wold I, Whych of all thys bachelery Were best worthye To wed hur to hys fere.”

Upstyrt thos gadelyngys wyth ther lang staves, And sayd, “Randol the refe, lo! thys lad raves; Boldely amang us thy dozter he craves; We er rycher men than he, and mor gode haves Of cattell and corn;” Then sayd Perkyn, “To Tybbe I have hyzt That I schal be alway redy in my ryzt, If that it schuld be thys day sevenyzt, Or elles zet to morn.”

Then sayd Randolfe the refe, “Ever be he waryd, That about thys carpyng lenger wold be taryd: I wold not my dozter, that scho were miscaryd, But at hur most worschip I wold scho were maryd; Therfor a Turnament schal begynne Thys day sevenyzt,— Wyth a flayl for to fyzt: And he, that is most of might Schal brouke hur wyth wynne.

“Whoso berys hym best in the turnament, Hym schal be granted the gre be the comon assent, For to wynne my dozter wyth dughtynesse of dent, And Coppell[3] my brode-henne that was brozt out of Kent: And my dunnyd kowe For no spens wyl I spare, For no cattell wyl I care, He schal have my gray mare, And my spottyd sowe.”

There was many a bold lad ther bodyes to bede: Than thay toke thayr leve, and homward they zede; And all the weke afterward graythed ther wede, Tyll it come to the day, that thay suld do ther dede. They armed ham in mitts Thay set on ther nollys, For to kepe ther pollys, Gode blake bollys, For bateryng of bats.

Thay sowed tham in schepeskynnes, for thay schuld not brest: Ilk-on toke a blak hat, insted of a crest: A basket or a panyer before on ther brest, And a flayle in ther hande; for to fyght press, Furth gon thay fare: Ther was kyd mekyl fors, Who schuld best fend hys cors: He that had no gode hors, He gat hym[4] a mare.

Sych another gadryng have I not sene oft, When all the gret company com rydand to the croft: Tyb on a gray mare was set upon loft On a sek ful of fedyrs for scho schuld syt soft, And led ‘till the gap. For cryeng of the men Forther wold not Tyb then, Tyl scho had hur brode hen Set in hur Lap.

A gay gyrdyl Tyb had on, borowed for the nonys, And a garland on hur hed ful of rounde bonys, And a broche on hut brest ful of sapphyre stonys, Wyth the holy-rode tokenyng, was wrotyn for the nonys; For no spendyngs thay had spared. When joly Gyb saw hur thare, He gyrd so hys gray mare, That scho lete a fowkyn fare At the rereward.

“I wow to God,” quoth Herry, “I schal not lefe behynde, May I mete wyth Bernard on Bayard the blynde, Ich man kepe hym out of my wynde, For whatsoever that he be, before me I fynde, I wot I schall hym greve.” “Wele sayd,” quoth Hawkyn. “And I wow,” quoth Dawkyn, “May I mete wyth Tomkyn, Hys flayle I schal hym reve.”

“I make a vow,” quoth Hud, “Tyb, son schal thou se, Whych of all thys bachelery granted is the gre: I schal scomfet thaym all, for the love of the; In what place so I come thay schal have dout of me, Myn armes ar so clere: I bere a reddyl, and a rake, Poudred wyth a brenand drake, And three cantells of a cake In ycha cornere.”

“I vow to God,” quoth Hawkyn, “yf I have the gowt, Al that I fynde in the felde thrustand here aboute, Have I twyse or thryes redyn thurgh the route, In ycha stede ther thay me se, of me thay schal have doute, When I begyn to play. I make avowe that I ne schall, But yf Tybbe wyl me call, Or I be thryes don fall, Ryzt onys com away.”

Then sayd Terry, and swore be hys crede; “Saw thou never yong boy forther hys body bede, For when thay fyzt fastest and most ar in drede, I schall take Tyb by the hand, and hur away lede: I am armed at the full; In myn armys I bere wele A doz trogh, and a pele, A sadyll wythout a panell, Wyth a fles of woll.”

“I make a vow,” quoth Dudman, and swor be the stra, “Whyls me ys left my mare, thou gets hurr not swa; For scho ys wele schapen, and lizt as the rae, Ther is no capul in thys myle befor hur schal ga; Sche wul ne nozt begyle: Sche wyl me bere, I dar say, On a lang somerys day, Fro Hyssylton to Hakenay, Nort other half myle.”

“I make a vow,” quoth Perkyn, “thow speks of cold rost, I schal wyrch wyselyer withouten any bost: Five of the best capulys, that ar in thys ost, I wot I schal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost, And here I grant thaym Tybbe. Wele boyes here ys he, That wyl fyzt, and not fle, For I am in my jolyte, Wyth so forth, Gybbe.”

When thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie, Wyth flayles, and hornes, and trumpes mad of tre: Ther were all the bachelerys of that contre; Thay were dyzt in aray, as thaymselfes wold be; Thayr baners were ful bryzt Of an old rotten fell; The cheveron of a plow-mell; And the schadow of a bell, Poudred wyth the mone lyzt.

I wot yt was no chylder game, whan thay togedyr met, When icha freke in the feld on hys feloy bet, And layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let, And foght ferly fast, tyll ther horses swet, And few wordys spoken. Ther were flayles al to slatred, Ther were scheldys al to flatred, Bollys and dysches all to schatred, And many hedys brokyn.

There was clynkyng of cart-sadelys, and clatteryng of cannes; Of fele frekys in the feld brokyn were their fannes; Of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum the braynpannes, And yll were thay besene, or thay went thanes Wyth swyppyng of swepyls: Thay were so wery for-foght, Thay myzt not fyzt mare oloft, But creped about in the croft, As thay were croked crepyls.

Perkyn was so wery, that he began to loute; “Help, Hud, I am ded in thys ylk rowte: An hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute! That I may lyztly come of my noye oute, For no cost wyl I spare.” He styrt up as a snayle, And hent a capul be the tayle, And reft Dawkin hys flayle, And wan there a mare.

Perkyn wan five, and Hud wan twa Glad and blythe thay ware, that they had don sa; Thay wold have tham to Tyb, and present hur with tha The Capulls were so wery, that thay myzt not ga, But styl gon thay stond. “Alas!” quoth Hudde, “my joye I lese; Mee had lever then a ston of chese, That dere Tyb had al these, And wyst it were my sond.”

Perkyn turnyd hym about in that ych thrang, Among those wery boyes he wrest and he wrang; He threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast tham amang, When he saw Tyrry away with Tyb fang, And after hym ran; Off his horse he hym drogh, And gaf hym of hys flayl inogh: “We te he!” quoth Tyb, and lugh, “Ye er a dughty man.”

Thus thay tugged, and rugged, tyl yt was nere nyzt: All the wyves of Tottenham came to se that syzt Wyth wyspes, and kexis, and ryschys there lyzt, To fetch hom ther husbandes, that were tham trouth plyzt; And sum brozt gret harwos, Ther husbandes hom to fetch, Sum on dores, and sum on hech, Sum on hyrdyllys, and some on crech, And sum on whele-barows.

They gaderyd Perkyn about, on everych syde, And grant hym ther the gre, the more was hys pryde: Tyb and he wyth gret mirth, hom ward con thay ryde, And were al nyzt togedyr, tyl the morn tyde; And thay to church went: So wele hys nedys he has sped, That dere Tyb he hath wed; The prayse-folks that hur led, Were of the Turnament.

To that ylk fest com many for the nones; Some come hyphalte, and sum trippand thither on the stonys Sum a star in hys hand, and sum two at onys; Of sum where the hedes broken, of some the schulder bonys; With sorrow came thay thedyr. Wo was Hawkyn, wo was Herry, Wo was Tomkyn, wo was Terry, And so was all the bachelary, When thay met togedyr.

[5] At that fest thay wer servyd with a ryche aray, Every five and fyve had a cokenay; And so thay sat in jolyte al the lung day; And at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray: Mekyl myrth was them among; In every corner of the hous Was melody delycyous For to here precyus Of six menys song.[6]

NOTE

1. It has been thought that this ballad is a burlesque upon the old feudal custom of marrying an heiress to a knight who should vanquish all his opponents, at a solemn assembly holden for that purpose. (See Gentleman’s Magazine for July, 1794, p.613)— Editor. 2. See [Mr. Hurd’s] Letters on Chivalry, 8vo. 1762. Mémoire de la Chevalerie, par M. de la Curne des Palais, 1759, 2 tom. 12mo. &c. 3. “Coppeld.” We still use the phrase “a copple-crowned hen.” 4. “He borrowed him.” PC. 5. In the former impressions, this concluding stanza was only given from Bedwell’s printed edition; but it is here copied from the old Manuscript, wherein it has been since found separated from the rest of the poem by several pages of a money-account and other heterogeneous matter. 6. “Six-men’s song,” i.e. a song for six voices. So Shakspeare uses Three-man song-men, in his Winter’s Tale, act iii. sc. 3, to denote men that could sing catches composed for three voices. Of this sort are Weelkes’s Madrigals mentioned below, Book v. Song 9. So again Shakspeare has three-men beetle; i.e. a beetle or rammer worked by three men. 2 Hen. IV. act. i. sc. 3.

V. For the Victory at Agincourt.

That our plain and martial ancestors could wield their swords much better than their pens, will appear from the following homely Rhymes, which were drawn up by some poet laureat of those days to celebrate the immortal victory gained at Agincourt, Oct. 25, 1415. This song or hymn is given merely as a curiosity, and is printed from a manuscript copy in the Pepys Collection, vol. i. folio. It is there accompanied with the musical notes.

Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria! OWRE kynge went forth to Normandy, With grace and myzt of chivalry; The God for hym wrouzt marvelously, Wherefore Englonde may calle, and cry Deo gratias: Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.

He sette a sege, the sothe for to say, To Harflue toune with ryal aray; That toune he wan, and made a fray, That Fraunce shall rywe tyl domes day. Deo gratias, &c.

Then went owre kynge, with alle his oste, Thorowe Fraunce for all the Frenshe boste; He spared for for drede of leste, ne most, Tyl he come to Agincourt coste. Deo gratias, &c.

Than for sothe that knyzt comely In Agincourt feld he fauzt manly, Thorow grace of God most myzty He had bothe the felde, and the victory: Deo gratias, &c.

Ther dukys, and erlys, lorde and barone, Were take, and slayne, and that wel sone, And some were ledde in to Lundone With joye, and merthe, and grete renone. Deo gratias, &c.

Now gracious God he save owre kynge, His peple, and all his wel wyllynge, Gef him gode lyfe, and gode endynge, That we with merth mowe savely synge Deo gratias: Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.

VI. The Not-Browne Mayd.

The sentimental beauties of this ancient ballad have always recommended it to readers of taste, notwithstanding the rust of antiquity which obscures the style and expression. Indeed, if it had no other merit than the having afforded the ground-work to Prior’s Henry and Emma, this ought to preserve it from oblivion. That we are able to give it in so correct a manner, is owing to the great care and exactness of the accurate editor of the Prolusions, 8vo. 1760; who has formed the text from two copies found in two different editions of Arnolde’s Chronicle, a book supposed to be first printed about 1521. From the copy in the Prolusions the following is printed, with a few additional improvements gathered from another edition of Arnolde’s book[1] preserved in the Public Library at Cambridge. All the various readings of this copy will be found here, either received into the text, or noted in the margin. The references to the Prolusions will shew where they occur. In our ancient folio manuscript, described in the preface, is a very corrupt and defective copy of this ballad, which yet afforded a great improvement in one passage.— See ver. 310. It has been a much easier task to settle the text of this poem than to ascertain its date. The ballad of The Nut Browne Mayd was first revived in The Muses’ Mercury for June, 1707, 4to, being prefaced with a little “Essay on the old English Poets and Poetry:” in which this poem is concluded to be “near 300 years old,” upon reasons which, though they appear inconclusive to us now, were sufficient to determine Prior, who there first met with it. However, this opinion had the approbation of the learned Wanley, an excellent judge of ancient books. For that whatever related to the reprinting of this old piece was referred to Wanley, appears from two letters of Prior’s preserved in the British Museum [Harl. MSS. No. 3777]. The editor of the Prolusions thinks it cannot be older than the year 1500, because, in Sir Thomas More’s tale of The Serjeant, &c. which was written about that time, there appears a sameness of rhythmus and orthography, and a very near affinity of words and phrases, with those of this ballad. But this reasoning is not conclusive; for if Sir Thomas More made this ballad his model, as is very likely, that will account for the sameness of measure, and in some respect for that of words and phrases, even though this had been written long before; and, as for the orthography, it is well known that the old printers reduced that of most books to the standard of their own times. Indeed, it is hardly probable that an antiquary like Arnolde would have inserted it among his historical collections, if it had been then a modern piece; at least, he would have been apt to have named its author. But to shew how little can be inferred from a resemblance of rhythmus or style, the Editor of these volumes has in his ancient folio manuscript a poem on the victory of Flodden-field, written in the same numbers, with the same alliterations, and in orthography, phraseology, and style, nearly resembling the Visions of Pierce Plowman, which are yet known to have been composed above 160 years before that battle. As this poem is a great curiosity, we shall give a few of the introductory lines:

“Grant, gracious God, grant me this time, That I may say, or I cease, thy selven to please; And Mary his mother, that maketh this world; And all the seemlie saints, that sitten in heaven; I will carpe of kings, that conquered full wide, That dwelled in this land, that was alyes noble; Henry the seventh, that soveraigne lord, &c.”

With regard to the date of the following ballad, we have taken a middle course, neither placed it so high as Wanley and Prior, nor quite so low as the editor of the Prolusions: we should have followed the latter in dividing every other line into two, but that the whole would then have taken up more room than could be allowed it in this volume.

“BE it ryght, or wrong, these men among On women do complayne;[2] Affyrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vayne, To love them wele; for never a dele They love a man agayne: For late a man do what he can, Theyr favour to attayne, Yet, yf a newe do them persue, Theyr first true lover than Laboureth for nought; for from her thought He is a banyshed man.”

“I say nat nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayd That womens faith is, as who sayth, All utterly decayd; But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnčsse In this case might be layd, That they love true, and continue Recorde the Not-browne Mayde: Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his mone, Wolde nat depart; for in her hart She loved but hym alone.”

“Than betwaine us late us discus What was all the manere Betwayne them two: we wyll also Tell all the payne, and fere, That she was in. Nowe I begyn, So that ye me answčre; Wherfore, all ye, that present be, I pray you, gyve an ere. I am the knyght: I come by nyght, As secret as I can; Sayinge, “Alas! thus standeth the case, I am a banyshed man.’”

SHE

“And I your wyll for to fulfyll In this wyll nat refuse; Trustying to shewe, in wordčs fewe, That men have an yll use (To theyr own shame) women to blame, And causelesse them accuse; Therfore to you I answere nowe, All women to excuse, Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you, tell anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“It standeth so; a dede is do Whereof grete harme shall growe: My destiny is for to dy A shamefull deth, I trowe; Or elles to fle: the one must be. None other way I knowe, But to withdrawe as an outlawe, And take me to my bowe. Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true None other rede I can: For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, That changeth as the mone! My somers day in lusty May Is derked before the none. I here you say, farewell: Nay, nay We depart nat so sone. Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go? Alas! what have ye done? All my welfare to sorrowe and care Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“I can beleve, it shall you greve, And somewhat you dystrayne: But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde Within a day or twayne Shal sone aslake; and ye shall take Comfort to you agayne. Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought, Your labour were in vayne. And thus I do; and pray you to As hartely, as I can; For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Now, syth that ye have shewed to me The secret of your mynde, I shall be playne to you agayne, Lyke as ye shall me fynde. Syth it is so, that ye wyll go, I wolle not leve behynde; Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd Was to her love unkynde: Make you redy, for so am I, Allthough it were anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“Yet I you rede to take good hede What men wyll thynke, and say: Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde, That ye be gone away, Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, In grene wode you to play; And that ye myght from your delight No lenger make delay. Rather than ye sholde thus for me Be called an yll woman, Yet wolde I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Though it be songe of old and yonge, That I sholde be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large In hurtynge of my name; For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love It is devoyd of shame; In your dystresse, and hevynesse, To part with you, the same: And sure all tho, that do not so, True lovers are they none; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“I counceyle you, remember howe, It is no maydens lawe, Nothynge to dout, but to renne out To wode with an outlawe For ye must there in your hand bere A bowe, redy to drawe; And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve, Ever in drede and awe; Wherby to you grete harme myght groove Yet had I lever than, That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“I thinke nat nay; but as ye say, It is no maydens lore: But love may make me for your sake, As I have sayd before, To come on fote, to hunt, and shote To gete us mete in store; For so that I your company May have, I aske no more: From which to part, it maketh my hart As colde as ony stone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

HE

For an outlawe this is the lawe, That men hym take and bynde; Without pytč, hanged to be, And waver with the wynde. If I had nede, (as God forbede!) What rescous coude ye fynde? Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe For fere wold drawe behynde: And no mervayle; for lytell avayle Were in your counceyle than: Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Ryght wele knowe ye, that women be But feble for to fyght; No womanhede it is indede To be bolde as a knyght: Yet, in such fere yf that ye were With enemyes day or nyght, I wolde withstand, with bowe in hande, To greve them as I myght, And you to save; as women have From deth men many one: For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“Yet take good hede; for ever I drede That ye coude nat sustayne The thornie wages, the depe valčies, The snowe, the frost, the rayne, The colde, the hete: for dry, or wete, We must lodge on the playne; And, us above, none other rofe But a brake bush, or twayne Which sone sholde greve you, I belčve; And ye wolde gladly than That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Syth I have here bene partynčre With you of joy and blysse, I must also parte of your wo Endure, as reson is: Yet am I sure of one plesůre; And, shortely, it is this: That, where ye be, me semeth, pardč, I coude nat fare amysse. Without more speche, I you beseche That we were sone agone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, Whan ye have lust to dyne, There shall no mete be for you gete, Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne. No shetčs clene, to lye betwene, Made of threde and twyne; None other house, but leves and bowes, To cover your hed and myne, O myne harte swete, this evyll dyčte Sholde make you pale and wan; Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Amonge the wylde dere, such an archere, As men say that ye be, Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plente: And water clere of the ryvere Shall be full swete to me; With which in hele I shall ryght wele Endure, as ye shall see; And, or we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“Lo yet, before, ye must do more, Yf ye wyll go with me: As cut your here up by your ere, Your kyrtle by the kne; With bowe in hande, for to withstande Your enemyes, yf nede be: And this same nyght before day-lyght, To wode-warde wyll I fle. Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill, Do it shortely as ye can: Els wyll I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“I shall as nowe do more for you Than longeth to womanhede; To shorte my here, a bowe to bere, To shote in tyme of nede. O my swete mother, before all other For you I have most drede: But nowe, adue I must ensue, Where fortune doth me lede. All this make ye: Now let us fle; The day cometh fast upon; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go, And I shall tell ye why,— Your appetyght is to be lyght Of love, I wele espy: For, lyke as ye have sayed to me, In lyke wyse hardely Ye wolde answčre whosoever it were, In way of company. It is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde; And so is a womŕn. Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Yf ye take hede, it is no nede Such wordes to say by me; For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed, Or I you loved, pardč: And though that I of auncestry A barons daughter be, Yet have you proved howe I you loved A squyer of lowe degre; And ever shall, whatso befall; To dy therefore[3] anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“A barons chylde to be begylde! It were a cursed dede, To be felŕwe with an outlawe! Almighty God forbede! Yet beter were, the pore squyčre Alone to forest yede, Than ye sholde say another day, That, by my cursed dede, Ye were betray’d: Wherfore, good mayd, The best rede that I can, Is, that I to the grene wode go Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thyng you upbraid; But yf ye go, and leve me so, Than have ye me betrayd. Remember you wele, bowe that ye dele; For, yf ye, as ye sayd, Be so unkynde, to leve behynde, Your love, the Not-browne Mayd, Trust me truly, that I shall dy Sone after ye be gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent; For in the forest nowe I have purvayed me of a mayd, Whom I love more than you; Another fayrere, than ever ye were, I dare it wele avowe; And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe With other, as I trowe: It were myne ese, to live in pese; So wyll I, yf I can; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go Alone, a banyshed man.”

SHE

“Though in the wode I undyrstode Ye had a paramour, All this may nought remove my thought, But that I wyll be your: And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde And courteys every hour; Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll Commaunde me to my power: For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, Of them I wolde be one; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“Myne owne dere love, I se the prove That ye be kynde, and true; Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, The best that ever I knewe. Be mery and glad, be no more sad, The case is chaunged newe; For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, Ye sholde have cause to rewe. Be nat dismayed; whatsoever I sayd To you, whan I began; I wyall nat to the grene wode go, I am no banyshed man.”

SHE

“These tydings be more gladd to me, Than to be made a quene, Yf I were sure they sholde endure: But it is often sene, Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke The wordčs on the spleen. Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele from me, I wene: Than were the case worse than it was, And I more wo-begone: For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.”

HE

“Ye shall nat nede further to drede; I wyll nat dysparŕge You, (God defend!) syth ye descend Of so grete a lynŕge. Nowe undyrstande; to Westmarlande, Which is myne herytage, I wyll you brynge; and with a rynge, By way of maryage I wyll you take, and lady make, As shortely as I can: Thus have you won an erlys son, And not a banyshed man.”

AUTHOR

Here may ye se, that women be In love, meke, kynde, and stable: Late never man reprove them than, Or call them variable; But, rather, pray God, that we may To them be comfortable; Which sometyme proveth such as he loveth, Yf they be charytable. For syth men wolde that women sholde Be meke to them each one; Moche more ought they to God obey, And serve but hym alone.

NOTES

1. This (which my friend Mr. Farmer supposes to be the first edition) is in folio; the folios are numbered at the bottom of the leaf: the song begins at folio 75. The poem has since been collated with a very fine copy that was in the collection of the late James West, Esq. 2. My friend, Mr. Farmer, proposes to read the first lines thus as a Latinism:

Be it right or wrong, ‘tis men among, On women to complayne.

3. i.e. for this cause; though I were to die for having loved you..

VII. A Balet by the Earl Rivers.

The amiable light in which the character of Anthony Widville, the gallant Earl Rivers, has been placed by the elegant author of the Catalogue of Noble Writers, interests us in whatever fell from his pen. It is presumed therefore that the insertion of this little sonnet will be pardoned, though it should not be found to have much poetic merit. It is the only original poem known of that nobleman’s: his more voluminous works being only translations. And if we consider that it was written during his cruel confinement in Pomfret castle a short time before his execution in 1483, it gives us a fine picture of the composure and steadiness with which this stout earl beheld his approaching fate. This ballad we owe to Rouse, a contemporary historian, who seems to have copied it from the Earl’s own hand writing. In tempore, says this writer, incarcerationis apud Pontem-fractum edidit unum Balet in anglicis, ut mihi monstratum est, quod subsequitur sub his verbis: Sum what musyng, &c. Rossi — Hist. 8vo. 2d edit. p. 213.) In Rouse the second stanza, &c. is imperfect, but the defects are here supplied from a more perfect copy printed in “Ancient Songs, from the Time of King Henry III. to the Revolution,” page 87. This little piece, which perhaps ought rather to have been printed in stanzas of eight short lines, is written in imitation of a poem of Chaucer’s that will be found in Urry’s Edit. 1721, p. 555, beginning thus:

“Alone walkyng, In thought plainyng, And sore sighying, All desolate. My remembrying Of my livying My death wishyng Bothe erly and late.

“Infortunate Is so my fate That wrote ye what, Out of mesure My life I hate; Thus desperate In such pore estate, Doe I endure,” &c.

SUMWHAT musyng, And more mornyng, In remembring The unstydfastnes This world being Of such whelyng, Me contrarieng, What may I gesse?

I fere dowtles, Remediles, Is now to sese My wofull chaunce. [For unkyndness, Withouten less, And no redress, Me doth avaunce,

With displeasaunce, To my grevaunce, And no suraunce Of remedy.] Lo in this traunce, Now in substaunce, Such is my dawnce, wyllyng to dye.

Me thynks truly, Bowndyn am I, And that gretly, To be content: Seyng playnly, Fortune doth wry All contrary From myn entent.

My lyff was lent Me to on intent, Hytt is ny spent. Welcome fortune! But I ne went Thus to be shent, But sho hit ment; Such is her won.

VIII. Cupid’s Assault: by Lord Vaux.

The reader will think that infant poetry grew apace between the times of Rivers and Vaux, though nearly contemporaries; if the following song is the composition of that Sir Nicholas (afterwards Lord) Vaux, who was the shining ornament of the court of Henry VII. and died in the year 1523. And yet to this Lord it is attributed by Puttenham in his Art of Eng. Poesie, 1589. 4to. a writer commonly well informed: take the passage at large. “In this figure [Counterfait Action] the Lord Nicholas Vaux, a noble gentleman and much delighted in vulgar making, and a man otherwise of no great learning, but having herein a marvelous facilitie, made a dittie representing the Battayle and Assault of Cupide, so excellently well, as for the gallant and propre application of his fiction in every part, I cannot choose but set downe the greatest part of his ditty, for in truth it cannot be amended. ‘When Cupid scaled,’ &c.” p. 200. For a farther account of Nicholas Lord Vaux, see Mr. Walpole’s Noble Authors, Vol. i. The following copy is printed from the first edition of Surrey’s Poems, 1557, 4to. See another song of Lord Vaux’s, Book ii. No. 2.

WHEN Cupide scaled first the fort, Wherein my hart lay wounded sore; The batry was of such a sort, That I must yelde or die therfore.

There sawe I Love upon the wall, How he his banner did display: “Alarme, alarme,” he gan to call: And bad his souldiours kepe aray.

The armes, the which that Cupide bare, Were pearced hartes with teares besprent, In silver and sable to declare The stedfast love, he alwayes ment.

There might you se his band all drest In colours like to white and blacke, With powder and with pelletes prest To bring the fort to spoile and sacke.

Good-wyll, the maister of the shot, Stode in the rampire brave and proude, For spence of pouder he spared not “Assault! assault!” to crye aloude.

There might you heare the cannons rore; Eche pece discharged a lovers loke; Which had the power to rent, and tore In any place whereas they toke.

And even with the trompettes sowne The scaling ladders were up set, And Beautie walked up and downe, With bow in hand, and arrowes whet.

Then first Desire began to scale, And shrouded him under his targe; As one the worthiest of them all, And aptest for to geve the charge.

Then pushed souldiers with their pikes, And halberdes with handy strokes; The argabushe in fleshe it lightes, And duns the ayre with misty smokes.

And, as it is the souldiers use When shot and powder gins to want, I hanged up my flagge of truce, And pleaded up for my livčs grant.

When Fancy thus had made her breche, And Beauty entred with her band, With bag and baggage, sely wretch, I yelded into Beauties hand.

Then Beautie bad to blow retrete, And every souldier to retire, And mercy wyll’d with spede to fet Me captive bound as prisoner.

Madame, quoth I, sith that this day Hath served you at all assayes, I yeld to you without delay Here of the fortresse all the kayes.

And sith that I have ben the marke, At whom you shot at with your eye; Nedes must you with your handy warke, Or salve my sore, or let me die.

- Since the foregoing song was first printed off, reasons have occurred, which incline me to believe that Lord Vaux the poet was not the Lord Nicholas Vaux, who died in 1523, but rather a successor of his in the title. For in the first place it is remarkable that all the old writers mention Lord Vaux, the poet, as contemporary or rather posterior to Sir Thomas Wyat and the Earl of Surrey, neither of which made any figure till long after the death of the first Lord Nicholas Vaux. Thus Puttenham, in his Art of English Poesie, 1589, in p. 48, haying named Skelton, adds, “In the latter end of the same kings raigne [Henry VIII.] sprong up a new company of courtly makers [poets], of whom Sir Thomas Wyat the elder, and Henry Earl of Surrey, were the two chieftaines, who having travailed into Italie, and there tasted the sweet and stately measures and stile of the Italian poesie . . . greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poesie . . . In the same time, or not long after was the Lord Nicholas Vaux, a man of much facilitie in vulgar makings.[1]”— Webbe in his Discourse of English Poetrie, 1586, ranges them in the following order,—”The Earl of Surrey, the Lord Vaux, Norton, Bristow.” And Gascoigne, in the place quoted in this work (b. ii. No. 2.) mentions Lord Vaux after Surrey. Again, the style and measure of Lord Vaux’s pieces seem too refined and polished for the reign of Henry VII. and rather resemble the smoothness and harmony of Surrey and Wyat, than the rude metre of Skelton and Hawes; but what puts the matter out of all doubt, in the British Museum is a copy of his poem, I lothe that I did love, (vid. book ii. ubi supra) with this title, “A dyttye or sonet made by the Lord Vaus, in the time of the noble Quene Marye, representing the image of Death.”— Harl. MSS. No. 1703, § 25.

It is evident then that Lord Vaux the poet was not he that flourished in the reign of Henry VII. but either his son, or grandson: and yet, according to Dugdale’s Baronage, the former was named Thomas, and the latter William: but this difficulty is not great, for none of the old writers mention the Christian name of the poetic Lord Vaux,[2] except Puttenham; and it is more likely that he might he mistaken in that lord’s name, than in the time in which he lived, who was so nearly his contemporary. Thomas Lord Vaux, of Harrowden in Northamptonshire, was summoned to parliament in 1531. When he died does not appear; but he probably lived till the latter end of Queen Mary’s reign, since his son William was not summoned to parliament till the last year of that reign, in 1558. This lord died in 1595. See Dugdale, vol. ii. p. 304. Upon the whole I am inclined to believe that Lord Thomas was the poet.

NOTES

1. i.e. Compositions in English. 2. In the Paradise of Dainty Devises, 1556, he is called simply “Lord Vaux the elder.”

IX. Sir Aldingar.

This old fabulous legend is given from the Editor’s folio manuscript with conjectural emendations, and the insertion of some additional stanzas to supply and complete the story. It has been suggested to the Editor that the author of this poem seems to have had in his eye the story of Gunhilda, who is sometimes called Eleanor, and was married to the Emperor (here called King) Henry.

Our king he kept a false stewŕrde, Sir Aldingar they him call; A falser steward than he was one, Servde not in bower nor hall.

He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, Her deere worshippe to betraye: Our queene she was a good womŕn, And evermore said him naye.

Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, With her hee was never content, Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, In a fyer to have her brent.

There came a lazar to the kings gate, A lazar both blinde and lame: He tooke the lazar upon his backe, Him on the queenes bed has layne.

“Lye still, lazar, wheras thou lyest, Looke thou goe not hence away; Ile make thee a whole man and a sound In two howers of the day.”[1]

Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, And hyed him to our king: “If I might have grace, as I have space, Sad tydings I could bring.”

“Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, Saye on the soothe to mee.” “Our queene hath chosen a new new love, And shee will have none of thee.

“If shee had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had beene her shame; But she hath chose her a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame.”

“If this be true, thou Aldingar, The tyding thou tellest to me, Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, Rich both of golde and fee.

“But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, As God nowe grant it bee! Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, Shall hang on the gallows tree.”

He brought our king to the queenes chambčr, And opend to him the dore. “A lodlye love,” King Harry says, “For our queene dame Elinore!

“If thou were a man, as thou art none, Here on my sword thoust dye; But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, And there shalt thou hang on hye.”

Forth then hyed our king, I wysse, And an angry man was hee; And soone he found Queene Elinore, That bride so bright of blee.

“Now God you save, our queene, madame, And Christ you save and see; Heere you have chosen a newe newe love, And you will have none of mee.

“If you had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had been your shame: But you have chose you a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame.

“Therfore a fyer there shalt be built, And brent all shalt thou bee.” “Now out alacke!” said our comly queene, “Sir Aldingar’s false to mee.

“Now out alacke!” sayd our comlye queene, “My heart with griefe will brast. I had thought swevens had never been true I have proved them true at last.

“I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, In my bed wheras I laye, I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast Had carryed my crowne awaye;

“My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, And all my faire head-geere: And he wold worrye me with his tush And to his nest y-beare

“Saving there came a little gray hawke, A merlin him they call, Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, That dead he downe did fall.

“Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, A battell wold I prove, To fight with that traitor Aldingar, Att him I cast my glove.

“But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, My liege, grant me a knight To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar, To maintaine me in my right.”

“Now forty dayes I will give thee To seeke thee a knight therin: If thou find not a knight in forty dayes Thy bodye it must brenn.”

Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, By north and south bedeene But never a champion colde she find, Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.

Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, Noe helpe there might be had; Many a teare shed our comelye queene And aye her hart was sad.

Then came one of the queenes damsčlles, And knelt upon her knee, “Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame. I trust yet helpe may be:

“And here I will make mine avowe, And with the same me binde; That never will I return to thee, Till I some helpe may finde.”

Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye Oer hill and dale about: But never a champion colde she finde, Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.

And nowe the daye drewe on a pace, When our good queene must dye All woe-begone was that faire damselle, When she found no helpe was nye.

All woe-begone was that faire damselle, And the salt teares fell from her eye: When lo! as she rode by a rivers side, She met with a tinye boye.

A tinye boye she mette, God wot, All clad in mantle of golde; He seemed noe more in mans likenesse, Then a childe of four yeere old.

“Why grieve you, damselle faire,” he sayd, “And what doth cause you moane?” The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, But fast she pricked on.

“Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle And greete thy queene from mee: When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.

“Bid her remember what she dreamt In her bedd, wheras shee laye; How when the grype and grimly beast Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,

“Even then there came the little gray hawke, And saved her from his clawes: Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, For heaven will fende her cause.”

Back then rode that faire damselle, And her hart it lept for glee: And when she told her gracious dame A gladd woman then was shee:

But when the appointed day was come, No helpe appeared nye: Then woeful, woeful was her hart, And the teares stood in her eye.

And nowe a fyer was built of wood; And a stake was made of tree; And now Queene Elinor forth was led, A sorrowful sight to see.

Three times the herault he waved his hand, And three times spake on hye: “Giff any good knight will fende this dame, Come forth, or shee must dye.”

No knight stood forth, no knight there came, No helpe appeared nye: And now the fyer was lighted up, Queen Elinor she must dye.

And now the fyer was lighted up, As hot as hot might bee; When riding upon a little white steed, The tinye boy they see.

“Away with that stake, away with those brands, And loose our comelye queene: I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, And prove him a traitor keene.”

Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar, But when he saw the chylde, He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, And weened he had been beguylde.

“Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, And eyther fighte or flee; I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, Thoughe I am so small to see.”

The boy pulld forth a well good sworde So gilt it dazzled the ee; The first stroke stricken at Aldingar, Smote off his leggs by the knee.

“Stand up, stand up, thou false traitňr, And fight upon thy feete, For and thou thrive, as thou begin’st, Of height wee shall be meete.”

“A priest, a priest”, sayes Aldingar, “While I am a man alive. A priest, a priest,” sayes Aldingar, “Me for to houzle and shrive.

“I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, Bot shee wolde never consent; Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge In a fyer to have her brent.

“There came a lazar to the kings gates, A lazar both blind and lame: I tooke the lazar upon my backe, And on her bedd had him layne.

“Then ranne I to our comlye king, These tidings sore to tell. But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar, Falsing never doth well.

“Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, The short time I must live.” “Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, As freely I forgive.”

“Here take thy queene, our king Harrye, And love her as thy life, For never had a king in Christentye, A truer and fairer wife.”

King Henrye ran to claspe his queene, And loosed her full sone: Then turnd to look for the tinye boye; —The boye was vanisht and gone.

But first he had touchd the lazar man, And stroakt him with his hand: The lazar under the gallowes tree All whole and sounde did stand.

The lazar under the gallowes tree Was comelye, straight and tall; King Henrye made him his head stewarde To wayte withinn his hall.

NOTES

1. He probably insinuates that the king should heal him by his power of touching for the King’s Evil.

X. The Gaberlunzie Man A SCOTTISH BALLAD

Tradition informs us that the author of this song was King James V. of Scotland. This prince (whose character for wit and libertinism bears a great resemblance to that of his gay successor Charles II.) was noted for strolling about his dominions in disguise,[1] and for his frequent gallantries with country girls. Two adventures of this kind he hath celebrated with his own pen, viz. in this ballad of “The Gaberlunzie Man;” and in another intitled “The Jolly Beggar,” beginning thus:

“Thair was a jollie beggar, and a begging he was boun, And he tuik up his quarters into a land’art toun. Fa, la, la,” &c.

It seems to be the latter of these ballads (which was too licentious to be admitted into this collection) that is meant in the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors,[2] where the ingenious writer remarks, That there is something very ludicrous in the young woman’s distress when she thought her first favour had been thrown away upon a beggar. Bishop Tanner has attributed to James V. the celebrated ballad of Christ’s Kirk on the Green, which is ascribed to King James I. in Bannatyne’s manuscript written in 1561: and notwithstanding that authority, the Editor of this book is of opinion that Bishop Tanner was right. King James V. died Dec. 13th. 1542, aged 33.

THE pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee Wi’ mony good-eens and days to mee, Saying, “Goodwife, for zour courtesie, Will ze lodge a silly poor man?” The night was cauld, the carte was wat, And down azont the ingle he sat My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang.

“O wow!” quo he, “were I as free, As first when I saw this countrie, How blyth and merry wad I bee! And I wad nevir think lang.” He grew canty, and she grew fain; But little did her auld minny ken What thir slee twa togither were say’n, When wooing they were sa thrang.

“And O!” quo he, “ann ze were as black, As evir the crown of your dadyes hat, Tis I wad lay thee by my backe, And awa wi’ me thou sould gang.” “And O!” quoth she, “ann I were as white, As evir the snaw lay on the dike, Ild clead me brave, and lady-like, And awa with thee Ild gang.”

Between them twa was made a plot; They raise a wee before the cock, And wyliely they shot the lock, And fast to the bent are they gane. Up the morn the auld wife raise, And at her leisure put on her claiths, Syne to the servants bed she gaes To speir for the silly poor man.

She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, The strae was cauld, he was away, She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu’ day For some of our geir will be gane. Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, But nought was stown that could be mist. She dancid her lane, cryd, “Praise be blest, I have lodgd a leal poor man.

“Since naithings awa, as we can learn, The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben.” The servant gaed where the dochter lay, The sheets was cauld, she was away, And fast to her goodwife can say, “Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.”

“O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, And haste ze, rind these traitors agen; For shees be burnt, and bees be slein, The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.” Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit The wife was wood, and out o’ her wit; She could na gang, nor yet could sit, But ay did curse and did ban.

Mean time far hind out owre the lee, For snug in a glen, where nane could see, The twa, with kindlie sport and glee Cut frae a new cheese a whang. The priving was gude, it pleas’d them baith, To lo’e her for ay, he gae her his aith. Quo she, to leave thee, I will be laith, My winsome gaberlunzie-man.

“O kend my minny I were wi’ zou, Illfardly wad she crook her mou, Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. My dear, quo he, zee’re zet owre zonge; And hae na learnt the beggars tonge, To follow me frae toun to toun, And carrie the gaberlunzie on.

“Wi’ kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread, And spindles and whorles for them wha need, Whilk is a gentil trade indeed The gaberlunzie to carrie—o. Ill bow my leg and crook my knee, And draw a black clout owre my ee, A criple or blind they will cau me: While we sall sing and be merrie—o.”

NOTES

1 Sc. of a tinker, beggar, &c. Thus he used to visit a smith’s daughter at Niddry, near Edinburgh. 2 Vol. ii. p. 203.

XI. On Thomas Lord Cromwell.

It is ever the fate of a disgraced minister to be forsaken by his friends, and insulted by his enemies, always reckoning among the latter the giddy inconstant multitude. We have here a spurn at fallen greatness from some angry partisan of declining Popery, who could never forgive the downfall of their Diana, and loss of their craft. The ballad seems to have been composed between the time of Cromwell’s commitment to the Tower, June 11, 1540, and that of his being beheaded, July 28 following. A short interval! but Henry’s passion for Catharine Howard would admit of no delay. Notwithstanding our libeller, Cromwell had many excellent qualities: his great fault was too much obsequiousness to the arbitrary will of his master; but let it be considered that this master had raised him from obscurity, and that the high-born nobility had shewn him the way in every kind of mean and servile compliance. The original copy printed at London in 1540, is intitled, “A newe ballade made of Thomas Crumwel, called Trolle on away.” To it is prefixed this distich by way of burthen,

Trolle on away, trolle on awaye. Synge heave and howe rombelowe trolle on away.

BOTH man and chylde is glad to here tell Of that false traytoure Thomas Crumwell, Now that he is set to learne to spell. Synge trolle on away.

When fortune lokyd the in thy face, Thou haddyst fayre tyme, but thou lackydyst grace; Thy cofers with golde thou fyllydst a pace, Synge, &c.

Both plate and chalys came to thy fyst, Thou lockydst them vp where no man wyst, Tyll in the kynges treasoure such things were myst. Synge, &c.

Both crust and crumme came thorowe thy handes, Thy marchaundyse sayled over the sandes, Therfore nowe thou art layde fast in bandes. Synge, &c.

Fyrste when Kynge Henry, God saue his grace! Perceyud myschefe kyndlyd in thy face, Then it was tyme to purchase the a place. Synge, &c.

Hys grace was euer of gentyll nature, Mouyd with petye, and made the hys seruyture; But thou, as a wretche, suche thinges dyd procure. Synge, &c.

Thou dyd not remembre, false heretyke, One God, one fayth, and one kynge catholyke, For thou hast bene so long a scysmatyke. Synge, &c.

Thou woldyst not learne to knowe these thre; But euer was full of iniquite: Wherfore all this lande hathe ben troubled with the. Synge, &c.

All they, that were of the new trycke, Agaynst the churche thou baddest them stycke Wherfore nowe thou haste touchyd the quycke. Synge, &c.

Bothe sacramentes and sacramentalles Thou woldyst not suffre within thy walles; Nor let vs praye for all chrysten soules. Synge, &c.

Of what generacyon thou were no tonge can tell, Whyther of Chayme, or Syschemell,[1] Or else sent vs frome the deuyll of hell. Synge, &c.

Thou woldest neuer to vertue applye, But couetyd euer to clymme to hye, And nowe haste thou trodden thy shoo awrye. Synge, &c.

Who-so-euer dyd winne thou wolde not lose; Wherefore all Englande doth hate the, as I suppose, Bycause thou wast false to the redolent rose. Synge, &c.

Thou myghtest have learned thy cloth to flocke Upon thy gresy fullers stocke;[2] Wherfore lay downe thy heade vpon this blocke. Synge, &c.

Yet saue that soule, that God hath bought, And for thy carcas care thou nought, Let it suffre payne, as it hath wrought. Synge, &c.

God save King Henry with all his power, And Prynce Edwarde that goodly flowre, With al hys lordes of great honoure. Synge trolle on awaye, syng trolle on away. Hevye and how rombelowe trolle on awaye.

- The foregoing piece gave rise to a poetic controversy, which was carried on through a succession of seven or eight ballads written for and against Lord Cromwell. These are all preserved in the archives of the Antiquarian Society, in a large folio Collection of Proclamations, &c. made in the reigns of King Henry VIII., King Edward VI., Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, King James I. &c.

NOTES

1. i.e. Cain, or Ishmael. See below, the note, Book v. no. iii, stanza 3d. 2. Cromwell’s father is generally said to have been a blacksmith at Putney: but the author of this ballad would insinuate that either be himself or some of his ancestors were fullers by trade.

XII. Harpalus. AN ANCIENT ENGLISH PASTORAL.

This beautiful poem, which is perhaps the first attempt at pastoral writing in our language, is preserved among the “Songs and Sonnettes” of the Earl of Surrey, &c. 4to. in that part of the collection, which consists of pieces by “uncertain auctours.” These poems were first published in 1557, ten years after that accomplished nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of Henry VIII.: but it is presumed most of them were composed before the death of Sir Thomas Wyatt in 1541.— See Surrey’s Poems, 4to. folios 19, 49. Though written perhaps near half a century before the “Shepherd’s Calendar,”[1] this will be found far superior to any of those eclogues, in natural unaffected simplicity of style, in easy flow of versification, and all other beauties of pastoral poetry. Spenser ought to have profited snore by so excellent a model.

PHYLIDA was a faire mayde, As fresh as any flowre; Whom Harpalus the herdeman prayed To be his paramour.

Harpalus, and eke Corin, Were herdmen both yfere: And Phylida could twist and spinne, And thereto sing full clere.

But Phylida was all tň coye, For Harpalus to winne: For Corin was her onely joye, Who forst her not a pinne.

How often would she flowers twine? How often garlandes make Of couslips and of colombine? And al for Corin’s sake.

But Corin, he had haukes to lure, And forced more the field: Of lovers lawe he toke no cure; For once he was begilde.

Harpalus prevailed nought, His labour all was lost; For he was fardest from her thought, And yet he loved her most.

Therefore waxt he both pale and loane, And dry as clot of clay: His fleshe it was consumed cleane, His colour gone away.

His beard it had not long be shave; His heare hong all unkempt: A man most fit even for the grave, Whom spitefull love had spent.

His eyes were red, and all forewacht; His face besprent with teares: It semde unhap had him long hatcht, In mids of his dispaires.

His clothes were blacke, and also bare; As one forlorne was he; Upon his head always he ware A wreath of wyllow tree.

His beastes he kept upon the hyll, And he sate in the dale; And thus with sighes and sorrowes shril, He gan to tell his tale.

“Oh Harpalus!” (thus would he say) “Unhappiest under sunne! The cause of thine unhappy day, By love was first begunne.

“For thou wentest first by sute to seeke A tigre to make tame, That settes not by thy love a leeke; But makes thy griefe her game.

“As easy it were for to convert The frost into a flame; As for to turne a frowarde hert, Whom thou so faine wouldst frame.

“Corin he liveth carelesse He leapes among the leaves: He eates the frutes of thy redresse: Thou reapst, he takes the sheaves.

“My beastes a whyle your foode refraine, And harke your herdmans sounde; Whom spitefull love, alas! hath slaine, Through-girt with many a wounde.

“O happy be ye, beastčs wild, That here your pasture takes: I se that ye be not begilde Of these your faithfull makes.

“The hart he feedeth by the hinde: The bucke harde by the do: The turtle-dove is not unkinde To him that loves her so.

“The ewe she hath by her the ramme: The yong cow hath the bull: The calfe with many a lusty lambe Do fede their hunger full.

“But, wel-away! that nature wrought The, Phylida, so faire: For I may say that I have bought Thy beauty all to deare.

“What reason is that crueltie With beautie should have part? Or els that such great tyranny Should dwell in womans hart?

“I see therefore to shape my death She cruelly is prest; To th’ ende that I may want my breath: My dayes been at the best.

“O Cupide, graunt this my request, And do not stoppe thine eares; That she may feele within her Brest The paines of my dispaires:

“Of Corin who is carelesse, That she may crave her fee: As I have done in great distresse, That loved her faithfully.

“But since that I shall die her slave; Her slave, and eke her thrall: Write you, my frendes, upon my grave This chaunce that is befall.

“‘Here lieth unhappy Harpalus By cruell love now slaine: Whom Phylida unjustly thus Hath murdred with disdaine.’”

NOTES

1. First published in 1579.

XIII. Robin and Makyne. AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH PASTORAL.

The palm of pastoral poesy is here contested by a contemporary writer with the author of the foregoing. The critics will judge of their respective merits; but must make some allowance for the preceding ballad, which is given simply as it stands in the old editions; whereas this, which follows, has been revised and amended throughout by Allan Ramsay, from whose Ever-Green, vol. i. it is here chiefly printed. The curious reader may however compare it with the more original copy, printed among “Ancient Scottish poems, from the manuscript of George Bannatyne, 1568,” Edinb. 1770, 12mo. Mr. Robert Henryson (to whom we are indebted for this poem) appears to so much advantage among the writers of eclogue, that we are sorry we can give little other account of him besides what is contained in the following eloge, written by W. Dunbar, a Scottish poet, who lived about the middle of the 16th century:

In Dumferling, he [Death] hath tane Broun, With gude Mr. Robert Henryson.

Indeed some little further insight into the history of this Scottish bard is gained from the title prefixed to some of his poems preserved in the British Museum; viz. “The morall Fabillis of Esop compylit be Maister Robert Henrisoun, Scolmaister of Dumfermling,” 1571.— Harleian MSS. 3865. § i. In Ramsay’s Ever-Green, vol. i. whence the above distich is extracted, are preserved two other little Doric pieces by Henryson; the one intitled The Lyon and the Mouse; the other, The Garment of gude Ladyis. Some other of his poems may be seen in “Ancient Scottish Poems printed from Bannatyne’s manuscript” above referred to.

ROBIN sat on the gude grene hill, Keipand a flock of fie, Quhen mirry Makyne said him till, “O Robin rew on me: I haif the luivt baith loud and still, Thir towmonds twa or thre; My dule in dern bot giff thou dill, Doubtless but dreid Ill die.”

Robin replied, “Now by the rude, Naithing of luve I knaw, But kelp my sheip undir yon wod: Lo quhair they raik on raw. Quhat can have mart thee in thy mode, Thou Makyne to me schaw; Or quhat is luve, or to be lude? Fain wald I leir that law.”

“The law of luve gin thou wald leir, Tak thair an A, B, C; Be heynd, courtas, and fair of feir, Wyse, hardy, kind and frie, Sae that nae danger do the deir, Quhat dule in dern thou drie; Press ay to pleis, and blyth appeir, Be patient and privie.”

Robin, he answert her againe, “I wat not quhat is luve; But I hail marvel in certaine Quhat makes thee thus wanrufe. The wedder is fair, and I am fain; My sheep gais hail abuve; And sould we pley us on the plain, They wald us baith reprove.”

“Robin, tak tent unto my tale, And wirk all as I reid; And thou sail haif my heart all hale, Eik and my maiden-heid: Sen God, he sendis bute for bale, And for murning remeid, I’dern with thee bot gif I dale, Doubtless I am but deid.”

“Makyne, to-morn be this ilk tyde, Gif ye will meit me heir,” “Maybe my sheip may gang besyde, Quhyle we have liggd full heir; But maugre haif I, gif I byde, Frae they begin to steir, Quhat lyes on heart I will nocht hyd, Then Makyne mak gude cheir.”

“Robin, thou reivs me of my rest; I luve bot thee alane.” “Makyne, adieu! the sun goes west, The day is neir-hand gane.” “Robin, in dule I am so drest, That luve will be my bane.” “Makyn, gae luve quhair-eir ye list, For leman I luid nane.”

“Robin, I stand in sic a style, I sich and that full sair.” “Makyne, I have bene here this quyle; At hame I wish I were.” “Robin, my hinny, talk and smyle, Gif thou will do nae mair.” “Makyne, som other man beguyle, For hameward I will fare.”

Syne Robin on his ways he went, As light as leif on tree; But Makyne murnt and made lament, Scho trow’d him neir to see. Robin he brand attowre the bent: Then Makyne cried on hie, “Now may thou sing, for I am shent Quhat ailis luve at me? ”

Makyne went hame withouten fail, And weirylie could weip; Then Robin in a full fair dale Assemblit all his sheip. Be that some part of Makyne’s ail, Out-throw his heart could creip; Hir fast he follow to assail, And till her tuke gude keip.

“Abed, abyd, thou fair Makyne, A word for ony thing; For all my luve, it sall be thyne, Withouten departing. All hale thy heart for till have myne, Is all my coveting; My sheip to morn quhyle hours nyne, Will need of nae keiping.

“Robin, thou hast heard sung and say, In gests and storys auld, The man that will not when he may, Sall have nocht when he wald. I pray to heaven baith nicht and day, Be eiked their cares sae cauld, That presses first with thee to play Be forrest, firth, or fauld.”

“Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, The wether warm and fair, And the grene wod richt neir-hand by, To walk attowre all where: There may nae janglers us espy, That is in luve contrair; Therin, Makyne, baith you and I Unseen may mak repair.”

“Robin, that warld is now away, And quyt brocht till an end: And nevir again thereto, perfay, Sall it be as thou wend; For of my pain thou made but play; I words in vain did spend: As thou hast done, sae sall I say, Murn on, I think to mend.”

“Makyne, the hope of all my heil, My heart on thee is set; I’ll evermair to thee be leil, Quhyle I may live but lett, Never to fail as uthers feill, Quhat grace so eir I get.” “Robin, with thee I will not deill; Adieu, for this we met.”

Makyne went hameward blyth enough, Outowre the holtis hair; Pure Robin murnd, and Makyne laugh Scho sang, and he sicht sair: And so left him hayth wo and wreuch, In dolor and in care, Keipand his herd under a heuch, Among the rushy gair.

XIV. Gentle Herdsman, tell to Me. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PILGRIM AND HERDSMAN.

The scene of this beautiful old ballad is laid near Walsingham, in Norfolk, where was anciently an image of the Virgin Mary, famous all over Europe for the numerous pilgrimages made to it, and the great riches it possessed. Erasmus has given a very exact and humorous description of the superstitions practised there in his time. See his account of the Virgo Parathalassia, in his colloquy, intitled Peregrinatio Religionis ergo. He tells us, the rich offerings in silver, gold, and precious stones, that were there shewn him, were incredible, there being scarce a person of any note in England, but what some time or other paid a visit, or sent a present, to Our Lady of Walsingham.[1] At the dissolution of the monasteries in 1538, this splendid image, with another from Ipswich, was carried to Chelsea, and there burnt in the presence of commissioners; who, we trust, did not burn the jewels and the finery. This poem is printed from a copy in the Editor’s folio manuscript which had greatly suffered by the hand of time; but vestiges of several of the lines remaining, some conjectural supplements have been attempted, which, for greater exactness, are in this one ballad distinguished by italics.

GENTLE heardsman, tell to me, Of curtesy I thee pray, Unto the towne of Walsingham Which is the right and ready way.

“Unto the towne of Walsingham The way is hard for to be gon; And verry crooked are those pathes For you to find out all alone.”

“Weere the miles doubled thrise, And the way never soe ill, Itt were not enough for mine offence; Itt is soe grievous and soe ill.”

“Thy yeeares are young, thy face is faire, Thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene; Time hath not given thee leave, as yett, For to committ so great a sinne.”

“Yes, heardsman, yes, soe wouldst thou say, If thou knewest soe much as I; My witts, and thoughts, and all the rest, Have well deserved for to dye.

“I am not what I seeme to bee, My clothes and sexe doe differ farr I am a woman, woe is me! Born to greeffe and irksome care.

“For my beloved, and well-beloved, My wayward cruelty could kill And though my teases will nought avail, Most dearely I bewail him still.

“He was the flower of noble wights, None ever more sincere colde bee; Of comely mien and shape hee was, And tenderlye hee loved mee.

“When thus I saw he loved me well, I grewe so proud his paine to see, That I, who did not know myselfe, Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.

[2]”And grew soe coy and nice to please, As women’s lookes are often soe, He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth, Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.

“Thus being wearyed with delayes To see I pittyed not his greeffe, He gott him to a secrett place, And there he dyed without releeffe.

“And for his sake these weeds I weare, And sacrifice my tender age; And every day Ile begg my bread, To undergoe this pilgrimage.

“Thus every day I fast and pray, And ever will doe till I dye; And gett me to some secrett place, For soe did hee, and soe will I.

“Now, gentle heardsman, aske no more But keepe my secretts I thee pray; Unto the towne of Walsingham Shew me the right and readye way.

Now goe thy wayes, and God before! For he must ever guide thee still: Turne downe that dale, the right hand path, And soe, faire pilgrim, fare thee well!”

NOTES

1. To shew what constant tribute was paid to Our Lady of Walsingham, I shall give a few extracts from the “Houshold-Book of Henry Algernon Percy, 5th Earl of Northumberland.” Printed 1770, 8vo. SECT. XLIII. page 337, &c.

ITEM, My Lorde usith yerly to send afor Michaelmas for his Lordschip’s Offerynge to Our Lady of Walsyngeham— iiij d. ITEM, My Lorde usith ande accustumyth to sende yerely for the upholdynge of the light of wax which his Lordschip fyndith birnynge yerly befor our Lady of Walsyngham, contenynge xj lb. of wax in it after vij d. ob. for the fyndinge of every lb. redy wrought by a covenaunt maid with the Channon by great, for the hole yere, for the fyndinge of the said lyght byrning — vi s. viiij d. ITEM, My Lord useth and accustomith to syende yerely to the Channon that kepith the light before our Lady of Walsyngham, for his reward for the hole yere, for kepynge of the said light, lightynge of it at all service tymes dayly thorowt the yere — xij d. ITEM, My Lord usith and accustomyth yerely to send to the Prest that kepith the light, lyghtynge of it at all service tymes daily thorowt the yere — iij s. iiij d. 2. Three of the following stanzas have been finely paraphrased by Dr. Goldsmith, in his charming ballad of Edwin and Emma; the reader of taste will have a pleasure in comparing them with the original. “And still I try’d each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch’d my heart, I triumph’d in his pain. Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he dy’d. But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I’ll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. And there forlorn despairing hid, I’ll lay me down and die: T’was so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.”

XV. King Edward IV. and the Tanner of Tamworth.

This was a story of great fame among our ancestors. The author of the Art of English Poesie, 1589, 4to. seems to speak of it as a real fact. Describing that vicious mode of speech, which the Greeks called Acyron, i.e. “When we use a dark and obscure word, utterly repugnant to that we should express;” he adds, “Such manner of uncouth speech did the Tanner of Tamworth use to King Edward the Fourth; which Tanner, having a great while mistaken him, and used very broad talke with him, at length perceiving by his traine that it was the king, was afraide he should be punished for it, [and] said thus, with a certain rude repentance,

I hope I shall he hanged to-morrow,

for [I feare me] I shall be hanged; whereat the king laughed a good,[1] not only to see the Tanner’s vaine feare, but also to heare his illshapen terme: and gave him for recompence of his good sport, the inheritance of Plumpton-parke. I am afraid,” concludes this sagacious writer,” the poets of our times that speake more finely and correctedly, will come too short of such a reward,”— p. 214. The phrase here referred to, is not found in this ballad at present,[2] but occurs with some variation in another old poem, intitled John the Reeve, described in the following volume.— see the Preface to The King and the Miller, viz.

“Nay, sayd John, by Gods grace, And Edward war in this place, Hee shold not touch this tonne: He wold be wroth with John I HOPE, Thereffore I beshrew the soupe, That in his mouth shold come.” — Part ii. st. 24.

The following text is selected (with such other corrections as occurred) from two copies in black-letter. The one in the Bodleian Library, intitled, “A merrie, pleasant, and delectable historie betweene King Edward the Fourth, and a Tanner of Tamworth, &c. printed at London, by John Danter, 1596.” This copy, ancient as it now is, appears to have been modernized and altered at the time it was published; and many vestiges of the more ancient readings were recovered from another copy (though more recently printed), in one sheet folio, without date, in the Pepys Collection. But these are both very inferior in point of antiquity to the old ballad of The King and the Barker, reprinted with other “Pieces of ancient popular Poetry from authentic Manuscripts, and old Printed Copies, &c.” Lond. 1791, 8vo. As that very antique poem had never occurred to the editor of the Reliques, till he saw it in the above collection, he now refers the curious reader to it, as an imperfect and incorrect copy of the old original ballad.

IN summer time, when leaves grow greene, And blossoms bedecke the tree, King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, Some pastime for to see.

With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, With horne, and eke with bowe; To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, With all his lordes a rowe.

And he had ridden ore dale and downe By eight of clocke in the day, When he was ware of a bold tannčr, Come ryding along the waye.

A fayre russet coat the tanner had on Fast buttoned under his chin, And under him a good cow-hide, And a mare of four shilling.[3]

“Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, Under the grene wood spraye; And I will wend to yonder fellowe, To weet what he will saye.

“God speede, God speede thee,” said our king. “Thou art welcome,” Sir, sayd hee. “The readyest waye to Drayton Basset I praye thee to shewe to mee.”

“To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, Fro the place where thou dost stand? The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, Turne in upon thy right hand.”

“That is an unreadye waye,” sayd our king, “Thou doest but jest, I see Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, And I pray thee wend with mee.”

“Away with a vengeance!” quoth the tanner: “I hold thee out of thy witt: All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, And I am fasting yett.”

“Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, No daynties we will spare; All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, And I will paye thy fare.”

“Gramercye for nothing,” the tanner replyde, “Thou payest no fare of mine: I trowe I’ve more nobles in my purse, Than thou hast pence in thine.”

“God give thee joy of them,” sayd the king, “And send them well to priefe.” The tanner wolde faine have beene away, For he weende he had beene a thiefe.

“What art thou,” hee sayde, “thou fine fellawe, Of thee I am in great feare, For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, Might beseeme a lord to weare.”

“I never stole them,” quoth our king, “I tell you, Sir, by the roode.” “Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, And standest in midds of thy goode.”[4]

“What tydinges heare you,” sayd the kynge, “As you ryde farre and neare?” “I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse, But that cowe-hides are deare.”

“Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? I marvell what they bee? ” “What, art thou a foole?” the tanner reply’d “I carry one under mee.”

“What craftsman art thou,” said the king, “I praye thee tell me trowe.” “I am a barker,[5] Sir, by my trade; Nowe tell me what art thou?”

“I am a poor courtier, Sir,” quoth he, “That am forth of service worne; And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, Thy cunninge for to learne.”

“Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, That thou my prentise were: Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne By fortye shilling a yere.”

“Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king, If thou wilt not seeme strange: Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, Yet with thee I fain wold change.”

“Why if with me thou faine wilt change, As change full well maye wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellňwe I will have some boot of thee.”

“That were against reason,” sayd the king, “I sweare, so mote I thee: My horse is better than thy mare, And that thou well mayst see.

“Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, And softly she will fare: Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; Aye skipping here and theare.”

“What boote wilt thou have?” our king reply’d; “Now tell me in this stound.” “Noe pence, nor half pence, by my faye, But a noble in gold so round.”

“Here’s twentye groates of white moneye, Sith thou will have it of mee.” “I would have sworne now,” quoth the tanner, “Thou hadst not had one pennie.”

“But since we two have made a change, A change we must abide, Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.”

“I will not have it,” sayd the kynge, “I sweare, so nought I thee; Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, If thou woldst give it to mee.”

The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, That of the cow was hilt; And threwe it upon the king’s sadčlle, That was soe fayrelye gilte.

“Now help me up, thou fine fellňwe, ‘Tis time that I were gone: When I come home to Gyllian my wife, Sheel say I am a gentilmon.”

The king he tooke him up by the legge; The tanner a f** lett fall. “Nowe marrye, good fellowe,” sayd the king, “Thy courtesye is but small.”

When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle, And his foote in the stirrup was; He marvelled greatlye in his minde, Whether it were golde or brass.

But when his steede saw the cows taile wagge, And eke the blacke cowe-horne; He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, As the devill had him borne.

The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, And held by the pummil fast: At length the tanner came tumbling downe; His necke he had well-nye brast.

“Take thy horse again with a vengeance,” he sayd, With mee he shall not byde.” “My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.”

Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, As change full well may wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner, I will have some boote of thee.”

“What boote wilt thou have?” the tanner replyd, “Nowe tell me in this stounde. “Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, But I will have twentye pound.”

“Here’s twentye groates out of my purse; And twentye I have of thine: And I have one more, which we will spend Together at the wine.”

The king set a bugle horne to his mouthe, And blewe both loude and shrille: And soone came lords, and soone came knights, Fast ryding over the hille.

“Nowe, out alas!” the tanner he cryde, “That ever I sawe this daye Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my cowe-hide away.”

“They are no thieves,” the king replyde, “I sweare, soe mote I thee: But they are the lords of the north countrčy, Here come to hunt with mee.”

And soone before our king they came, And knelt downe on the grounde: Then might the tanner have beene awaye, He had lever than twentye pounde.

“A coller, a coller, here:” sayd the king, “A coller,” he loud gan crye: Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, He had not beene so nighe.

“A coller, a coller,” the tanner he sayd, “I trowe it will breed sorrowe: After a coller cometh a halter, I trow I shall be hang’d to-morrowe.”

“Be not afraid, tanner,” said our king “I tell thee, so mought I thee, Lo here I make thee the best esquire That is in the North countrie.[6]

“For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, With tenements faire beside ‘Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.”

“Gramercye, my liege,” the tanner replyd, “For the favour thou hast me showne; If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth, Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.”

NOTES

1. Vid. Gloss. 2. Nor in that of the “Barker” mentioned below. 3. In the reign of Edward IV. Dame Cecill, Lady of Torboke, in her will dated March 7, A.D. 1466, among many other bequests, has this, “Also I will that my sonne Thomas of Torboke have 13s. 4d. to buy him an horse.— Vid. Harleian Catalog. 2176. 27.) Now if 13s. 4d. would purchase a steed fit for a person of quality, a tanner’s horse might reasonably be valued at four or five shillings. 4. i.e. hast no other wealth, but what thou carriest about thee. 5. i.e. a dealer in bark. 6. This stanza is restored from a quotation of this ballad in Selden’s Titles of Honour, who produces it as a good authority to prove, that one mode of creating Esquires at that time, was by the imposition of a Collar. His words are, “Nor is that old pamphlet of the Tanner of Tamworth and King Edward the Fourth so contemptible, but that wee may thence note also an observable passage, wherein the use of making Esquires by giving Collars is expressed.”— Sub Tit. Esquire; vide in Spelmanni Glossar. Armiger. This form of creating Esquires actually exists at this day among the Serjeants at Arms, who are invested with a Collar (which they wear on Collar Days) by the King himself. This information I owe to Samuel Pegge, Esq. to whom the public is indebted for that curious work the Curialia, 4to.

XVI As Ye came from the Holy Land. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PILGRIM AND TRAVELLER

The scene of this song is the same as in No. 14. The pilgrimage to Walsingham suggested the plan of many popular pieces. In the Pepys Collection, vol. i. p. 226, is a kind of interlude in the old ballad style, of which the first stanza alone is worth reprinting.

As I went to Walsingham, To the shrine with speede, Met I with a jolly palmer In a pilgrimes weede. Now God you save, you jolly palmer ‘Welcome, lady gay, Oft have I sued to thee for love.’ — Oft have I said you nay.”

The pilgrimages undertaken on pretence of religion, were often productive of affairs of gallantry, and led the votaries to no other shrine than that of Venus.[1] The following ballad was once very popular; it is quoted in Fletcher’s Knight of the burning Pestle, act ii. sc. ult. and in another old play, called, Hans Beer-pot, his invisible Comedy, &c.” 4to. 1618, act i. The copy below was communicated to the Editor by the late Mr. Shenstone, as corrected by him from an ancient copy, and supplied with a concluding stanza. We have placed this, and Gentle Herdsman, &c. thus early in the Series, upon a presumption that they must have been written, if not before the dissolution of the monasteries, yet while the remembrance of them was fresh in the minds of the people.

“As ye came from the holy land Of blessed Walsingham, O met you not my true love As by the way ye came?”

“How should I know your true love, That have met many a one, As I came from the holy land, That have both come, and gone?”

“My love is neither white,[2] nor browne, But as the heavens faire; There is none hath her form divine, Either in earth, or ayre.”

“Such an one did I meet, good Sir, With an angelicke face; Who like a nymphe, a queene appeard Both in her gait, her grace.”

“Yes: she hath cleane forsaken me, And left me all alone; Who some time loved me as her life, And called me her owne.”

“What is the cause she leaves thee thus, And a new way doth take, That some times loved thee as her life, And thee her joy did make?”

“I that loved her all my youth, Growe olde, now as you see; Love liketh not the falling fruite, Nor yet the withered tree.

“For love is like a carelesse childe, Forgetting promise past He is blind, or deaf, whenere he list; His faith is never fast.

“His fond desire is fickle found, And yieldes a trustlesse joye; Wonne with a world of toil and care, And lost ev’n with a toye.

“Such is the love of womankinde, Of LOVES faire name abusde, Beneathe which many vaine desires, And follyes are excusde.

“But true love is a lasting fire, Which viewless vestals[3] tend. That burns for ever in the soule, And knowes nor change, nor end.”

NOTES

1. Even in the time of Langland, pilgrimages to Walsingham were not unfavourable to the rites of Venus. Thus in his Visions of Pierce Plowman, fo. 1. Hermets on a heape, with hoked staves, Wenten to Walsingham, and her [i.e. their] wenches after. 2. Sc. pale. 3. Sc. angels.

XVII. Hardyknute. A SCOTTISH FRAGMENT.

As this fine morsel of heroic poetry hath generally past for ancient, it is here thrown to the end of our earlier pieces; that such as doubt of its age, may the better compare it with other pieces of genuine antiquity. For after all, there is more than reason to suspect, that it owes most of its beauties (if not its whole existence) to the pen of a lady, within the present century. One Mrs. Wardlaw, whose maiden name was Halket (aunt to the late Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran, in Scotland, who was killed in America, along with General Bradock, in 1755), pretended she had found this poem, written on shreds of paper, employed for what is called the bottoms of clues. A suspicion arose that it was her own composition. Some able judges asserted it to be modern. The lady did in a manner acknowledge it to he so. Being desired to shew an additional stanza, as a proof of this, she produced the two last, beginning with “There’s nae light,” &c. which were not in the copy that was first printed. The late Lord President Forbes, and Sir Gilbert Elliot, of Minto (late Lord Justice Clerk for Scotland) who had believed it ancient, contributed to the expence of publishing the first edition, in folio, 1719. This account was transmitted from Scotland by Sir David Dalrymple, the late Lord Hailes, who yet was of opinion, that part of the ballad may be ancient; but retouched and much enlarged by the lady above-mentioned. Indeed he had been informed, that the late William Thompson, the Scottish musician, who published the Orpheus Caledonius, 1733, 2 vols. 8vo. declared he had heard fragments of it repeated in his infancy, before Mrs. Wardlaw’s copy was heard of. The poem is here printed from the original edition, as it was prepared for the press with the additional improvements.

I.

STATELY stept he east the wa’, And stately stept he west, Full seventy years he now had seen, Wi’ scarce seven years of rest. He liv’d when Britons breach of faith Wrought Scotland mickle wae: And ay his sword tauld to their cost, He was their deadlye fae.

II.

High on a hill his castle stood, With ha’s and tow’rs a height, And goodly chambers fair to se, Where he lodged mony a knight. His dame sae peerless anes and fair, For chast and beauty deem’d, Nae marrow had in all the land, Save ELENOR, the queen.

III.

Full thirteen sons to him she bare, All men of valour stout: In bloody fight with sword in hand Nine lost their lives bot doubt: Four yet remain, lang may they live To stand by liege and land; High was their fame, high was their might, And high was their command.

IV.

Great love they bare to FAIRLY fair, Their sister saft and dear, Her girdle shaw’d her middle jimp, And gowden glist her hair. What waefu’ wae her beauty bred? Waefu’ to young and auld, Waefu’ I trow to kyth and kin, As story ever tauld.

V.

The king of Norse in summer tyde, Puff’d up with pow’r and might, Landed in fair Scotland the isle With mony a hardy knight. The tydings to our good Scots king Came, as he sat at dine, With noble chiefs in brave aray, Drinking the blood-red wine.

VI.

“To horse, to horse, my royal liege Your faes stand on the strand, Full twenty thousand glittering speares The king of Norse commands.” “Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray,” Our good king rose and cry’d, “A trustier beast in a’ the land A Scots king nevir try’d.

VII.

“Go little page, tell Hardyknute, That lives on hill sae hie, To draw his sword, the dread of faes, And haste and follow me.” The little page flew swift as dart, Flung by his master’s arm, “Come down, come down, lord Hardyknute, And rid your king frae harm.”

VIII.

Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, Sae did his dark-brown brow; His looks grew keen, as they were wont In dangers great to do; He’s ta’en a horn as green as grass, And gi’en five sounds sae shill, That trees in green wood shook thereat, Sae loud rang ilka hill.

IX.

His sons in manly sport and glee, Had past that summer’s morn, When low down in the grassy dale, They heard their father’s horn. “That horn,” quo’ they, “ne’er sounds in peace We’ve other sport to bide.” And soon they hy’d them up the hill, And soon were at his side.

X.

“Late, late the yestreen I ween’d in peace To end my lengthened life, My age might well excuse my arm Frae manly feats of strife, But now that Norse do’s proudly boast Fair Scotland to inthrall, It’s ne’er be said of Hardyknute, He fear’d to fight or fall.

XI.

“Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow, Thy arrows shoot sae leel, That many a comely countenance They’ve turned to deadly pale. Brade Thomas take you but your lance, You need nae weapons mair, If you fight wi’t as you did anes ‘Gainst Westmoreland’s fierce heir.

XII.

“And Malcolm, light of foot as stag That runs in forest wild, Get me my thousands three of men Well bred to sword and shield: Bring me my horse and harnisine, My blade of mettal clear. If faes but ken’d the hand it bare, They soon had fled for fear.

XIII.

“Farewell my dame sae peerless good, (And took her by the hand), Fairer to me in age you seem, Than maids for beauty fam’d. My youngest son shall here remain To guard these stately towers, And shut the silver bolt that keeps Sae fast your painted bowers.”

XIV.

And first she wet her comely cheiks, And then her boddice green, Her silken cords of twirtle twist, Well plett with silver sheen; And apron set with mony a dice Of needle-wark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, Save that of FAIRLY fair.

XV.

And he has ridden o’er muir and moss, O’er hills and mony a glen, When he came to a wounded knight Making a heavy mane; “Here maun I lye, here maun I dye, By treacherie’s false guiles; Witless I was that e’er ga faith To wicked woman’s smiles.”

XVI.

“Sir knight, gin you were in my bower, To lean on silken seat, My lady’s kindly care you’d prove, Who ne’er knew deadly hate: Herself wou’d watch you a’ the day, Her maids a dead of night; And FAIRLY fair your heart wou’d thear, As she stands in your sight.

XVII.

“Arise young knight, and mount your stead, Full lowns the shynand day: Choose frae my menzie whom ye please To lead you on the way.” With smileless look, and visage wan The wounded knight reply’d, “Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I maun abyde.

XVIII.

“To me nae after day nor night Can e’re be sweet or fair, But soon beneath some draping tree, Cauld death shall end my care.” With him nae pleading might prevail; Brave Hardyknute to gain With fairest words, and reason strong, Strave courteously in vain.

XIX.

Syne he has gane far hynd out o’er Lord Chattan’s land sae wide; That lord a worthy wight was ay, When faes his courage sey’d: Of Pictish race by mother’s side, When Picts rul’d Caledon, Lord Chattan claim’d the princely maid, When he sav’d Pictish crown.

XX.

Now with his fierce and stalwart train, He reach’d a rising hight, Quhair braid encampit on the dale, Norss menzie lay in sicht. “Yonder my valiant sons and feirs Our raging revers wait On the unconquert Scottish sward To try with us their fate.

XXI.

“Make orisons to him that sav’d Our sauls upon the rude; Syne bravely shaw your veins are fill’d With Caledonian blude.” Then forth he drew his trusty glave, While thousands all around Drawn frae their sheaths glanc’d in the sun; And loud the bougles sound.

XXII.

To joye his king adoun the hill In hast his merch he made, While, playand pibrochs, minstralls meit Afore him stately strade. “Thrice welcome valiant stoup of weir, Thy nations shield and pride; Thy king nae reason has to fear When thou art by his side.”

XXIII.

When bows were bent and darts were thrawn For thrang scarce cou’d they flee; The darts clove arrows as they met, The arrows dart the tree. Lang did they rage and fight fu’ fierce, With little skaith to mon, But bloody, bloody was the field, Ere that lang day was done.

XXIV.

The king of Scots, that sindle brook’d The war that look’d like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow, Sin bows seem’d but delay. Quoth noble Rothsay, “Mine I’ll keep, I wat it’s bled a score.” Haste up my merry men, cry’d the king, As he rode on before.

XXV.

The king of Norse he sought to find, With him to mense the faught, But on his forehead there did light A sharp unsonsie shaft; As he his hand put up to feel The wound, and arrow keen,— O waefu’ chance! there pinn’d his hand In midst between his een.

XXVI.

“Revenge, revenge,” cry’d Rothsay’s heir, “Your mail-coat sha’ na bide The strength and sharpness of my dart:” Then sent it through his side. Another arrow well he mark’d It pierc’d his neck in twa, His hands then quat the silver reins, He low as earth did fa’.

XXVII.

“Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleeds!” Again wi’ might he drew And gesture dread his sturdy bow, Fast the braid arrow flew: Wae to the knight he ettled at; Lament now Queen Elgreed; High dames too wail your darling’s fall, His youth and comely meed.

XXVIII.

“Take aff, take aff his costly jupe (Of gold well was it twin’d, Knit like the fowler’s net, through quhilk, His steelly harness shin’d) “Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid Him venge the blood it bears; Say, if he face my bended bow, He sure nae weapon fears.”

XXIX.

Proud Norse with giant body tall, Braid shoulders and arms strong, Cry’d, “Where is Hardyknute sae fam’d, And fear’d at Britain’s throne: Tho’ Briton’s tremble at his name, I soon shall make him wail, That e’er my sword was made sae sharp, Sae saft his coat of mail.”

XXX.

That brag his stout heart cou’d na bide, It lent him youthfu’ nicht “I’m Hardyknute; this day,” he cry’d, “To Scotland’s king I heght To lay thee low, as horses hoof; My word I mean to keep.” Syne with the first stroke e’er he strake, He garr’d his body bleed.

XXXI.

Norss’ een like gray gosehawk’s stair’d wyld, He sigh’d wi’ shame and spite; “Disgrac’d is now my far-fam’d arm That left thee power to strike:” Then ga’ his head a blow sae fell, It made him doun to stoup, As laigh as he to ladies us’d In courtly guise to lout.

XXXII.

Fu’ soon he rais’d his bent body, His bow he marvell’d sair, Sin blows till then on him but darr’d As touch of FAIRLY fair: Norse marvell’d too as sair as he To see his stately look; Sae soon as e’er he strake a fae, Sae soon his life he took.

XXXIII.

Where like a fire to heather set, Bauld Thomas did advance Ane sturdy fae with look enrag’d Up toward him did prance; He spurr’d his steid through thickest ranks The hardy youth to quell, Wha stood unmov’d at his approach His fury to repell.

XXXIV.

“That short brown shaft sae meanly trimrn’d, Looks like poor Scotlands gear, But dreadfull seems the rusty point!” And loud he leugh in jear. “Oft Britons blood was dimm’d it’s shine; This point cut short their vaunt:” Syne pierc’d the boasters bearded cheek; Nae time he took to taunt.

XXXV.

Short while he in his saddle swang, His stirrup was nae stay, Sae feeble hang his unbent knee Sure taiken he was fey: Swith on the harden’t clay he fell, Right far was heard the thud: But Thomas look’t nae as he lay All weltering in his blud.

XXXVI.

With careless gesture, mind unmov’t, On rode he north the plain; His seem in throng of fiercest strife, When winner ay the same: Not yet his heart dames dimplet cheek Could mease soft love to bruik, Till vengefu’ Ann return’d his scorn, Then languid grew his luik.

XXXVII.

In thraws of death, with walowit cheik All panting on the plain, The fainting corps of warriours lay Ne’re to arise again; Ne’re to return to native land, Nae mair with blithsome sounds To boast the glories of the day, And shaw their shining wounds.

XXXVIII.

On Norways coast the widowit dame May wash the rocks with tears, May lang luik ow’r the shipless seas Befor her mate appears. Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain; Thy lord lyes in the clay; The valiant Scots nae revers thole To carry life away.

XXXIX.

Here on a lee, where stands a cross Set up for monument, Thousands fu’ fierce that summer’s day Fill’d keen war’s black intent. Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute, Let Norse the name ay dread, Ay how he faught, aft how he spar’d, Shall latest ages read.

XL.

Now loud and chill blew th’ westlin winds, Sair beat the heavy shower, Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute Wan near his stately tower. His tower that us’d wi’ torches blaze To shine sae far at night, Seem’d now as black as mourning weed, Nae marvel sair he sigh’d.

XLI.

“There’s nae light in my lady’s bower, There’s nae light in my ha’; Nae blink shines round my FAIRLY fair, Nor ward stands on my wa’. What bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say;” Nae answer fitts their dread. “Stand back, my sons, Ile be your guide:” But by they past with speed.

XLII.

“As fast I’ve sped owre Scotlands faes”,— There ceas’d his brag of weir, Sair sham’d to mind ought but his dame, And maiden FAIRLY fair. Black fear he felt, but what to fear He wist nae yet; wi’ dread Sair shook his body, sair his limbs, And a’ the warrior fled.

- In an elegant publication, intitled “Scottish Tragic Ballads, printed by and for J. Nichols, 1781, &c.” may be seen a continuation of the ballad of Hardyknute, by the addition of a Second Part, which hath since been acknowledged to be his own composition, by the ingenious editor, to whom the late Sir D. Dalrymple communicated (subsequent to the account drawn up above) extracts of a letter from Sir John Bruce, of Kinross, to Lord Binning, which plainly proves the pretended discoverer of the fragment of Hardyknute to have been Sir John Bruce himself. His words are, “To perform my promise, I send you a true copy of the manuscript I found some weeks ago in a vault at Dumferline. It is written on vellum in a fair Gothic character, but so much defaced by time, as you’ll find that the tenth part is not legible.” He then gives the whole fragment as it was first published in 1719, save one or two stanzas, marking several passages as having perished by being illegible in the old manuscript. Hence it appears that Sir John was the author of Hardyknute, but afterwards used Mrs. Wardlaw to be the midwife of his poetry, and suppressed the story of the vault; as is well observed by the editor of the Tragic Ballads, and of Maitland’s Scot. Poets, vol. i. p. cxxvii. To this gentleman we are indebted for the use of the copy, whence the second edition was afterwards printed, as the same was prepared for the press by John Clerk, M. D. of Edinburgh, an intimate companion of Lord President Forbes. The title of the first edition was, “Hardyknute, a Fragment. Edinburgh, printed for James Watson, &c. 1719. folio, 12 pages.” Stanzas not in the first edition are, Nos. 17, 18, 20, 21, 22,

23, 34, 35, 36, 37, 41, 42.

In the present impression the orthography of Dr. Clerk’s copy has been preserved, and his readings carefully followed, except in a few instances, wherein the common edition appeared preferable. The Editor was also informed, on the authority of Dr. David Clerk, M.D. of Edinburgh (son of the aforesaid Dr. John Clerk), that between the present stanzas 36 and 37, the two following had been intended, but were on maturer consideration omitted, and do not now appear among the MS. additions: Now darts flew wavering through slaw speed, Scarce could they reach their aim; Or reach’d, scarce blood the round point drew, ‘Twas all but shot in vain: Right strengthy arms forfeebled grew, Sair wreck’d wi’ that day’s toils: E’en fierce-born minds now lang’d for peace, And curs’d war’s cruel broils.

Yet still wars horns sounded to charge, Swords clash’d and harness rang; But saftly sae ilk blaster blew The hills and dales fraemang. Nae echo heard in double dints, Nor the lang-winding horn, Nae mair she blew out brade as she Did eir that summers morn.

BOOK V

I. A Ballad of Luther, the Pope, a Cardinal, and a Husbandman.

In the former Book we brought down this Second Series of poems as low as about the middle of the sixteenth century. We now find the Muses deeply engaged in religious controversy. The sudden revolution wrought in the opinions of mankind by the Reformation, is one of the most striking events in the history of the human mind. It could not but engross the attention of every individual in that age, and therefore no other writings would have any chance to be read, but such as related to this grand topic. The alterations made in the established religion by Henry VIII., the sudden changes it underwent in the three succeeding reigns within so short space as eleven or twelve years, and the violent struggles between expiring Popery, and growing Protestantism, could not but interest all mankind. Accordingly every pen was engaged in the dispute. The followers of the old and new profession (as they were called) had their respective ballad-makers; and every day produced some popular sonnet for or against the Reformation; The following ballad, and that intitled Little John Nobody, may serve for specimens of the writings of each party. Both were written in the reign of Edward VI.; and are not the worst that were composed upon the occasion. Controversial divinity is no friend to poetic flights. Yet this ballad of “Luther and the Pope,” is not altogether devoid of spirit; it is of the dramatic kind, and the characters are tolerably well sustained; especially that of Luther, which is made to speak in a manner not unbecoming the spirit and courage of that vigorous reformer. It is printed from the original black-letter copy (in the Pepys Collection, vol. i. folio), to which is prefixed a large wooden cut, designed and executed by some eminent master. We are not to wonder that the ballad-writers of that age should be inspired with the zeal of controversy, when the very stage teemed with polemic divinity. I have now before me two very ancient quarto black-letter plays: the one published in the time of Henry VIII. intitled Every Man; the other called Lusty Juventus, printed in the reign of Edward VI. In the former of these, occasion is taken to inculcate great reverence for old mother church and her superstitions;[1] in the other, the poet (one R. Wever) with great success attacks both. So that the stage in those days literally was, what wise men have always wished it — a supplement to the pulpit. This was so much the case, that in the play of “Lusty Juventus,’ chapter and verse are every where quoted as formally as in a sermon. Take an instance:

The Lord by his prophet Ezechiel sayeth in this wise playnlye, As in the xxxiij chapter it doth appere: Be converted, O ye children, &c.

From this play we learn that most of the young people were New Gospellers, or friends to the Reformation, and that the old were tenacious of the doctrines imbibed in their youth: for thus the Devil is introduced lamenting the downfal of superstition:

“The olde people would believe stil in my lawes, But the yonger sort leade them a contrary way, They wyl not beleve, they playnly say, In olde traditions, and made by men,” &c.

And in another place Hypocrisy urges,

“The worlde was never meri Since chyldren were so boulde: Now every boy will be a teacher, The father a foole, the chyld a preacher.”

Of the plays above-mentioned, to the first is subjoined the following printer’s Colophon: Thus endethe this moral playe of Every Man. Imprynted at London in Powles churche yeard by me John Skot. In Mr. Garrick’s collection is an imperfect copy of the same play, printed by Richarde Pynson.

The other is entitled, An enterlude called Lusty Juventus;and is thus distinguished at the end: Finis, quod R. Weber. Imprynted at London in Powles churche yeard by Abraham Dele at the signe of the Lambe. Of this too Mr. Garrick has an imperfect copy of a different edition. Of these two plays the reader may find some further particulars in Book ii., above. See “The Essay on the Origin of the English Stage:” and the curious reader will find the plays themselves printed at large in Hawkins’s “Origin of the English Drama,” 3 vols. Oxford, 1773, 12mo.

THE HUSBANDMAN

“LET us lift up our hartes all, And prayse the Lordes magnificence, Which hath given the wolues a fall, And is become our strong defence: For they thorowe a false pretens From Christes bloude dyd all us leade,[2] Gettynge from every man his pence, As satisfactours for the deade.

“For what we with our FLAYLES coulde get To kepe our house, and servauntes; That did the Freers from us fet, And with our soules played the merchauntes: And thus they with theyr false warrantes Of our sweate have easelye lyved, That for fatnesse theyr belyes pantes, So greatlye have they us deceaued.

“They spared not the fatherlesse, The carefull, nor the pore wydowe; They wolde have somewhat more or lesse, If it above the ground did growe: But now we Husbandmen do knowe Al their subteltye, and their false caste; For the Lorde hath them overthrowe With his swete word now at the laste.”

DOCTOR MARTIN LUTHER

“Thou antichrist, with thy thre crownes, Hast usurped kynges powers, As having power over realmes and townes, Whom thou oughtest to serve all houres: Thou thinkest by thy jugglyng colours Thou maist lykewise Gods word oppresse; As do the deceatful foulers, When they theyr nettes craftelye dresse.

“Thou flatterest every prince, and lord, Thretening poore men with swearde and fyre All those, that do followe Gods worde, To make them cleve to thy desire, Theyr bokes thou burnest in flaming fire; Cursing with boke, bell, and candell, Such as to reade them have desyre Or with them are wyllynge to meddell.

“Thy false power wyl I bring down, Thou shalt not raygne many a yer, I shall dryve the from citye to towne, Even with this PEN that thou seyste here; Thou fyghtest with swerd, shylde and speare, But I wyll fyght with Gods worde; Which is now so open and cleare, That it shall brynge the under the borde.”[3]

THE POPE

“Though I brought never so many to hel, And to utter dampnacion, Throughe myne ensample, and consel, Or thorow any abhominacion, Yet doth our lawe excuse my fashion. And thou, Luther, arte accursed; For blamynge me, and my condition, The holy decres have the condempned.

“Thou stryvest against my purgatory, Because thou findest it not in scripture: As though I by myne auctorite Alyght not make one for myne honoure. Knowest thou not, that I have power To make, and mar, in heaven and hell, In erth, and every creature? Whatsoever I do it must be well.

“As for scripture, I am above it; Am not I Gods hye vicare? Shulde I be bounde to folowe it, As the carpenter his ruler?[4] Nay, nay, hereticks ye are, That will not obey my auctoritie. With this SWORDE I wyll declare, That ye shal al accursed be.”

THE CARDINAL

“I am a Cardinall of Rome, Sent from Christes hye vicary, To graunt pardon to more, and sume, That wil Luther resist strongly: He is a greate hereticke treuly, And regardeth to much the scripture; For he thinketh onely thereby To subdue the popes high honoure.

“Receive ye this PARDON devoutely, And loke that ye agaynst him fight; Plucke up youre herts, and be manyle, For the pope sayth that ye do but ryght: And this be sure, that at one flyghte, Allthough ye be overcome by chaunce, Ye shall to heaven go with greate myghte; God can make you no resistaunce.

“Put these heretikes for their medlynge Shall go down to hel every one; For they have not the popes blessynge, Nor regard his holy pardon: They thinke from all destruction By Christes bloud to be saved, Fearynge not our excommunication, Therefore shall they al be dampned.”

NOTES

1. Take a specimen from his high encomiums on the priesthood:

“There is no emperour, kyng, duke, ne baron That of God hath commissyon, As hath the leest preest in the world beynge.

- * * * * * * *

God hath to them more power gyven, Than to any aungell, that is in heven; With v. words he may consecrate Goddes body in flesshe and blode to take, And handeleth his maker bytwene his handes. The preest byndeth and unbindeth all bandes, Both in erthe and in heven.— Thou ministers all the sacramentes seven. Though we kyst thy fete thou were worthy; Thou art the surgyan that cureth synne dedly; No remedy may we fynde under God, But alone on preesthode. —God gave preest that dignitč, And letteth them in his stede amonge us be, Thus be they above aungels in degre. See Hawkins’s Orig. of Eng. Drama, vol. i. p. 61.

2. i.e. denied us the Cup, see below, ver. 94. 3. i.e. make thee knock under the table. 4. i.e. his rule.

II. John Anderson my Jo. A SCOTTISH SONG.

While in England verse was made the vehicle of controversy, and Popery was attacked in it by logical argument, or stinging satire; we may be sure the zeal of the Scottish Reformers would not suffer their pens to be idle, but many a pasquil was discharged at the Romish priests, and their enormous encroachments on property. Of this kind perhaps is the following, (preserved in Maitland’s MS. Collection of Scottish poems in the Pepysian Library:)

“Tak a Wobster, that is leill, And a Miller, that will not steill, With ane Priest, that is not gredy, And lay ane deid corpse thame by, And, throw virtue of thame three, That deid corpse sall qwyknit be.”

Thus far all was fair: but the furious hatred of Popery led them to employ their rhymes in a still more licentious manner. It is a received tradition in Scotland, that at the time of the Reformation, ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung by the rabble to the tunes of the most favourite hymns in the Latin service. Green sleeves and pudding pies (designed to ridicule the popish clergy) is said to have been one of these metamorphosed hymns; Maggy Lauder was another: John Anderson my Jo was a third. The original music of all these burlesque sonnets was very fine. To give a specimen of their manner, we have inserted one of the least offensive. The reader will pardon the meanness of the composition for the sake of the anecdote, which strongly marks the spirit of the times. In the present edition this song is much improved by some new readings communicated by a friend; who thinks by the “seven Bairns,” in st. 2d are meant the Seven Sacraments; five of which were the spurious offspring of Mother Church: as the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy. The adaption of solemn church music to these ludicrous pieces, and the jumble of ideas thereby occasioned, will account for the following fact.— From the Records of the General Assembly in Scotland, called, The Book of the Universal Kirk, p. 90, 7th July, 1568, it appears, that Thomas Bassendyne, printer in Edinburgh, printed “a psalme buik, in the end whereof was found printit ane baudy sang, called, Welcome Fortunes.”[1]

WOMAN

JOHN Anderson my jo, cum in as ze gae by, And ze sall get a sheips heid weel baken in a pye; Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pat; John Anderson my jo, cum in, and ze’s get that.

MAN

“And how doe ze, Cummer? and hove hae ze threven? And how mony bairns hae ze?” WOM. “Cummer, I hae seven,” MAN. Are they to zour awin gude man?” WOM. Na, Cummer, na; For five of tham were gotten, quhan he was awa’.”

NOTES

1. See also Biograph. Britan. 1st edit., vol. i. p. 177.

III. Little John Nobody.

We have here a witty libel on the Reformation under King Edward VI. written about the year 1550, and preserved in the Pepys Collection, British Museum, and Strype’s Memoirs of Cranmer. The author artfully declines entering into the merits of the cause, and wholly reflects on the lives and actions of many of the Reformed. It is so easy to find flaws and imperfections in the conduct of men, even the best of them, and still easier to make general exclamations about the profligacy of the present times, that no great point is gained by arguments of that sort, unless the author could have proved that the principles of the Reformed Religion had a natural tendency to produce a corruption of manners; whereas he indirectly owns, that their Reverend Father [Archbishop Cranmer] had used the most proper means to stem the torrent, by giving the people access to the scriptures, by teaching them to pray with understanding, and by publishing homilies, and other religious tracts. It must however be acknowledged, that our libeller had at that time sufficient room for just satire. For under the banners of the Reformed had inlisted themselves, many concealed papists, who had private ends to gratify; many that were of no religion; many greedy courtiers, who thirsted after the possessions of the church; and many dissolute persons, who wanted to be exempt from all ecclesiastical censures: and as these men were loudest of all others in their cries for Reformation, so in effect none obstructed the regular progress of it so much, or by their vicious lives brought vexation and shame more on the truly venerable and pious Reformers. The reader will remark the fondness of our satirist for alliteration: in this he was guilty of no affectation or singularity; his versification is that of Pierce Plowman’s Visions, in which a recurrence of similar letters is essential: to this he has only superadded rhyme, which in his time began to be the general practice. See an Essay on this very peculiar kind of metre, prefixed to Book vi.

IN December, when the dayes draw to be short, After November, when the nights wax noysome and long; As I past by a place privily at a port, I saw one sit by himself making a song: His last[1] talk of trifles, who told with his tongue That few were fast i’ th’ faith. I freyned that freake, Whether he wanted wit, or some had done him wrong. He said, he was little John Nobody, that durst not speake.

“John Nobody,” quoth I, “what news? thou soon note and tell What manner men thou meane, thou art so mad.” He said, “These gay gallants, that wil construe the gospel, As Solomon the sage, with semblance full sad; To discusse divinity they nought adread; More meet it were for them to milk kye at a fleyke.” “Thou lyest,” quoth I, “thou losel, like a leud lad.” He said he was little John Nobody, that durst not speake.

“Its meet for every man on this matter to talk, And the glorious gospel ghostly to have in mind; It is sothe said, that sect but much unseemly skalk; As boyes babble in books, that in scripture are blind; Yet to their fancy soon a cause will find; As to live in lust, in lechery to leyke: Such caitives count to become of Cains kind;[2] But that I, little John Nobody durst not speake.

“For our reverend father hath set forth an order, Our service to be said in our seignours tongue; As Solomon the sage set forth the scripture; Our suffrages, and services, with many a sweet song, With homilies, and godly books us among, That no stiff, stubborn stomacks we should freyke: But wretches nere worse to do poor men wrong; But that I little John Nobody dare not speake.

“For bribery was never so great, since born was our Lord, And whoredom was never les hated, sith Christ harrowed hel, And poor men are so sore punished commonly through the world, That it would grieve any one, that good is, to hear tel. For al the homilies and good books, yet their hearts be so quel, That if a man do amisse, with mischiefe they wil him wreake; The fashion of these new fellows it is so vile and fell: But that I little John Nobody dare not speake.

“Thus to live after their lust, that life would they have, And in lechery to leyke al their long life; For al the preaching of Paul, yet many a proud knave Wil move mischiefe in their mind both to maid and wife To bring them in advoutry, or else they wil strife, And in brawling about baudery, Gods commandments breake: But of these frantic it fellowes, few of them do thrife; Though I little John Nobody dare not speake.

“If thou company with them, they will currishly carp, and not care According to their foolish fantacy; but fast wil they naught: Prayer with them is but prating; therefore they it forbear: Both almes deeds, and holiness, they hate it in their thought: Therefore pray we to that prince, that with his bloud us bought, That he wil mend that is amiss: for many a manful freyke Is sorry for these sects, though they say little or nought; And that I little John Nobody dare not once speake.

“Thus in NO place, this NOBODY, in NO time I met, Where NO man, ne NOUGHT was, nor NOTHING did appear; Through the sound of a synagogue for sorrow I swet, That Aeolus through the eccho did cause me to hear. Then I drew me down into a dale, whereas the dumb deer Did shiver for a shower; but I shunted from a freyke: For I would no wight in this world wist who I were, But little John Nobody, that dare not once speake.

NOTES

1. Perhaps “He left talk.” 2. So in Pierce the Plowman’s creed, the proud friars are said to be — Of Caymes kind.” Vid. Sig. C ij b.

IV. Queen Elizabeth’s Verses, While Prisoner At Woodstock. WRIT WITH CHARCOAL ON A SHUTTER.

These verses are preserved by Hentzner, in that part of his Travels, which has been reprinted in so elegant a manner at Strawberry-Hill. In Hentzner’s book they were wretchedly corrupted, but are here given as amended by his ingenious editor. The old orthography, and one or two ancient readings of Hentzner’s copy are here restored.

OH, Fortune! how thy restlesse wavering state Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt Witnes this present prisonn, wither fate Could beare[1] me, and the joys I quit. Thus causedst the guiltie to be losed From bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed: Causing the guiltles to be straite reserved, And freeing those that death hath well deserved. But by her envie can be nothing wroughte, So God send to my foes all they have thoughte. A.D. MDLV. ELIZABETHE, PRISONNER.

NOTES

1. Could beare, is an ancient idiom, equivalent to did bear or hath borne. See below the Beggar of Bednal Green, ver. 57, Could say.

V. The Heir Of Linne.

The original of this ballad is found in the Editor’s folio manuscript, the breaches and defects in which, rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These it is hoped the reader will pardon, as indeed the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject. From the Scottish phrases here and there discernable in this poem, it should seem to have been originally composed beyond the Tweed. The Heir of Linne appears not to have been a Lord of Parliament, but a Laird, whose title went along with his estate.

PART THE FIRST

LITHE and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne: It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.

His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead, him froe, And he lov’d keeping companie.

To spend the daye with merry cheare, To drinke and revel! every night, To card and dice from eve to morne, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.

To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, To alwaye spend and never spare, I wott, an’ it were the king himselfe, Of gold and fee he mote be bare.

Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne Till all his gold is gone and spent; And he maun sell his landes so broad, His house, and landes, and all his rent.

His father had a keen stewŕrde, And John o’ the Scales was called hee: But John is become a gentel-man, And John has gott both gold and fee.

Sayes, “Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, Good store of gold Ile give thee here.”

“My gold is gone, my money is spent; My lande nowe take it unto thee: Give me the golde, good John o’ the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee.”

Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie;[1] But for every pounde that John agreed, The lande, I wis, was well worth three.

He told him the gold upon the borde, He was right glad his land to winne; “The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ile be the lord of Linne.”

Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, All but a poore and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glenne.

For soe he to his father hight. “My sonne, when I am gonne,” sayd hee, “Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:

“But sweare me nowe upon the roode, That lonesome lodge thou’lt never spend; For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.”

The heire of Linne is full of golde: “And come with me, my friends,” sayd hee, “Let’s drinke, and rant, and merry make, And he that spares, ne’er mote he thee.”

They ranted, drank, and merry made, Till all his gold it waxed thinne; And then his friendes they slunk away; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.

He had never a penny in his purse, Never a penny left but three, And one was brass, another was lead, And another it was white money.

“Nowe well-aday,” sayd the heire of Linne, “Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, For when I was the lord of Linne, I never wanted gold nor fee.”

“But many a trustye friend have I, And why shold I feel dole or care? Ile borrow of them all by turnes, Soe need I not be never bare.”

But one, I wis, was not at home; Another had payd his gold away; Another call’d him thriftless loone, And bade him sharpely wend his way.

“Now well-aday,” sayd the heire of Linne, “Now well-aday, and woe is me; For when I had my landes so broad, On me they liv’d right merrilee.

“To beg my bread from door to door I wis, it were a brenning shame: To rob and steale it were a sinne: To worke my limbs I cannot frame.

“Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, For there my father bade me wend; When all the world should frown on mee I there shold find a trusty friend.”

PART THE SECOND

AWAY then hyed the heire of Linne Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, Untill he came to lonesome lodge, That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.

He looked up, he looked downe, In hope some comfort for to Winne But bare and lothly were the walles. “Here’s sorry cheare,” quo’ the heire of Linne.

The little windowe dim and darke Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; No shimmering sunn here ever shone; No halesome breeze here ever blew.

No chair, ne table he mote spye, No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, Nought save a rope with renning noose, That dangling hung up o’er his head.

And over it in broad letters, These words were written so plain to see: “Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, And brought thyselfe to penurie?

“All this my boding mind misgave, I therefore left this trusty friend: Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, And all thy shame and sorrows end.”

Sorely shent wi’ this rebuke, Sorely shent was the heire of Linne, His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne.

Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three: “This is a trusty friend indeed, And is right welcome unto mee.”

Then round his necke the corde he drewe, And sprung aloft with his bodle: When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, And to the ground came tumbling hee.

Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, Ne knewe if he were live or dead: At length he looked, and saw a bille, And in it a key of gold so redd.

He took the bill, and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there: It told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere.[2]

Two were full of the beaten golde, The third was full of white money; And over them in broad letters These words were written so plaine to see:

“Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; Amend thy life and follies past; For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last.”

“And let it bee,” sayd the heire of Linne; “And let it bee, but if I amend:[3] For here I will make mine avow, This reade[4] shall guide me to the end.”

Away then went with a merry cheare, Away then went the heire of Linne; I wis, he neither ceas’d ne blanne, Till John o’ the Scales house he did winne.

And when he came to John o’ the Scales, Upp at the speere[5] then looked hee; There sate three lords upon a rowe, Were drinking of the wine so free.

And John himself sate at the bord-head, Because now lord of Linne was hee. “I pray thee,” he said, “good John o’ the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee.”

“Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Away, away, this may not bee: For Christs curse on my head,” he sayd, “If ever I trust thee one pennie.”

Then bespake the heire of Linne, To John o’ the Scales wife then spake he: “Madame, some almes on me bestowe, I pray for sweet Saint Charitle.”

Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; For if we shold hang any losel heere, The first we wold begin with thee.”

Then bespake a good fellňwe, Which sat at John o’ the Scales his bord; Sayd, “Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; Some time thou wast a well good lord;

“Some time a good fellow thou hast been, And sparedst not thy gold nor fee; Therefore Ile lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need bee.

“And ever, I pray thee, John o’ the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie For well I wot thou hadst his land, And a good bargain it was to thee.”

Up then spake him John o’ the Scales, All wood he answer’d him againe: “Now Christs curse on my head,” he sayd, “But I did lose by that bargaine.

“And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, Before these lords so faire and free, Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.

“I draw you to record, lords,” he said. With that he cast him a gods pennie: “Now by my fay,” sayd the heire of Linne, “And here, good John, is thy money.”

And he pull’d forth three bagges of gold, And layd them down upon the bord: All woe begone was John o’ the Scales, Soe shent he cold say never a word.

He told him forth the good red gold, He told it forth with mickle dinne. “The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.”

Sayes, “Have thou here, thou good fellňwe, Forty pence thou didst lend me: Now I am againe the lord of Linne, And forty pounds I will give thee.

“Ile make the keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame; For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.”

“Now welladay!” sayth Joan o’ the Scales: “Now welladay! and woe is my life! Yesterday I was lady of Linne, Now Ime but John o’ the Scales his wife.”

“Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; Farewell now, John o’ the Scales,” said hee: “Christs curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy.”

- In the present edition of this ballad several ancient readings are restored from the folio manuscript.

NOTES

1 i.e. earnest-money; from the French ‘denier ŕ Dieu.’ At this day, when application is made to the Dean and Chapter of Carlisle to accept an exchange of the tenant under one of their leases, a piece of silver is presented by the new tenant, which is still called a God’s-penny. 2. In-fere, i.e. together. 3. i.e. unless I amend. 4. i.e. advice, counsel. 5. Perhaps the hole in the door or window, by which it was “speered,” i.e. sparred, fastened, or shut. In Bale’s Second Part of the Acts of Eng. Votaries, we have this phrase (fol. 38), “The dore therof oft tymes opened and speared agayne.”

VI. Gascoigne’s Praise of the Fair Bridges, afterwards Lady Sandes, ON HER HAVING A SCAR IN HER FOREHEAD.

George Gascoigne was a celebrated poet in the early part of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, and appears to great advantage among the miscellaneous writers of that age. He was author of three or four plays, and of many smaller poems; one of the most remarkable of which is a satire in blank verse, called the Steele-glass, 1576, 4to. Gascoigne was born in Essex, educated in both universities, whence he removed to Gray’s-inn; but, disliking the study of the law, became first a dangler at court, and afterwards a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries. He had no great success in any of these pursuits, as appears from a poem of his, intitled, “Gascoigne’s Wodmanship, written to Lord Gray of Wilton.” Many of his epistles dedicatory are dated in 1575, 1576, from “his poore house in Walthamstoe;” where he died a middle-aged man in 1577, if he is the person meant in an old tract, intitled, “A remembrance of the well employed Life and godly End of George Gascoigne, Esq. who deceased at Stamford in Lincolnshire, Oct. 7, 1577, by Geo. Whetstone, Gent. an eye-witness of his godly and charitable end in this world,” 4to. no date.— [From a manuscript of Oldys.] Mr. Thomas Warton thinks “Gascoigne has much exceeded all the poets of his age, in smoothness and harmony of versification.”[1] But the truth is, scarce any of the earlier poets of Queen Elizabeth’s time are found deficient in harmony and smoothness, though those qualities appear so rare in the writings of their successors. In the Paradise of dainty Devises[2] (the Dodsley’s Miscellany of those times) will hardly be found one rough, or inharmonious line:[3] whereas the numbers of Jonson, Donne, and most of their contemporaries, frequently offend the ear, like the filing of a saw. Perhaps this is in some measure to be accounted for from the growing pedantry of that age, and from the writers affecting to run their lines into one another, after the manner of the Latin and Greek poets. The following poem (which the elegant writer above quoted hath recommended to notice, as possessed of a delicacy rarely to be seen in that early state of our poetry) properly consists of alexandrines of twelve and fourteen syllables, and is printed from two quarto black-letter collections of Gascoigne’s pieces; the first intitled, “A hundreth sundrie flowres, bounde up in one small posie, &c. London, imprinted for Richarde Smith:” without date, but from a letter of H. W. (p. 202.) compared with the printer’s epistle to the reader, it appears to have been published in 1572, or 3. The other is intitled, “The Posies of George Gascoigne, Esq. corrected, perfected, and augmented by the author, 1575. Printed at London, for Richard Smith, &c.” No year, but the epist. dedicat. is dated 1576. In the title page of this last (by way of printer’s,[4] or bookseller’s device) is an ornamental wooden cut, tolerably well executed, wherein Time is represented drawing the figure of Truth out of a pit or cavern, with this legend, Occulta veritas tempore patet [R. S.] This is mentioned because it is not improbable but the accidental sight of this or some other title page containing the same device, suggested to Rubens that well-known design of a similar kind, which he has introduced into the Luxemburg gallery,[5] and which has been so justly censured for the unnatural manner of its execution.

IN court whoso demaundes What dame doth most excell; For my conceit I must needes say, Faire Bridges beares the bel.

Upon whose lively cheeke, To prove my judgement true, The rose and lilie seeme to strive For equall change of hewe

And therewithall so well Hir graces all agree! No frowning cheere dare once presume In hir sweet face to bee.

Although some lavishe lippes, Which like some other best, Will say, the blemishe on hir browe Disgraceth all the rest.

Thereto I thus replie; God wotte, they little knowe The hidden cause of that mishap, Nor how the harm did growe:

For when dame Nature first Had framde hir heavenly face, And thoroughly bedecked it With goodly gleames of grace;

It lyked hir so well: “Lo here,” quod she, “a peece For perfect shape, that passeth all Appelles’ work in Greece.

“This bayt may chaunce to catche The greatest God of love, Or mightie thundring Jove himself, That rules the roast above.”

But out, alas! those wordes Were vaunted all in vayne: And some unseen wer present there, Pore Bridges, to thy pain.

For Cupide, crafty boy, Close in a corner stoode, Not blyndfold then, to gaze on hir: I gesse it did him good.

Yet when he felte the flame Gan kindle in his brest, And herd dame Nature boast by hir To break him of his rest;

His hot newe-chosen love He chaunged into hate, And sodeynly with mightie mace Gan rap hir on the pate.

It greeved Nature muche To see the cruell deede: Mee seemes I see hir, how she wept To see hir dearling bleede.

“Wel yet,” quod she, “this hurt Shal have some helpe I trowe:” And quick with skin she coverd it, That whiter is than snowe.

Wherwith Dan Cupide fled, For feare of further flame, When angel-like he saw hir shine, Whome he had smit with shame.

Lo, thus was Bridges hurt In cradel of hir kind.[6] The coward Cupide brake hir browe To wreke his wounded mynd.

The skar there still remains; No force, there let it bee: There is no cloude that can eclipse So bright a sunne, as she.

- The Lady here celebrated was Catharine, daughter of Edmond second Lord Chandos, wife of William Lord Sands. See Collins’s Peerage, vol. ii. p. 133, ed. 1779.

NOTES

1. Observations on the Faerie Queen, vol. ii. p. 168. 2. Printed in 1578, 1596, and perhaps oftener, in 4to. Black-letter. 3. The same is true of most of the poems in the Mirrour of Magistrates, 1563, 4to, and also of Surrey’s Poems, 1557. 4. Henrie Binneman. 5. Le Tems découvre la Vérité. 6. i.e. in the cradle of her family. See Warton’s Observations, vol. ii. p. 137.

VII. Fair Rosamond.

Most of the circumstances in this popular story of King Henry II. and the beautiful Rosamond have been taken for fact by our English historians; who, unable to account for the unnatural conduct of Queen Eleanor in stimulating her sons to rebellion, have attributed it to jealousy, and supposed that Henry’s amour with Rosamond was the object of that passion. Our old English annalists seem, most of them, to have followed Higden the monk of Chester, whose account, with some enlargements, is thus given by Stow. “Rosamond, the fayre daughter of Walter Lord Clifford, concubine to Henry II. (poisoned by Queen Eleanor, as some thought) dyed at Woodstocke [A.D. 1177] where King Henry had made for her a house of wonderfull working; so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house after some was named Labyrinthus, or Dedalus worke, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a Maze;[1] but it was commonly said, that lastly the queen came to her by a clue of thridde, or silke, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after: but when she was dead, she was buried at Godstow, in an house of nunnes beside Oxford, with these verses upon her tombe

HIC JACET IN TUMBA, ROSA MUNDI, NON ROSA MUNDA: NON REDOLET, SED OLET, QUĆ REDOLERE SOLET.

In English thus:

“The rose of the world, but not the cleane flowre, Is now here graven; to whom beauty was lent: In this grave full darke nowe is her bowre, That by her life was sweet and redolent: But now that she is from this life blent, Though she were sweets, now foully doth she stinke. A mirrour good for all men, that on her thinke.” Stow’s Annals, ed. 1631, p. 154.

How the queen gained admittance into Rosamond’s bower is differently related. Holinshed speaks of it, as “the common report of the people, that the queene . . . founde hir out by a silken thread, which the king had drawne after him out of hir chamber with his foot, and dealt with hir in such sharpe and cruell wise, that she lived not long after.” Vol. iii. p. 115. On the other hand in Speede’s Hist. we are told that the jealous queen found her out “by a clew of silke, fallen from Rosamond’s lappe, as shee sate to take are, and suddenly fleeing from the sight of the searcher, the end of her silke fastened to her foot, and the clew still unwinding, remained behinde: which the queene followed, till shee had found what she sought, and upon Rosamond so vented her spleene, as the lady lived not long after.” 3d. edit. p. 509. Our ballad-maker, with more ingenuity, and probably as much truth, tells us the clue was gained by surprise, from the knight, who was left to guard her bower. It is observable, that none of the old writers attribute Rosamond’s death to poison (Stowe, above, mentions it merely as a slight conjecture); they only give us to understand, that the queen treated her harshly; with furious menaces, we may suppose, and sharp expostulations, which had such an effect on her spirits, that she did not long survive it. Indeed on her tomb-stone, as we learn from a person of credit,[2] among other fine sculptures, was engraven the figure of a cup. This, which perhaps at first was an accidental ornament, (perhaps only the Chalice) might in after-times suggest the notion that she was poisoned; at least this construction was put upon it, when the stone came to be demolished after the nunnery was dissolved. The account is, that “the tombstone of Rosamund Clifford was taken up at God-stow, and broken in pieces, and that upon it were interchangeable weavings drawn out and decked with roses red and green, and the picture of the cup, out of which she drank the poison given her by the queen, carved in stone.” Rosamond’s father having been a great benefactor to the nunnery of Godstow, where she had also resided herself in the innocent part of her life, her body was conveyed there, and buried in the middle of the choir; in which place it remained till the year 1191, when Hugh Bishop of Lincoln caused it to be removed. The fact is recorded by Hoveden, a contemporary writer, whose words are thus translated by Stowe: “Hugh Bishop of Lincolne came to the abbey of nunnes, called God-stow, . . . and when he had entred the church to pray, he saw a tombe in the middle of the quire, covered with a pall of silke, and set about with lights of waxe: and demanding whose tomb it was, he was answered, that it was the tombe of Rosamond, that was some time lemman to Henry II. . . . who for the love of her had done much good to that church. Then quoth the bishop, Take out of this place the harlot, and bury her without the church, lest Christian religion should grow in contempt, and to the end that, through example of her, other women, being made afraid, may beware, and keepe themselves from unlawfull and advouterous company with men.”— Annals, p. 159. History further informs us that King John repaired Godstow nunnery, and endowed it with yearly revenues, “that these holy virgins might releeve with their prayers, the soules of his father King Henrie, and of Lady Rosamund there interred.”[3] . . . In what situation her remains were found at the dissolution of the nunnery, we learn from Leland, “Rosamundes tumbe at Godstow nunnery was taken up [of] late; it is a stone with this inscription, Tumba Rosamundć. Her bones were closid in lede, and withyn that bones were closyd yn lether. When it was opened a very swete smell came owt of it.”[4]. See Hearne’s discourse above quoted, written in 1718; at which time he tells us, were still seen by the pool at Woodstock the foundations of a very large building, which were believed to be the remains of Rosamond’s labyrinth. To conclude this (perhaps too prolix) account, Henry had two sons by Rosamond, from a computation of whose ages, a modern historian has endeavoured to invalidate the received story. These were William Longue-espé (or Long-sword) Earl of Salisbury, and Geoffrey Bishop of Lincolne.[5] Geoffrey was the younger of Rosamond’s sons, and yet is said to have been twenty years old at the time of his election to that see in 1173. Hence the writer concludes, that King Henry fell in love with Rosamond in 1149, when in King Stephen’s reign he came over to be knighted by the King of Scots; he also thinks it probable that Henry’s commerce with this lady “broke off upon his marriage with Eleanor [in 1152] and that the young lady, by a natural effect of grief and resentment at the defection of her lover, entered on that occasion into the nunnery of Godstowe, where she died probably before the rebellion of Henry’s sons in 1173.” [Carte’s Hist. vol. i. p. 652.] But let it be observed, that Henry was but sixteen years old when he came over to be knighted; that he staid but eight months in this island, and was almost all the time with the King of Scots; that he did not return back to England till 1153, the year after his marriage with Eleanor; and that no writer drops the least hint of Rosamond’s having been abroad with her lover, nor indeed is it probable that a boy of sixteen should venture to carry over a mistress to his mother’s court. If all these circumstances are considered, Mr. Carte’s account will be found more incoherent and improbable than that of the old ballad; which is also countenanced by most of our old historians. Indeed the true date of Geoffrey’s birth, and consequently of Henry’s commerce with Rosamond, seems to be best ascertained from an ancient manuscript in the Cotton Library; wherein it is thus registered of Geoffrey Plantagenet: “Natus est 5° Henry II. [1159.] Factus est miles 25° Henry II. [1179.] Elect. in Episcop. Lincoln. 28° Henry II. [1182.]” Vid. Chron. de Kirkstall (Domitian xii.) Drake’s Hist. of York, p. 422. The Ballad of Fair Rosamond appears to have been first published in “Strange Histories or Songs and Sonnets, of Kinges, Princes, Dukes, Lords, Ladyes, Knights, and Gentlemen, &c. By Thomas Delone. Lond. 1612,” 4to. It is now printed (with conjectural emendations) from four ancient copies in black-letter; two of them in the Pepys Library.

WHEN as King Henry rulde this land, The second of that name, Besides the queene, he dearly lovde A faire and comely dame.

Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, Her favour, and her face; A sweeter creature in this worlde Could never prince embrace.

Her crisped lockes like threads of golde Appeard to each mans sight; Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, Did cast a heavenlye light.

The blood within her crystal cheeks Did such a colour drive, As though the lillye and the rose For mastership did strive.

Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, Her name was called so, To whom our queene, dame Ellinor, Was known a deadlye foe.

The king therefore, for her defence, Against the furious queene, At Woodstocke builded such a bower, The like was never scene.

Most curiously that bower was built Of stone and timber strong, An hundered and fifty doors Did to this bower belong:

And they so cunninglye contriv’d With turnings round about, That none but with a clue of thread, Could enter in or out.

And for his love and ladyes sake, That was so faire and brighte, The keeping of this bower he gave Unto a valiant knighte.

But fortune, that doth often frowne Where she before did smile, The kinges delighte and ladyes joy Full soon shee did beguile:

For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised warres Within the realme of France.

But yet before our comelye king The English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, his lady faire, His farewelle thus he tooke:

“My Rosamonde, my only Rose, That pleasest best mine eye: The fairest flower in all the worlde To feed my fantasye:

“The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excelle: My royal Rose, a thousand times I bid thee nowe farwelle!

“For I must leave my fairest flower, My sweetest Rose; a space, And cross the seas to famous France, Proud rebelles to abase.

But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortlye see, And in my heart, when hence I am, Ile beare my Rose with mee.”

When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, Did heare the king saye soe, The sorrowe of her grieved heart Her outward lookes did showe;

And from her cleare and crystall eyes The teares gusht out apace, Which like the silver-pearled dewe Ranne downe her comely face.

Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, Did waxe both wan and pale, And for the sorrow she conceivde Her vital spirits faile;

And falling down all in a swoone Before King Henryes face, Full oft he in his princelye armes Her bodye did embrace:

And twentye times, with watery eyes, He kist her tender cheeke, Until he had revivde againe Her senses milde and meeke.

“Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?” The king did often say. “Because,” quoth shee, “to bloodye warres My lord must part awaye.

“But since your grace on forrayne coastes Amonge your foes unkinde Must goe to hazard life and limbe, Why should I staye behinde?

“Nay rather, let me, like a page, Your sworde and target beare; That on my breast the blowes may lighte, Which would offend you there.

Or lett mee, in your royal tent, Prepare your bed at nighte, And with sweete baths refresh your grace, At your returne from fighte.

“So I your presence may enjoye No toil I will refuse; But wanting you, my life is death; Nay, death Ild rather chuse!”

“Content thy self, my dearest love; Thy rest at home shall bee In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; For travell fits not thee.

“Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; Soft peace their sexe delightes; Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; Gay feastes, not cruell fightes.

“My Rose shall safely here abide, With musicke passe the daye; Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes, My foes seeke far awaye.

“My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde, Whilst Ime in armour dighte; Gay galliards here my love shall dance, Whilst I my foes goe fighte.

“And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste To bee my loves defence; Be carefull of my gallant Rose When I am parted hence.”

And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, As though his heart would breake And Rosamonde, for very griefe, Not one plaine word could speake.

And at their parting well they mighte In heart be grieved sore: After that daye faire Rosamonde The king did see no more.

For when his grace had past the seas, And into France was gone; With envious heart, Queene Ellinor To Woodstocke came anone.

And forth she calls this trustye knighte, In an unhappy houre; Who with his clue of twined thread, Came from this famous bower.

And when that they had wounded him, The queene this thread did gette, And went where Ladye Rosamonde Was like an angell sette.

But when the queene with stedfast eye Beheld her beauteous face, She was amazed in her minde At her exceeding grace.

“Cast off from thee those robes,” she said, “That riche and costlye bee; And drinke thou up this deadlye draught, Which I have brought to thee.”

Then presentlye upon her knees Sweet Rosamonde did falle; And pardon of the queene she crav’d For her offences all.

“Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,” Faire Rosamonde did crye; “And lett mee not with poison stronge Enforcčd bee to dye.

“I will renounce my sinfull life, And in some cloyster bide; Or else be banisht, if you please, To range the world soe wide.

“And for the fault which I have done, Though I was forc’d theretoe, Preserve my life, and punish mee As you thinke meet to doe.”

And with these words, her lillie handes She wrunge full often there; And downe along her lovely face Did trickle many a teare.

But nothing could this furious queene Therewith appeased bee; The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, As she knelt on her knee,

Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke; Who tooke it in her hand, And from her bended knee arose, And on her feet did stand:

And casting up her eyes to heaven, Shee did for mercye calle; And drinking up the poison stronge, Her life she lost withalle.

And when that death through everye limbe Had showde its greatest spite, Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse Shee was a glorious wight.

Her body then they did entomb, When life was fled away, At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, As may be seene this day.

NOTES

1. Consisting of vaults under ground, arched and walled with brick and stone, according to Drayton. See note on his Epistle of Rosamond. 2. Tho. Allen, of Gloc. Hall, Oxon. who died in 1632, aged 90. See Hearne’s rambling discourse concerning Rosamond, at the end of Gul. Neubrig. Hist. vol. iii. p. 739. 3. Vide Reign of Henry II. in Speed’s History, writ by Dr. Barcham, Dean of Bocking 4. This would have passed for miraculous, if it had happened in the tomb of any clerical person, and a proof of his being a saint. 5. Afterwards Archbishop of York, temp. Rich. I.

VIII. Queen Eleanor’s Confession.

“Eleanor, the daughter and heiress of William Duke of Guienne, and Count of Poicton, had been married sixteen years to Louis VII. King of France, and had attended him in a croisade, which that monarch commanded against the infidels: but having lost the affections of her husband, and even fallen under some suspicions of gallantry with a handsome Saracen, Louis, more delicate than politic, procured a divorce from her, and restored her those rich provinces, which by her marriage she had annexed to the crown of France. The young Count of Anjou, afterwards Henry II. King of England, though at that time but in his nineteenth year, neither discouraged by the disparity of age, nor by the reports of Eleanor’s gallantry, made such successful courtship to that princess, that he married her six weeks after her divorce, and got possession of all her dominions as a dowry. A marriage thus founded upon interest was not likely to be very happy: it happened accordingly. Eleanor, who had disgusted her first husband by her gallantries, was no less offensive to her second by her jealousy: thus carrying to extremity, in the different parts of her life, every circumstance of female weakness. She had several sons by Henry, whom she spirited up to rebel against him; and endeavouring to escape to them disguised in man’s apparel in 1173, she was discovered and thrown into a confinement, which seems to have continued till the death of her husband in 1189. She however survived him many years: dying in 1204, in the sixth year of the reign of her youngest son, John.”— See Hume’s History, 4to. vol. i. pp. 260, 307. Speed, Stowe, &c. It is needless to observe, that the following ballad (given, with some corrections, from an old printed copy) is altogether fabulous; whatever gallantries Eleanor encouraged in the time of her first husband, none are imputed to her in that of her second.

QUEENE Elianor was a sicke womŕn, And afraid that she should dye: Then she sent for two fryars of France To speke with her speedilye.

The king calld downe his nobles all, By one, by two, by three; “Earl marshall, Ile goe shrive the queene, And thou shalt wend with mee.”

“A boone, a boone;” quoth Earl Marshŕll, And fell on his bended knee; “That whatsoever Queene Elianor saye, No harme therof may bee.”

“Ile pawne my landes,” the king then cryd, “My sceptre, crowne, and all, That whatsoere Queen Elianor sayes No harme thereof shall fall.

“Do thou put on a fryars coat, And Ile put on another; And we will to Queen Eleanor goe Like fryar and his brother.”

Thus both attired then they goe: When they came to Whitehall, The bells did ring, and the quiristers sing, And the torches did lighte them all.

When that they came before the queene They fell on their bended knee; “A boone, a boone, our gracious queene, That you sent so hastilee.”

“Are you two fryars of France,” she sayd, “As I suppose you bee? But if you are two Englishe fryars, You shall hang on the gallowes tree.”

“We are two fryars of France, they sayd, As you suppose we bee, We have not been at any masse Sith we came from the sea.”

“The first vile thing that ever I did I will to you unfolde; Earl marshall had my maidenhed, Beneath this cloth of golde.”

“Thats a vile sinne,” then sayd the king, “May God forgive it thee!” “Amen, amen,” quoth Earl Marshall; With a heavye heart spake hee.

“The next vile thing that ever I did, To you Ile not denye, I made a boxe of poyson strong, To poison King Henrye.”

“Thats a vile sinne, then sayd the king, “May God forgive it thee!” “Amen, amen,” quoth earl marshall; “And I wish it so may bee.”

“The next vile thing that ever I did, To you I will discover; I poysoned fair Rosamonde, All in fair Woodstocke bower.”

“Thats a vile sinne,” then sayd the king; “May God forgive it thee!” “Amen, amen,” quoth Earl Marshall; “And I wish it so may bee.”

“Do you see yonders little boye, A tossing of the balle? That is earl marshalls eldest sonne,[1] And I love him the best of all.

“Do you see yonders little boye, A catching of the balle? That is King Henryes youngest sonne,[1] And I love him the worst of all.

“His head is fashyon’d like.a bull; His nose is like a boare.” “No matter for that,” King Henrye cryd, “I love him the better therfore.”

The king pulled off his fryars coate. And appeared all in redde: She shrieked, and cryd, and wrung her hands, And sayd she was betrayde.

The king lookt over his left shoulder, And a grimme look looked hee, “Earl marshal”, he sayd, “but for my oathe, Or hanged thou shouldst bee.”

NOTES

1. She means that the eldest of these two was by the Earl Marshal, the youngest by the king.

IX. The Sturdy Rock.

This poem, subscribed M. T. (perhaps invertedly for T. Marshall) [1] is preserved in The Paradise of Daintie Devises. The two first stanzas may be found accompanied with musical notes in “An howres recreation in Musicke, &c. by Richard Alison,” Lond. 1606, 4to.: usually bound up with three or four sets of “Madrigals set to music by Tho. Weelkes,” Lond. 1597, 1600, 1608, 4to:” One of these madrigals is so complete an example of the Bathos, that I cannot forbear presenting it to the reader.

Thule, the period of cosmographie, Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphureous fire Doth melt the frozen clime, and thaw the skie, Trinacrian Ćtna’s flames ascend not hier: These things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous I, Whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry. The Andelusian merchant, that returnes Laden with cutchinele and china dishes, Reports in Spaine, how strangely Fogo burnes Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes: These things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous I, Whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry.

Mr. Weelkes seems to have been of opinion, with many of his brethren of later times, that nonsense was best adapted to display the powers of musical composure.

THE sturdy rock for all his strength By raging seas is rent in twaine: The marble stone is pearst at length, With little drops of drizling rain: The oxe doth yeeld unto the yoke, The steele obeyeth the hammer stroke.

The stately stagge, that seemes so stout, By yalping hounds at bay is set: The swiftest bird, that flies about, Is caught at length in fowlers net: The greatest fish, in deepest brooke, Is soon deceived by subtill hooke.

Yea, man himselfe, unto whose will All things are bounden to obey, For all his wit and worthie skill, Doth fade at length, and fall away. There is nothing but time doeth waste; The heavens, the earth consume at last.

But vertue sits triumphing still Upon the throne of glorious fame: Though spiteful death mans body kill, Yet hurts he not his vertuous name: By life or death what so betides, The state of vertue never slides.

NOTES

1. Vid. Athen. Ox. pp. 152. 316.

X. The Beggar’s Daughter of Bednall-Green.

This popular old ballad was written in the reign of Elizabeth, as appears not only from ver. 23, where the arms of England are called the “Queenes armes,” but from its tune’s being quoted in other old pieces, written in her time.— See the ballad of Mary Ambree, Book v. No. 19. The late Mr. Guthrie assured the Editor, that he had formerly seen another old song on the same subject, composed in a different measure from this; which was truly beautiful, if we may judge from the only stanza he remembered. In this it was said of the old Beggar, that “down his neck

“— his reverend lockes In comelye curles did wave And on his aged temples grewe The blossomes of the grave.”

The following ballad is chiefly given from the Editor’s folio manuscript, compared with two ancient printed copies: the concluding stanzas, which contain the old Beggar’s discovery of himself, are not however given from any of these, being very different from those of the vulgar ballad. Nor yet does the Editor offer them as genuine, but as a modern attempt to remove the absurdities and inconsistencies, which so remarkably prevailed in this part of the song, as it stood before: whereas, by the alteration of a few lines, the story is rendered much more affecting, and is reconciled to probability and true history. For this informs us, that at the decisive battle of Evesham, (fought August 4, 1265) when Simon de Montfort, the great Earl of Leicester, was slain at the head of the barons, his eldest son Henry fell by his side, and, in consequence of that defeat, his whole family sunk for ever, the king bestowing their great honours and possessions on his second son, Edmund Earl of Lancaster.

PART THE FIRST

ITT was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.

And though shee was of favor most faire, Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.

Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, “Good father, and mother, let me goe away To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.” This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.

Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night From father and mother alone parted shee; Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.

Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.

Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, And went unto Rumford along the hye way; Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee; Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.

Shee had not beene there a month to an end, But master and mistres and all was her friend: And every brave gallant, that once did her see, Was straight-way enamourd of pretty Bessee.

Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, And in their songs daylye her love was extold; Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.

The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; And at her commandment still wold they bee; Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.

Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; “I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.—” Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.

The first of them was a gallant young knight, And he came unto her disguisde in the night; The second a gentleman of good degree, Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.

A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, He was the third suiter, and proper withall: Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.

“And, if thou wilt marry with mee,” quoth the knight, “Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; My hart’s so inthralled by thy bewtie, That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.”

The gentleman sayd, “Come, marry with mee, As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee: My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.”

“Let me bee thy husband,” the merchant cold say, “Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.”

Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, “My father and mother I meane to obey; First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.”

To every one this answer shee made, Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, “This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; But where dwells thy father,” my prettye Besse?

“My father,” shee said, “is soone to be seene: The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene, That daylye sits begging for charitie, He is the good father of pretty Bessee.

“His markes and his tokens are knowen very well; He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.

“Nay then,” quoth the merchant, “thou art not for mee.” “Nor,” quoth the innholder, “my wife thou shalt bee:” “I lothe,” sayd the gentle, “a beggars degree, And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!”

“Why then,” quoth the knight, “hap better or worse, I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.

“With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe.” “Nay soft,” quoth his kinsmen, “it must not be soe; A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.”

But soone after this, by breake of the day, The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee, Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.

As swifte as the winde to ryde they were seene, Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene; And as the knight lighted most courteouslie, They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.

But rescew came speedilye over the plaine, Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. This fray being ended, then straitway he see His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.

Then spake the blind beggar, “Although I bee poore, Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.

“And then, if my gold may better her birthe, And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.

“But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.” With that they replyed, “Contented bee wee.” “Then here’s,” quoth the beggar, “for pretty Bessee.”

With that an angell he cast on the ground, And dropped in angels full three thousand pound; And oftentimes itt was proved most plaine, For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:

Soe that the place, wherin they did sift, With gold it was covered every whitt. The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, Sayd, “Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.

“Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.” “Then marry,” quoth he, “my girle to this knight; And heere,” added hee, “I will now throwe you downe A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.”

The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene: And all those, that were her suitors before, Their fleshe for very anger they tore.

Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, And then made a ladye in others despite: A fairer ladye there never was seene, Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall greene.

But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, What brave lords and knights thither were prest, The SECOND FITT[1] shall set forth to your sight With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.

PART THE SECOND

OFF a blind beggars daughter most bright, That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; All the discourse therof you did see; But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.

Within a gorgeous palace most brave, Adorned with all the cost they cold have, This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, And all for the creditt of pretty Bessee.

All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.

This marriage through England was spread by report, Soe that a great number therto did resort Of nobles and gentles in every degree; And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.

To church then went this gallant younge knight; His bride followed after, an angell most bright, With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was seene As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.

This marryage being solempnized then, With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, Each one admiring the beautifull bryde.

Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, To talke, and to reason a number begunn: They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.

Then spake the nobles, “Much marvell have wee, This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see.” “My lords,” quoth the bride, “my father’s so base, He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.”

“The prayse of a woman in questyon to bringe Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; But wee thinke thy father’s baseness,” quoth they, “Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye.”

They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.

He had a daintye lute under his arme, He touched the strings, which made such a charme, Saies, “Please you to heare any musicke of mee, Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.”

With that his lute he twanged straightway, And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; And after that lessons were playd two or three, He strayn’d out this song most delicatelie.

“A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, And many one called her pretty Bessee.

“Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, But beggd for a penny all day with his hand; And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.

“And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, Her father is ready, with might and with maine, To proove shee is come of noble degree: Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee.”

With that the lords and the companye round With harty laughter were readye to swound; Att last said the lords, “Full well wee may see, The bride and the beggar’s behoulden to thee.”

On this the bride all blushing did rise, The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, “O pardon my father, grave nobles,” quoth shee, “That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.

“If this be thy father,” the nobles did say, “Well may he be proud of this happy day; Yett by his countenance well may wee see, His birth and his fortune did never agree:

“And therfore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, (And looke that the truth thou to us doe say) Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.”

“Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, One song more to sing, and then I have done; And if that itt may not winn good report, Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.

“[2]Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee; Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.

“When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose, Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; A leader of courage undaunted was hee, And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.

“At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine; Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!

“Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side, Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.

“Among the dead bodyes all lifelesse he laye, Till evening drewe on of the following daye, When by a yong ladye discoverd was hee; And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!

“A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte To search for her father, who fell in the fight, And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye, Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.

“In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, While he throughe the realme was beleevd to be slaine At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.

“And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.

“And here have we lived in fortunes despite, Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: Full forty winters thus have I beene A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.

“And here, noble lordes, is ended the song Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, That ne’er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee.”

Now when the faire companye everye one, Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, They all were amazed, as well they might bee, Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.

With that the faire bride they all did embrace, Saying, “Sure thou art come of an honourable race, Thy father likewise is of noble degree, And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.”

Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte, In joy and felicitie long lived hee, All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.

NOTES

1. See the Essay on the word FIT, Next. 2. The eight succeeding stanzas are conjectured to be the work of Robert Dodsley.— Editor.

An Essay on the Meaning of the Word FIT.

The word Fit, for Part, often occurs in our ancient ballads and metrical romances; which being divided into several parts for the convenience of singing them at public entertainments, were in the intervals of the feast sung by Fits, or intermissions. So Puttenham in his Art of English Poesie, 1589, says, “the Epithalamie was divided by breaches into three partes to serve for three several Fits, or times to be sung.”— p. 41. From the same writer we learn some curious particulars relative to the state of ballad-singing in that age, that will throw light on the present subject: speaking of the quick returns of one manner of tune in the short measures used by common rhymers; these, he says, “glut the eare, unless it be in small and popular musickes, sung by these Cantabanqui, upon benches and barrels heads, where they have none other audience then boys or countrey fellowes, that passe by them in the streete; or else by blind harpers, or such like taverne minstrels, that give a Fit of mirth for a groat . . . their matter being for the most part stories of old time, as the tale of Sir Topas, the reportes of Bevis of Southampton, Guy of Warwicke, Adam Bell and Clymme of the Clough, and such other old romances or historical rimes, made purposely for recreation of the common people at Christmasse dinners and brideales, and in tavernes and alehouses, and such other places of base resorte.” p. 69. This species of entertainment which seems to have been handed down from the ancient bards, was in the time of Puttenham falling into neglect; but that it was not, even then, wholly excluded more genteel assemblies, he gives us room to infer from another passage, “We ourselves,” says this courtly[1] writer, “have written for pleasure a little brief romance, or historical ditty in the English tong of the Isle of Great Britaine in short and long meetres, and by breaches or divisions [i.e. Fits] to be more commodiously sung to the harpe in places of assembly, where the company shal be desirous to heare of old adventures, and valiaunces of noble knights in times past, as are those of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, Sir Bevys of Southampton, Guy of Warwicke, and others like.”— p. 33. In more ancient times no grand scene of festivity was complete without one of these reciters to entertain the company with feats of arms, and tales of knighthood, or, as one of these old minstrels says, in the beginning of an ancient romance on Guy and Colbronde, in the Editor’s folio MS.—

“When meate and drinke is great plentyč, And lords and ladyes still wil bee, And sitt and solace lythe;[2] Then itt is time for mee to speake Of keene knightes, and kempčs great, Such carping for to kythe.”

If we consider that a groat in the age of Elizabeth was more than equivalent to a shilling now, we shall find that the old harpers were even then, when their art was on the decline, upon a far more reputable footing than the ballad-singers of our time. The reciting of one such ballad as that of the Beggar of Bednall-green, in two parts, was rewarded with half a crown of our money. And that they made a very respectable appearance, we may learn from the dress of the old beggar, in the preceding ballad, where he comes into company in the habit and character of one of these minstrels, being not known to be the bride’s father, till after her speech, ver. 63. The exordium of his song, and his claiming a groat for his reward, ver. 80, are peculiarly characteristic of that profession. Most of the old ballads begin in a pompous manner, in order to captivate the attention of the audience, and induce them to purchase a recital of the song: and they seldom conclude the first part without large promises of still greater entertainment in the second. This was a necessary piece of art to incline the hearers to be at the expence of a second groat’s-worth. Many of the old romances extend to eight or nine Fits, which would afford a considerable profit to the reciter. To return to the word FIT; it seems at one time to have peculiarly signified the pause, or breathing-time, between the several parts (answering to PASSUS in the Visions of Pierce Plowman): thus in the ancient Ballad of Chevy-Chase, (Vol i. no. i.) the first Part ends with this line,

“The first FIT here I fynde:”

i.e. here I come to the first pause or intermission. By degrees it came to signify the whole part or division preceding the pause. (See the concluding verses of the First and Second Parts of “Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly,” in book ii. No. i.) This sense it had obtained so early as the time of Chaucer: who thus concludes the first part of his rhyme of Sir Thopas, (writ in ridicule of the old ballad romances):

Lo I lordis mine, here is a Fitt; If ye woll any more of it, To tell it woll I fonde.

The word “Fit” indeed appears originally to have signified a poetic strain, verse, or poem: for in these senses it is used by the Anglo-Saxon writers. Thus King Alfred, in his Boetius, having given a version of lib. 3. metr. 5, adds, thare yisdom thaf thar arungen haefde i.e. “When wisdom had sung these [FITTS] verses.” And in the Proem to the same book fon on fitte, “Put into [Fitt] verse.” So in Cedmon, p. 45. feond on fitte, seems to mean, “composed a song,” or “poem.” The reader will trace this old Saxon phrase, in the application of the word fond in the foregoing passage of Chaucer. — See Gloss. Spenser has used the word fit to denote “a strain of music:” see his poem intitled, “Collin Clout’s come home again,” where he says:

“The shepherd of the ocean [Sir Walt. Raleigh] Provoked me to play some pleasant Fit, And when be heard the music which I made He found himself full greatlye pleas’d at it,” &c.

It is also used in the old ballad of “King Estmere,” Book i. no vi..

From being applied to music, this word was easily transferred to dancing: thus in the old play of Lusty Juventus (described in book ii.), Juventus says:

“By the masse I would fayne go daunce a Fitte.”

And from being used as a part or division in a ballad, poem, &c., it is applied by Bale to a section or a chapter in a book (though I believe in a sense of ridicule or sarcasm), for thus he entitles two chapters of his English Docaryes, Part ii. viz.— fol. 49, “The fyrst FYTT of Anselme with Kynge Wyllyam Rufus.”— fol. 50, “An other FYTT of Anselme with Kynge Wyllyam Rufus.”

NOTES

1.He was one of Queen Elizabeth’s gent. pensioners, at a time when the whole band consisted of men of distinguished birth and fortune. Vid. Ath. Ox. 2. Perhaps “blythe.”

XI. Fancy and Desire. BY THE EARL OF OXFORD.

Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, was in high fame for his poetical talents in the reign of Elizabeth: perhaps it is no injury to his reputation that few of his compositions are preserved for the inspection of impartial posterity. To gratify curiosity, we have inserted a sonnet of his, which is quoted with great encomiums for its “excellencie and wit,” in Puttenham’s Arte of Eng. Poesie,[1] and found entire in the Garland of Good-will. A few more of his sonnets (distinguished by the initial letters E. O.) may be seen in the Paradise of Daintie Devises. One of them is intitled, “The Complaint of a Lover, wearing blacke and tawnie.” The only lines in it worth notice are these:

“A crowne of baies shall that man beare Who triumphs over me; For black and tawnie will I weare, Which mourning colours be.”

We find in Hall’s Chronicle, that when Queen Catharine of Arragon died, Jan. 8, 1536, “Queen Anne [Bullen] ware YELLOWE for the mourning.” And when this unfortunate princess lost her head, May 19, the same year, “on the ascension day following, the kyng for mourning ware WHYTE.” Fol. 227, 228. Edward, who was the seventeenth earl of Oxford, of the family of Vere, succeeded his father in his title and honours in 1562, and died an aged man in 1604. See Mr. Walpole’s Noble Authors. Athen. Oxon. &c.

COME hither, shepherd’s swayne: “Sir, what do you require? ” I pray thee, shewe to me thy name. “My name is FOND DESIRE.”

When wert thou borne, Desire? “In pompe and pride of May.” By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot? “By fond Conceit men say.”

Tell me who was thy nurse? “Fresh youth in sugred joy.” What was thy meate and dayly foode? “Sad sighes with great annoy.”

What hadst thou then to drinke? “Unsavoury lovers teares.” What cradle wert thou rocked in? “In hope devoyde of feares.”

What lulld thee then asleepe? “Sweete speech, which likes me best.” Tell me, where is thy dwelling place? “In gentle hartes I rest.”

What thing doth please thee most? “To gaze on beauty stille.” Whom dost thou thinke to be thy foe? “Disdayn of my good wille.”

Doth company displease? “Yes, surelye, many one.” Where doth Desire delight to live? “He loves to live alone.”

Doth either tyme or age Bringe him unto decaye? “No, no, Desire both lives and dyes Ten thousand times a daye.”

Then, fond Desire, farewelle, Thou art no mate for mee; I sholde be lothe, methinkes, to dwelle With such a one as thee.

NOTES

1. Lond. 1589, p. 172.

XII. Sir Andrew Barton.

I cannot give a better relation of the fact, which is the subject of the following ballad, than in an extract from the late Mr. Guthrie ‘s Peerage; which was begun upon a very elegant plan, but never finished. Vol. i. 4to. p. 22. “The transactions which did the greatest honour to the Earl of Surrey[1] and his family at this time [A. D. 1511] was their behaviour in the case of Barton, a Scotch sea-officer. This gentleman’s father having suffered by sea from the Portuguese, he had obtained letters of marque for his two sons to make reprisals upon the subjects of Portugal. It is extremely probable, that the court of Scotland granted these letters with no very honest intention. The council board of England, at which the Earl of Surrey held the chief place, was daily pestered with complaints from the sailors and merchants, that Barton, who was called Sir Andrew Barton, under pretence of searching for Portuguese goods, interrupted the English navigation. Henry’s situation at that time rendered him backward from breaking with Scotland, so that their complaints were but coldly received. The Earl of Surrey, however, could not smother his indignation, but gallantly declared at the council board, that while he had an estate that could furnish out a ship, or a son that was capable of commanding one, the narrow seas should not be infested. “Sir Andrew Barton, who commanded the two Scotch ships, had the reputation of being one of the ablest sea officers of his time. By his depredations, he had amassed great wealth, and his ships were very richly laden. Henry, notwithstanding his situation, could not refuse the generous offer made by the Earl of Surrey. Two ships were immediately fitted out, and put to sea with letters of marque, under his two sons, Sir Thomas[2] and Sir Edward Howard. After encountering a great deal of foul weather, Sir Thomas came up with the Lion, which was commanded by Sir Andrew Barton in person; and Sir Edward came up with the Union, Barton’s other ship, (called by Hall, the Bark of Scotland.) The engagement which ensued was extremely obstinate on both sides; but at last the fortune of the Howards prevailed. Sir Andrew was killed fighting bravely, and encouraging his men with his whistle, to hold out to the last; and the two Scotch ships, with their crews, were carried into the river Thames. (Aug. 2, 1511.) “This exploit had the more merit, as the two English commanders were in a manner volunteers in the service, by their father’s order. But it seems to have laid the foundation of Sir Edward’s fortune; for, on the 7th of April, 1512, the king constituted him (according to Dugdale) Admiral of England, Wales, &c. “King James insisted upon satisfaction for the death of Barton, and capture of his ship: though Henry had generously dismissed the crews, and even agreed that the parties accused might appear in his courts of admiralty by their attorneys, to vindicate themselves.” This affair was in a great measure the cause of the battle of Flodden, in which James IV. lost his life. In the following ballad will be found perhaps some few deviations from the truth of history: to atone for which it has probably recorded many lesser facts, which history hath not condescended to relate. I take many of the little circumstances of the story to be real, because I find one of the most unlikely to be not very remote from the truth. In Part ii. ver. 156, it is said, that England had before “but two ships of war.” Now the Great Harry had been built only seven years before, viz. in 1504: which “was properly speaking the first ship in the English navy. Before this period, when the prince wanted a fleet, he had no other expedient but hiring ships from the merchants.”— Hume. This ballad, which appears to have been written in the reign of Elizabeth, has received great improvements from the Editor’s folio manuscript, wherein was an ancient copy, which, though very incorrect, seemed in many respects superior to the common ballad; the latter being evidently modernized and abridged from it. The following text is however amended and improved by the latter (chiefly from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection), as also by conjecture.

WHEN Flora with her fragrant flowers Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, And Neptune with his daintye showers Came to present the monthe of Maye; King Henrye rode to take the ayre, Over the river of Thames past hee; When eighty merchants of London came, And downe they knelt upon their knee.

“O yee are welcome, rich merchŕnts; Good saylors, welcome unto mee.” They swore by the rood, they were saylors good, But rich merchants they cold not bee: “To France nor Flanders dare we pass: Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; And all for a rover that lyes on the seas, Who robbs us of our merchant ware.”

King Henrye frownd, and turned him rounde, And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might, “I thought he had not beene in the world, Durst have wrought England such unright.” The merchants sighed, and said, “Alas!” And thus they did their answer frame, “He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas, And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.”

The king lookt over his left shoulder, And an angrye look then looked hee: “Have I never a lorde in all my realme, Will feitch yond traytor unto me? ” “Yea, that dare I;” Lord Howard sayes; “Yea, that dare I with heart and hand; If it please your grace to give me leave, Myselfe wil be the only man.”

“Thou art but yong;” the kyng replyed: “Yond Scott hath numbred manye a yeare.” “Trust me, my liege, Ile make him quail, Or before my prince I will never appeare.” “Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, And chuse them over my realme so free; Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, To guide the great shipp on the sea.”

The first man, that Lord Howard chose, Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, Thoughe he was threescore yeeres and ten; Good Peter Simon was his name. “Peter,” sais hee, “I must to the sea, To bring home a traytor live or dead: Before all others I have chosen thee; Of a hundred gunners to be the head.”

“If you, my lord, have chosen mee Of a hundred gunners to be the head, Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, If I misse my marke one shilling bread.”[3] My lord then chose a boweman rare, Whose active hands had gained fame. In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, And William Horseley was his name.[4]

“Horseley,” said he, “I must with speede Go seeke a traytor on the sea, And now of a hundred bowemen brave To be the head I have chosen thee.” “If you,” quoth hee, “have chosen mee Of a hundred bowemen to be the head; On your main-mast Ile hanged bee, If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.”

With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, This noble Howard is gone to the sea; With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, Out at Thames mouth sayled he. And days he scant had sayled three, Upon the voyage, he tooke in hand, But there he mett with a noble shipp, And stoutely made itt stay and stand.

“Thou must tell me,” Lord Howard said, “Now who thou art, and what’s thy name; And shewe me where thy dwelling is: And whither bound, and whence thou came.” “My name is Henry Hunt,” quoth hee With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; “I and my shipp doe both belong To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.”

“Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, Of a Scottish rover on the seas; Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!” Then ever he sighed, and said “Alas!” With a grieved mind, and well away, “But over-well I knowe that wight, I was his prisoner yesterday.”

“As I was sayling uppon the sea, A Burdeaux voyage for to fare; To his hach-borde he clasped me, And robd me of all my merchant ware And mickle debts, God wot, I owe, And every man will have his owne; And I am nowe to London bounde, Of our gracious king to beg a boone.

“That shall not need,” Lord Howard sais; “Lett me but once that robber see, For every penny tane thee froe It shall be doubled shillings three.” “Nowe God forefend,” the merchant said, “That you should seek soe far amisse! God keepe you out of that traitors hands! Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.

“Hee is brasse within, and steele without, With beames on his topcastle stronge; And eighteen pieces of ordinance He carries on each side along: And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide; His pinnace beareth ninescore men, And fifteen canons on each side.

“Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; He wold overcome them everye one, If once his beames they doe downe fall.”[5] “This is cold comfort, sais my lord, To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: Yet Ile bring him and his ship to shore, Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee.”

“Then a noble gunner you must have, And he must aim well with his ee, And sinke his pinnace into the sea, Or else hee never orecome will bee: And if you chance his shipp to borde, This counsel I must give withall, Let no man to his topcastle goe To strive to let his beams downe fall.

“And seven pieces of ordinance, I pray your honour lend to mee, On each side of my shipp along, And I will lead you on the sea. A glasse Ile sett, that may be seene Whether you sail by day or night; And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton, knight.”

THE SECOND PART

THE merchant sett my lorde a glasse Soe well apparent in his sight, And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight. His hachebord it was gilt with gold, Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: “Nowe by my faith,” Lord Howarde sais, “This is a gallant sight to see.

“Take in your ancyents, standards eke, So close that no man may them see; And put me forth a white willowe wand, As merchants use to sayle the sea.” But they stirred neither top, nor mast;[6] Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by. “What English churles are yonder,” he sayd, “That can soe little curtesye?

“Now by the roode, three yeares and more I have beene admirall over the sea; And never an English nor Portingall Without my Ieave can passe this way.” Then called he forth his stout pinnace; “Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: I sweare by the masse, yon English churles Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree.”

With that the pinnace itt shot off, Full well Lord Howard might it ken; For itt stroke down my lord’s fore mast, And killed fourteen of his men. “Come hither, Simon,” sayes my lord, “Looke that thy word be true, thou said; For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.”

Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; His ordinance he laid right lowe; He put in chaine[7] full nine yardes long, With other great shott lesse, and moe; And he lette goe his great gunnes shott: Soe well he settled itt with his ee, The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe, He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.

And when he saw his pinnace sunke, Lord, how his heart with rage did swell! “Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell.” When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose, Within his heart he was full faine: “Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummer, Sound all your trumpetts out amaine.”

“Fight on, my men,” Sir Andrewe sais, “Weale howsoever this geere will sway; Itt is my Lord Admirall of England, Is come to seeke mee on the sea.” Simon had a sonne, who shott right well, That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare; In att his decke he gave a shott, Killed threescore of his men of warre.

Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott Came bravely on the other side, Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, And killed fourscore men beside. “Nowe, out alas!” Sir Andrewe cryed, “What may a man now thinke, or say? Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, He was my prisoner yesterday.

“Come hither to me, thou Gordon good, That aye wast readye att my call: I will give thee three hundred markes, If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.” Lord Howard hee then calld in haste, “Horseley see thou be true in stead; For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread.”

Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, He swarved it with might and maine; But Horseley with a bearing[8] arrowe, Stroke the Gordon through the braine; And he fell unto the haches again, And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: Then word went through Sir Andrews men, How that the Gordon hee was dead.

“Come hither to mee, James Hambilton, Thou art my only sisters sonne, If thou wilt let my beames downe fall, Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.” With that he swarved the maine-mast tree, He swarved it with nimble art; But Horseley with a broad arrowe Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart.

And downe he fell upon the deck, That with his blood did streame amaine: Then every Scott cryed, “Well-away! Alas! a comelye youth is slaine.” All woe begone was Sir Andrew then, With griefe and rage his heart did swell: “Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, For I will to the topcastle mysell.”

“Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; That gilded is with gold soe cleare God be with my brother John of Barton! Against the Portingalls hee it ware; And when he had on this armour of proofe, He was a gallant sight to see: Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, My deere brothčr, could cope with thee.”

“Come hither Horseley,” sayes my lord, “And looke your shaft that itt goe right, Shoot a good shoote in time of need, And for it thou shalt be made a knight. “Ile shoot my best,” quoth Horseley then, “Your honour shall see, with might and maine But if I were hanged at your maine-mast, I have now left but arrowes twaine.”

Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree, With right good will he swarved then: Upon his breast did Horseley hitt, But the arrow bounded back agen. Then Horseley spyed a privye place With a perfect eye in a secrette part; Under the spole of his right arme He smote Sir Andrew to the heart,

“Fight on, my men,” Sir Andrew sayes, “A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine; Ile but lye downe and bleede a while, And then Ile rise and fight againe. Fight on, my men,” Sir Andrew sayes, “And never flinche before the foe; And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse Until you heare my whistle blowe.”

They never heard his whistle blow Which made their hearts waxe sore adread: Then Horseley sayd, “Aboard, my lord, For well I wott Sir Andrew’s dead. They boarded then his noble shipp, They boarded it with might and maine; Eighteen score Scots alive they found, The rest were either maimed or slaine.

Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand, And off he smote Sir Andrewes head, “I must have left England many a daye, If thou wert alive as thou art dead.” He caused his body to be cast Over the hatchbord into the sea, And about his middle three hundred crownes: “Wherever thou land this will bury thee.”

Thus from the warres Lord Howard came, And backe he sayled ore the maine, With mickle Joy and triumphing Into Thames mouth he came againe. Lord Howard then a letter wrote, And sealed it with seale and ring; “Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace, As never did subject to a king:

“Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee; A braver shipp was never none: Nowe hath Your Grace two shipps of warr, Before in England was but one.” King Henryes grace with royall cheere Welcomed the noble Howard home, “And where,” said he, “is this rover stout, That I myselfe may give the doome?”

“The rover, he is safe, my liege, Full many a fadom in the sea; If he were alive as he is dead, I must have left England many a day: And your grace may thank four men i’ the ship For the victory wee have wonne, These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt, And Peter Simon, and his sonne.”

To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd, “In lieu of what was from thee tane, A noble a day now thou shalt have, Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne. And Horseley thou shalt be a knight, And lands and livings shalt have store; Howard shall be erle Surrye hight, As Howards erst have beene before.

“Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old, I will maintaine thee and thy sonne: And the men shall have five hundred markes For the good service they have done. Then in came the queene with ladyes fair To see Sir Andrewe Barton, knight: They weend that hee were brought on shore, And thought to have seen a gallant sight.

But when they see his deadlye face, And eyes soe hollow in his head, “I wold give,” quoth the king, “a thousand markes, This man were alive as hee is dead: Yett for the manfull part hee playd, Which fought soe well with heart and hand, His men shall have twelvepence a day, Till they come to my brother kings high land.”

NOTES

1. Thomas Howard, afterwards created Duke of Norfolk. 2. Called by old historians Lord Howard, afterwards created Earl of Surrey in his father’s life-time. He was father of the poetical Earl of Surrey. 3. An old English word for “breadth.” 4. Mr. Lambe, in his Notes to the Poem on the Battle of Flodden Field, contends, that this expert bowman’s name was not Horseley, but Hustler, of a family long seated near Stockton, in Cleveland, Yorkshire. Vid. p. 5. 5. It should seem from hence, that before our marine artillery was brought to its present perfection, some naval commanders had recourse to instruments or machines, similar in use, though perhaps unlike in construction, to the heavy Dolphins, made of lead or iron, used by the ancient Greeks; which they suspended from beams or yards fastened to the mast, and which they precipitately let fall on the enemies’ ships, in order to sink them, by beating holes through the bottoms of their undecked triremes, or otherwise damaging them. These are mentioned by Thucydides, lib. vii. p. 256, ed. 1564, folio, and are more fully explained in Schefferi de Militia Navali, lib. ii, cap. v. p. 136, ed. 1653, 4to. N.B.— It every where in the manuscript seems to be written beames. 6. i.e. did not salute. 7. i.e. discharged chain-shot. 8. Bearinge, sc. that carries well, &c. But see Gloss.

XIII. Lady Anne Bothwell’s Lament A SCOTTISH SONG

[1]The subject of this pathetic ballad the Editor once thought might possibly relate to the Earl of Bothwell, and his desertion of his wife Lady Jean Gordon, to make room for his marriage with the Queen of Scots; but this opinion he now believes to be groundless: indeed Earl Bothwell’s age, who was upwards of sixty at the time of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he should be the object of so warm a passion as this elegy supposes. He has been since informed, that it entirely refers to a private story: A young lady of the name of Bothwell, or rather Boswell, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband or lover, composed these affecting lines herself; which are here given from a copy in the Editor’s folio manuscript, corrected by another in Allan Ramsay’s Miscellany.

BALOW, my babe, lye still and sleipe! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe If thoust be silent, Ise be glad, Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. Balow, my boy, thy mothers joy, Thy father breides me great annoy. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weepe.

Whan he began to court my luve, And with his sugred[2] wordes to muve, His faynings fals, and flattering cheire To me that time did not appeire: But now I see, most cruell hee Cares neither for my babe nor mee. Balow, &c.

Lye still, my darling, sleipe a while, And when thou wakest, sweitly smile: But smile not, as thy father did, To cozen maids: nay, God forbid Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire Thy fatheris hart, and face to beire. Balow, &c.

I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father still: Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him doth still abyde: In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, Mine hart can neire depart him frae. Balow, &c.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, To faynings fals thine hart incline; Be loyal to thy luver Crew, And nevir change hir for a new: If gude or faire, of hir have care, For womens banning’s wonderous sair. Balow, &c.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gave, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; My babe and I’ll together live, He’ll comfort me when cares doe grieve: My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forgeit man’s cruelty. Balow, &c.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a womans mouth! I wish all maides be warnd by mee Nevir to trust mans curtesy; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They’le use us then they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil, and sleipe, It grives me sair to see thee weipe.

NOTES

1. It is now an established fact that the unhappy Anne was daughter to Bothwell, Bishop of Orkney. The faithless “father” was the lady’s cousin, Alexander Erskine,son to the Earl of Mar. While in the service of the Covenanters, he came to his death in Douglass castle, 1640. See Child’s English and Scottish ballads, IV., 123.— Editor. 2. When sugar was first imported into Europe, it was a very great dainty; and therefore the epithet sugred is used by all our old

writers metaphorically to express extreme and delicate sweetness. (See above, no. xi.) Sugar at present is cheap and common; and therefore suggests now a coarse and vulgar idea.

XIV. The Murder of the King of Scots.

The catastrophe of Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, the unfortunate husband of Mary Queen of Scots, is the subject of this ballad. It is here related in that partial imperfect manner, in which such an event would naturally strike the subjects of another kingdom; of which he was a native. Henry appears to have been a vain, capricious, worthless young man, of weak understanding and dissolute morals. But the beauty of his person, and the inexperience of his youth, would dispose mankind to treat him with an indulgence, which the cruelty of his murder would afterwards convert into the most tender pity and regret: and then imagination would not fail to adorn his memory with all those virtues he ought to have possessed. This will account for the extravagant eulogium bestowed upon him in the first stanza, &c. Henry Lord Darnley was eldest son of the Earl of Lennox, by the Lady Margaret Douglas, niece of Henry VIII. and daughter of Margaret Queen of Scotland by the Earl of Angus, whom that Princess married after the death of James IV. Darnley, who had been born and educated in England, was but in his twenty-first year, when he was murdered, Feb. 9, 1567-8. This crime was perpetrated by the Earl of Bothwell, not out of respect to the memory of Rizzio, but in order to pave the way for his own marriage with the queen. This ballad (printed, with a few corrections, from the Editor’s folio MS.) seems to have been written soon after Mary’s escape into England, in 1568, see ver. 65. It will be remembered (at ver. 5), that this princess was Queen Dowager of France, having been first married to Francis II. who died Dec. 4, 1560.

WOE worth, woe worth thee, false Scotlŕnde For thou hast ever wrought by sleight; The worthyest prince that ever was borne, You hanged under a cloud by night.

The queene of France a letter wrote, And sealed itt with harte and ringe; And bade him come Scotland within, And shee wold marry and crowne him kinge.

To be a king is a pleasant thing, To bee a prince unto a peere: But you have heard, and soe have I too, A man may well buy gold too deare.

There was an Italyan in that place, Was as well beloved as ever was hee, Lord David was his name, Chamberlaine to the queene was hee.

If the king had risen forth of his place, He wold have sate him downe in the cheare, And tho itt beseemed him not so well, Altho the kinge had been present there.

Some lords in Scotlande waxed wroth, And quarrelled with him for the nonce; I shall you tell how it befell, Twelve daggers were in him att once.

When the queene saw her chamberlaine was slaine, For him her faire cheeks shee did weete, And made a vowe for a yeare and a day The king and shee wold not come in one sheete.

Then some of the lords they waxed wrothe, And made their vow all vehementlye; For the death of the queenes chamberlaine, The king himselfe, how he shall dye.[1]

With gun-powder they strewed his roome, And layd greene rushes in his way: For the traitors thought that very night This worthye king for to betray.

To bedd the king he made him bowne; To take his rest was his desire; He was noe sooner cast on sleepe, But his chamber was on a blasing fire.

Up he lope, and the window brake, And hee had thirtye foote to fall; Lord Bodwell kept a privy watch, Underneath his castle wall.

“Who have wee here?” Lord Bodwell sayd: “Now answer me, that I may know.” “King Henry the Eighth my uncle was; For his sweete sake some pitty show.”

“Who have we here?” Lord Bodwell sayd, “Now answer me when I doe speake.” “Ah, Lord Bodwell, I know thee well; Some pitty on me I pray thee take.”

“Ile pitty thee as much,” he sayd, “And as much favor show to thee, As thou didst to the queenes chamberlains, That day thou deemedst him to die.”

Through halls and towers the king they ledd, Through towers and castles that were nye, Through an arbor into an orchard, There on a peare-tree hanged him hye.

When the governor of Scotland heard How that the worthye king was slaine; He persued the queen so bitterlye, That in Scotland shee dare not remaine.

But she is fledd into merry England, And here her residence hath taine; And through the Queene of Englands grace, In England now shee doth remaine.

NOTES

1. Pronounced after the northern manner dee.

XV. A Sonnet by Q. Elizabeth.

The following lines, if they display no rich vein of poetry, are yet so strongly characteristic of their great and spirited authoress, that the insertion of them will be pardoned. They are preserved in Puttenham’s Arte of English Poesie: a book in which are many sly addresses to the queen’s foible of shining as a poetess. The extraordinary manner in which these verses are introduced shews what kind of homage was exacted from the courtly writers of that age, viz:— “I find,” says this antiquated critic, “none example in English metre so well maintaining this figure [Exargasia, or the gorgeous, Lat. Expolitio] as that dittie of her majesties owne making, passing sweete and harmonicall; which figure beyng, as his very originall name purporteth, the most bewtifull and gorgious of all others, it asketh in reason to be reserved for a last complement, and desciphred by a ladies penne, herselfe beyng the most bewtifull, or rather bewtie of queenes.[1] And this was the occasion: our soveraigne lady perceiving how the Scottish queenes residence within this realme at so great libertie and ease (as were skarce meete for so great and dangerous a prysoner) bred secret factions among her people, and made many of the nobilitie incline to favour her partie: some of them desirous of innovation in the state: others aspiring to greater fortunes by her libertie and life: the queene our soveraigne laděe, to declare that she was nothing ignorant of those secret practizes, though she had long with great wisdome and pacience dissembled it, writeth this dittie most sweete and sententious, not hiding from all such aspiring minds the danger of their ambition and disloyaltie: which afterwards fell out most truly by th’ exemplary chastisement of sundry persons, who in favour of the said Scot. Qu. declining from her majestie, sought to interrupt the quiet of the realme by many evill and undutifull practizes.” This sonnet seems to have been composed in 1569, not long before the Duke of Norfolk, the Earls of Pembroke and Arundel, the Lord Lumley, Sir Nich. Throcmorton, and others, were taken into custody. (See Hume, Rapin, &c.) It was originally written in long lines or Alexandrines, each of which is here divided into two. The present edition is improved by some readings adopted from a copy printed in a collection from the papers of Sir John Harrington, intitled, Nugć Antiquać, Lond. 1769, 12mo. where the verses are accompanied with a very curious letter, in which this sonnet is said to be “of her Highness own inditing . . . My Lady Willoughby did covertly get it on her majesties tablet, and had much hazzard in so doing; for the queen did find out the thief, and chid for her spreading evil bruit of her writing such toyes, when others matters did so occupy her employment at this time; and was fearful of being thought too lightly of for so doing.”***

THE doubt of future foes Exiles my present joy; And wit me warnes to shun such snares, As threaten mine annoy.

For falshood now doth flow, And subjects faith doth ebbe: Which would not be, if reason rul’d, Or wisdome wove the webbe.

But clowdes of joyes untried Do cloake aspiring minds; Which turn to raine of late repent, By course of changed windes.

The toppe of hope supposed The roote of ruthe will be; And frutelesse all their grafted guiles, As shortly all shall see.

Then dazeld eyes with pride, Which great ambition blindes, Shal be unseeld by worthy wights, Whose foresight falshood finds.

The daughter of debate,[2] That discord ay doth sowe, Shal reape no game where former rule Hath taught stil peace to growe.

No forreine bannisht wight Shall ancre in this port; Our realme it brookes no strangers force, Let them elsewhere resort.

Our rusty sworde with rest Shall first his edge employ, To poll the toppes, that seeke such change, Or gape for such like joy.

NOTES

1. She was at this time near three-score. 2. She evidently means here the Queen of Scots.

- I cannot help subjoining to the above sonnet another distich of Elizabeth’s, preserved by Puttenham (p. 197), “which,” says he, “our soveraigne lady wrote in defiance of fortune.”

“Never think you, Fortune can beare the sway Where Vertue’s force can cause her to obay.

The slightest effusion of such a mind deserves attention.

XVI. The King of Scots and Andrew Browne.

This ballad is a proof of the little intercourse that subsisted between the Scots and English, before the accession of James I. to the crown of England. The tale which is here so circumstantially related does not appear to have had the least foundation in history, but was probably built upon some confused hearsay report of the tumults of Scotland during the minority of that prince, and of the conspiracies formed by different factions to get possession of his person. It should seem, from ver. 97, to have been written during the regency, or at least before the death, of the Earl of Morton, who was condemned and executed June 2, 1581; when James was in his fifteenth year. The original copy (preserved in the archives of the Antiquarian Society, London) is intitled, “A new Ballad, declaring the great treason conspired against the young King of Scots, and how one Andrew Browne, an Englishman, which was the king’s chamberlaine, prevented the same. To the tune of Milfield, or els to Green Sleeves.” At the end is subjoined the name of the author, W. Elderton. “Imprinted at London for Yarathe James, dwelling in Newgate Market, over against Ch. Church,” in black-letter, folio. This Elderton, who had been originally an attorney in the sheriff’s courts of London, and afterwards (if we may believe Oldys) a comedian, was a facetious fuddling companion, whose tippling and rhymes rendered him famous among his contemporaries. He was author of many popular songs and ballads; and probably other pieces in these volumes, besides the following, are of his composing. He is believed to have fallen a victim to his bottle before the year 1592. His epitaph has been recorded by Camden, and translated by Oldys:—

HIC SITUS EST SITIENS, ATQUE EBRIUS ELDERTONUS, QUID DICO HIC SITUS EST? HIC POTIUS SITIS EST.

Dead drunk here Elderton doth lie; Dead as he is, he still is dry; So of him it may well be said, Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.

See Stow’s Lond. [Guild-hall.]— Biogr. Brit. [Drayton, by Oldys, Note B.— Camden’s Remains.— The Exale-tation of Ale, among Beaumont’s Poems, 8vo. 1653.

OUT, alas! what a griefe is this That princes subjects cannot be true, But still the devill hath some of his, Will play their parts whatsoever ensue; Forgetting what a grievous thing It is to offend the anointed king! Alas for woe, why should it be so, This makes a sorrowful heigh-ho.

In Scotland is a bonnie kinge, As proper a youth as neede to be, Well given to every happy thing That can be in a kinge to see: Yet that unluckie country still Hath people given to craftie will. Alas for woe, &c.

On Whitsun eve it so befell, A posset was made to give the king, Whereof his ladie nurse hard tell, And that it was a poysoned thing: She cryed, and called piteouslie; “Now help, or els the king shall die!” Alas for woe, &c.

One Browne, that was an English man, And hard the ladies piteous crye, Out with his sword, and bestir’d him than, Out of the doores in haste to flie; But all the doores were made so fast, Out of a window he got at last. Alas for woe, &c.

He met the bishop coming fast, Having the posset in his hande: The sight of Browne made him aghast, Who bad him stoutly stale and stand. With him were two that ranne awa, For feare that Browne would make a fray. Alas for woe, &c.

“Bishop,” quoth Browne, “what hast thou there?” “Nothing at all, my friend,” sayde he; “But a posset to make the king good cheere.” “Is it so?” sayd Browne, “that will I see. First I will have thyself begin, Before thou go any further in; Be it weale or woe, it shall be so, This makes a sorrowful heigh-ho.”

The Bishop sayde, “Browne I doo know, Thou art a young man poore and bare; Livings on thee I will bestowe: Let me go on, take thou no care.” “No, no,” quoth Browne, “I will not be A traitour for all Christiantie; Happe well or woe, it shall be so, Drink now with a sorrowful, &c.”

The bishop dranke, and by and by His belly burst and he fell downe: A just rewarde for his traitery. “This was a posset indeed!” quoth Brown. He serched the bishop, and found the keyes, To come to the kinge when he did please. Alas for woe, &c.

As soon as the king got word of this, He humbly fell uppon his knee, And praysed God that he did misse To tast of that extremity: For that he did perceive and know, His clergie would betray him so: Alas for woe, &c.

“Alas,” he said, “unhappie realme, My father, and grandfather slaine:[1] My mother banished, O extreame! Unhappy fate, and bitter bayne! And now like treason wrought for me, What more unhappie realme can be!” Alas for woe, &c.

The king did call his nurse to his grace, And gave her twenty poundes a yeere; And trustie Browne too in like case, He knighted him with gallant geere: And gave him lands and livings great, For dooing such a manly feat, As he did showe, to the bishop’s woe, Which made, &c.

When all this treason done and past, Tooke not effect of traytery; Another treason at the last, They sought against his majestie: How they might make their kinge away, By a privie banket on a daye. Alas for woe, &c.

Another time to sell the king Beyonde the seas they had decreede: Three noble Earles heard of this thing, And did prevent the same with speede. For a letter came, with such a charme, That they should doo their king no harme: For further woe, if they did soe, Would make a sorrowful heigh-hoe.

The Earle Mourton told the Douglas then, “Take heed you do not offend the king; But shew yourselves like honest men Obediently in every thing: For his godmother[2] will not see Her noble childe misus’d to be With any woe; for if it be so, She will make,” &c.

God graunt all subjects may be true, In England, Scotland, every where: That no such daunger may ensue, To put the prince or state in feare: That God the highest king may see Obedience as it ought to be, In wealth or woe, God graunt it be so To avoide the sorrowful heigh-ho.

NOTES

1. His father was Henry Lord Darnley. His grandfather, the old Earl of Lenox, regent of Scotland, and father of Lord Darnley, was murdered at Stirling, Sept. 5, 1571. 2. Queen Elizabeth.

XVII. The Bonny Earl of Murray. A SCOTTISH SONG.

In December 1591, Francis Stewart, Earl of Bothwell, had made an attempt to seize on the person of his sovereign James VI. but being disappointed, had retired towards the north. The king unadvisedly gave a commission to George Gordon Earl of Huntley, to pursue Bothwell and his followers with fire and sword. Huntley, under cover of executing that commission, took occasion to revenge a private quarrel he had against James Stewart Earl of Murray, a relation of Bothwell’s. In the night of Feb. 7, 1592, he beset Murray’s house, burnt it to the ground, and slew Murray himself; a young nobleman of the most promising virtues, and the very darling of the people. See Robertson’s History. The present Lord Murray hath now in his possession a picture of his ancestor naked and covered with wounds, which had been carried about, according to the custom of that age, in order to inflame the populace to revenge his death. If this picture did not flatter, he well deserved the name of the BONNY EARL, for he is there represented as a tall and comely personage. It is a tradition in the family, that Gordon of Bucky gave him a wound in the face: Murray, half expiring, said, “You hae spilt a better face than your awin.” Upon this, Bucky, pointing his dagger at Huntley’s breast, swore, “You shall be as deep as I;” and forced him to pierce the poor defenceless body. King James, who took no care to punish the murderers, is said by some to have privately countenanced and abetted them, being stimulated by jealousy for some indiscreet praises which his queen had too lavishly bestowed on this unfortunate youth.— See the preface to the [next] ballad.— See also Mr. Walpole’s Catalogue of Royal Authors, vol. i. p. 42.

YE highlands, and ye lawlands, Oh! quhair hae ye been? They hae slaine the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green.

Now wae be to thee, Huntley! And quhairfore did you sae? I bade you bring him wi’ you, But forbade you him to slay.

He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh! he might hae been a king.

He was a braw gallant, And he played at the ba’; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower among them a’.

He was a braw gallant, And he playd at the gluve; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh! he was the Queenes luve.

Oh! lang will his lady Luke owre the castle downe,[1] Ere she see the Earl of Murray Cum sounding throw the towne.

NOTES

1. Castle downe here has been thought to mean the Castle of Downe, a seat belonging to the family of Murray.

XVIII. Young Waters. A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

It has been suggested to the Editor, that this ballad covertly alludes to the indiscreet partiality, which Queen Anne of Denmark is said to have shewn for the bonny Earl of Murray; and which is supposed to have influenced the fate of that unhappy nobleman. Let the reader judge for himself. The following account of the murder is given by a contemporary writer, and a person of credit,— Sir James Balfour, knight, Lyon King of Arms, whose manuscript of the Annals of Scotland is in the Advocates’ Library at Edinburgh. “The seventh of Febry, this zeire, 1592, the Earle of Murray was cruelly murthered by the Earle of Huntley at his house in Dunibrissel in Fyffe-shyre, and with him Dunbar, sheriffe of Murray. It was given out and publicly talkt, that the Earle of Huntley was only the instrument of perpetrating this facte, to satisfie the King’s jealousie of Murray, quhum the Queene, more rashely than wisely, some few days before had cornmendit in the King’s hearing, with too many epithets of a proper and gallant man. The reasons of these surmises proceedit from a proclamatione of the Kings, the 13 of Marche following; inhibiteine the zoung Earle of Murray to persue the Earle of Huntley, for his father’s slaughter, in respect he being wardeit [imprisoned] in the castell of Blacknesse for the same murther, was willing to abide a tryall, averring that he had done nothing but by the King’s majesties commissione; and was neither airt nor part in the murther.”[1] The following ballad is here given from a copy printed not long since at Glasgow, in one sheet 8vo. The world was indebted for its publication to the Lady Jean Hume, sister to the Earl of Hume, who died at Gibraltar.

ABOUT zule, quhen the wind blew cule, And the round tables began, A’! there is cum to our kings court Mony a well-favourd man.

The queen luikt owre the castle wa, Beheld baith dale and down, And then she saw zoung Waters Cum riding to the town.

His footmen they did rin before, His horsemen rade behind, Ane mantel of the burning gowd Did keip him frae the wind.

Gowden graith’d his horse before And siller shod behind, The horse zong Waters rade upon Was fleeter than the wind.

But than spake a wylie lord, Unto the queen said he, “O tell me qhua’s the fairest face Rides in the company.”

“I’ve sene lord, and I’ve sene laird, And knights of high degree; Bot a fairer face than zoung Waters, Mine eyne did never see.”

Out then spack the jealous king, (And an angry man was he) “O, if he had been twice as fair, zou micht have excepted me.”

“zou’re neither laird nor lord,” she says, “But the king that wears the crown; Theris not a knight in fair Scotland Bot to thee maun bow down.”

For a’ that she could do or say, Appeasd he wad nae bee; Bot for the words which she had said zoung Waters he maun dee.

They hae taen zoung Waters, and Put fetters to his feet; They hae taen zoung Waters, And thrown him in dungeon deep.

“Aft I have ridden thro’ Stirling town In the wind both and the weit; Bot I neir rade thro’ Stirling town Wi fetters at my feet.

“Aft have I ridden thro’ Stirling town In the wind both and the rain; Bat I neir rade thro’ Stirling town Neir to return again.”

They hae taen to the heiding-hill,[2] His zoung son in his craddle, And they hae taen to the heiding-hill, His horse both and his saddle.

They hae taen to the heiding-hill His lady fair to see. And for the words the Queene had spoke zoung Waters he did dee.

NOTES

1. This extract is copied from the Critical Review. 2. Heiding-hill, i.e. heading [beheading] hill. The place of execution was anciently an artificial hillock.

XIX. Mary Ambree.

In the year 1584, the Spaniards, under the command of Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, began to gain great advantages in Flanders and Brabant, by recovering many strong holds and cities from the Hollanders, as Ghent (called then by the English Gaunt), Antwerp, Mechlin, &c. See Stow’s Annals, p. 711. Some attempt made with the assistance of English volunteers to retrieve the former of these places probably gave occasion to this ballad. I can find no mention of our heroine in history, but the following rhymes rendered her famous among our poets. Ben Jonson often mentions her, and calls any remarkable virago by her name. See his Epicne, first acted in 1609, Act 4. sc. 2.; his Tale of a Tub, Act 1. sc. 4.; and his masque intitled the Fortunate Isles, 1626, where he quotes the very words of the ballad:

“Mary Ambree, (Who marched so free To the siege of Gaunt, And death could not daunt, As the ballad doth vaunt) Were a braver wight,” &c.

She is also mentioned in Fletcher’s Scornful Lady, Act v. sub finem. “— My large gentlewoman, my Mary Ambree, had I but seen into you, you should have had another bedfellow.—”

It is likewise evident that she is the virago intended by Butler in Hudibras (p. i. c. iii. v. 365), by her being coupled with Joan d’Arc, the celebrated Pucelle d’Orleans.

“A bold virago stout and tall As Joan of France, or English Mall.”

This ballad is printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, improved from the Editor’s folio manuscript, and by conjecture. The full title is, “The valorous acts performed at Gaunt by the brave bonnie lass Mary Ambree, who in revenge of her lovers death did play her part most gallantly. The tune is, The Blind Beggar, &c.”

WHEN captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunt; Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt, They mustred their souldiers by two and by three, And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.

When brave Sir John Major was slaine in her sight, Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight, Because he was slaine most treacherouslie, Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.

She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe; A faire shirt of male[1] then slipped on shee; Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

A helmett of proof shee strait did provide, A strong arminge sword shee girt by her side, On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee; Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand, Bidding all such, as wold, bee of her band; To wayte on her person came thousand and three: Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

“My soldiers,” she saith, “soe valiant and bold, Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde; Still formost in battel myselfe will I bee:” Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say, Soe well thou becomest this gallant array, Thy harte and thy weapons soe well do agree, There was none ever like Mary Ambree.

Shee cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life, With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife, With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free; Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

“Before I will see the worst of you all To come into danger of death, or of thrall, This hand and this life I will venture so free:” Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Shee led upp her souldiers in battaile array, ‘Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye; Seven howers in skirmish continued shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott, And her enemyes bodyes with bullets soe hott; For one of her owne men a score killed shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent, Away all her pellets and powder had sent, Straight with her keen weapon shee slasht him in three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, At length she was forced to make a retyre; Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Her foes they besett her on everye side, As thinking close siege shee cold never abide; To beate down the walles they all did decree: But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.

Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand, There daring their captaines to match any three: O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!

“Nowe saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live? Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:” Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.

“Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?” “A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free, Who shortelye with us a prisoner must bee.”

“No captaine of England; behold in your sight Two brests in my bosome, and therfore no knight: Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see, But a poor simple lass, called Mary Ambree.”

“But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre? If England doth yield such brave lasses as thee, Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.”

The Prince of great Parma heard of her renowne Who long had advanced for Englands faire crowne; Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee, And offerd rich presents to Mary Ambree.

But this virtuous mayden despised them all, “Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall: A mayden of England, sir, never will bee The whore of a monarcke,” quoth Mary Ambree.

Then to her owrie country shee backe did returne, Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne: Therfore English captaines of every degree Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.

NOTES

1. A peculiar kind of armour, composed of small rings of iron, and worn under the clothes. It is mentioned by Spencer, who speaks of the Irish gallowglass or foot-soldier as “armed in a long shirt of mayl.” (View of the State of Ireland.)

XX. Brave Lord Willoughbey.

Peregrine Bertie, Lord Willoughby of Eresby[1] had, in the year 1586, distinguished himself at the siege of Zutphen, in the Low Countries. He was the year after made general of the English forces in the United Provinces, in room of the Earl of Leicester, who was recalled. This gave him an opportunity of signalizing his courage and military skill in several actions against the Spaniards. One of these, greatly exaggerated by popular report, is probably the subject of this old ballad, which, on account of its flattering encomiums on English valour, hath always been a favourite with the people. “My Lord Willoughbie (says a contemporary writer) was one of the queenes best swordsmen . . . he was a great master of the art military . . . I have heard it spoken, that had he not slighted the court, but applied himself to the queene, he might have enjoyed a plentifull portion of her grace; and it was his saying, and it did him no good, that he was none of the reptilia; intimating, that he could not creepe on the ground, and that the court was not his element; for indeed, as he was a great souldier, so he was of suitable magnanimitie, and could not brooke the obsequiousnesse and assiduitie of the court.”—(Naunton.) Lord Willoughbie died in 1601. Both Norris and Turner were famous among the military men of that age. The subject of this ballad (which is printed from an old black- letter copy, with some conjectural emendations), may possibly receive illustration from what Chapman says in the dedication to his version of Homer’s Frogs and Mice, concerning the brave and memorable retreat of Sir John Norris, with only 1000 men, through the whole Spanish army, under the Duke of Parma, for three miles together.

THE fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field: The most couragious officers Were English captains three; But the bravest man in battel Was brave Lord Willoughbčy.

The next was Captain Norris, A valiant man was hee: The other Captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with fourteen thousand then, Upon the bloody shore.

“Stand to it, noble pikemen, And look you round about: And shoot you right, you bow-men, And we will keep them out: You musquet and calliver men, Do you prove true to me, I’le be the formost man in fight,” Says brave Lord Willoughbčy.

And then the bloody enemy They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most furiously, Not doubting to prevail: The wounded men on both sides fell Most pitious for to see, Yet nothing could the courage quell Of brave Lord Willoughbčy.

For seven hours to all mens view This fight endured sore, Until our men so feeble grew That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they eat, And drank the puddle water, They could no better get.

When they had fed so freely, They kneeled on the ground, And praised God devoutly For the favour they had found; And beating up their colours, The fight they did renew, And turning tow’rds the Spaniard, A thousand more they slew.

The sharp steel-pointed arrows, And bullets thick did fly, Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously; Which made the Spaniards waver, They thought it best to flee, They fear’d the stout behaviour Of brave Lord Willoughbčy.

Then quoth the Spanish general, “Come let us march away, I fear we shall be spoiled all If here we longer stay; For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey With courage fierce and fell, He will not give one inch of way For all the devils in hell.”

And then the fearful enemy Was quickly put to flight, Our men persued courageously, And caught their forces quite; But at last they gave a shout, Which ecchoed through the sky, “God, and St. George for England!” The conquerors did cry.

This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious queen was told Of this same victory. “O this is brave Lord Willoughbey, My love that ever won, Of all the lords of honour ‘Tis he great deeds hath done.”

To the souldiers that were maimed, And wounded in the fray, The queen allowed a pension Of fifteen pence a day; And from all costs and charges She quit and set them free: And this she did all for the sake Of brave Lord Willoughbčy.

Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismaid; If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foraign enemies, And set our nation free. And thus I end the bloody bout Of brave Lord Willoughbey.

NOTES

1. Lord Willoughby was the son of the noble lady who figures as the heroine of the well-known ballad The Duchess of Suffolk’s Calamity.— Editor.

XXI. Victorious Men of Earth.

This little moral sonnet hath such a pointed application to the heroes of the foregoing and following ballads, that I cannot help placing it here, though the date of its composition is of a much later period. It is extracted from “Cupid and Death,” a Masque, by J. S. [James Shirley] presented Mar. 26, 1653. London, printed 1653, 4to.

VICTORIOUS men of earth, no more Proclaim how wide your empires are; Though you binde in every shore, And your triumphs reach as far As night or day; Yet you proud monarchs must obey, And mingle with forgotten ashes, when Death calls yee to the croud of common men. Devouring famine, plague, and war, Each able to undo mankind, Death’s servile emissaries are: Nor to these alone confin’d, He hath at will More quaint and subtle wayes to kill; A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

XXII. The Winning of Cales.

The subject of this ballad is the taking of the city of Cadiz (called by our sailors corruptly Cales) on June 21, 1596, in a descent made on the coast of Spain, under the command of the Lord Howard, admiral, and the Earl of Essex, general. The valour of Essex was not more distinguished on this occasion than his generosity. The town was carried sword in hand, but he stopt the slaughter as soon as possible, and treated his prisoners with the greatest humanity, and even affability and kindness. The English made a rich plunder in the city, but missed of a much richer, by the resolution which the Duke of Medina, the Spanish admiral, took, of setting fire to the ships, in order to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy. It was computed, that the loss which the Spaniards sustained from this enterprise, amounted to twenty millions of ducats.— See Hume’s History. The Earl of Essex knighted on this occasion not fewer than sixty persons, which gave rise to the following sarcasm:—

“A gentleman of Wales, a knight of Cales, And a laird of the north country; But a yeoman of Kent with his yearly rent Will buy them out all three.”

This ballad is printed, with some corrections, from the Editor’s folio manuscript, and seems to have been composed by some person who was concerned in the expedition. Most of the circumstances related in it will be found supported by history.

LONG the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, Threatning our country with fyer and sword; Often preparing their navy most sumptuous With as great plenty as Spain could afford. Dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums: Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.

To the seas presentlye went our Lord admiral, With knights couragious and captains full good; The brave Earl of Essex, a prosperous general, With him prepared to pass the salt flood. Dub a dub, &c.

At Plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye, Braver ships never were seen under sayle, With their fair colours spread, and streamers ore their head, Now bragging Spaniards, take heed of your tayle, Dub a dub, &c.

Unto Cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, Where the kinges navy securelye did ryde; Being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, Ere any Spaniards our coming descryde. Dub a dub, &c.

Great was the crying, the running and ryding, Which at that season was made at that place; The beacons were fyred, as need then required; To hyde their great treasure they had little space. Dub a dub, &c.

There you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast, And how their men drowned themselves in the sea; There might you hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously, When they saw no shift to scape thence away. Dub a dub, &c.

The great St. Phillip, the pryde of the Spaniards, Was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; But the St. Andrew, and eke the St. Matthew, Wee took in fight manfullye and brought away. Dub a dub, &c.

The Earl of Essex most valiant and hardye, With horsemen and footmen marched up to the town; The Spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, Did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down. Dub a dub, &c.

“Now,” quoth the noble Earl, “courage my soldiers all, Fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have; And be well rewarded all from the great to the small; But looke that the women and children you save.” Dub a dub, &c.

The Spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight, Hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne; Wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye, With English colours which purchased renowne. Dub a dub, &c.

Entering the houses then, of the most richest men, For gold and treasure we searched eche day; In sňme places wč did find pyes baking left behind, Meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away. Dub a dub, &c.

Full of rich merchandize, every shop catched our eyes, Damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre; Which soldiers measur’d out by the length of their swords; Of all commodities eche had a share. Dub a dub, &c.

Thus Cales was taken, and our brave general March’d to the market-place, where he did stand: There many prisoners fell to our several shares, Many crav’d mercye, and mercye they fannd. Dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums: Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.

When our brave general saw they delayed all, And wold not ransome their towne as they said, With their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, Their joint-stools and tables a fire we made; And when the town burned all in a flame, With tara, tantara, away wee all came.

XXIII. The Spanish Lady’s Love.

This beautiful old ballad most probably took its rise from one of these descents made on the Spanish coasts in the time of Queen Elizabeth; and in all likelihood from that which is celebrated in the foregoing ballad.[1] It was a tradition in the west of England, that the person admired by the Spanish lady was a gentleman of the Popham family, and that her picture, with the pearl necklace mentioned in the ballad, was not many years ago preserved at Littlecot, near Hungerford, Wilts, the seat of that respectable family. Another tradition hath pointed out Sir Richard Levison, of Trentham, in Staffordshire, as the subject of this ballad; who married Margaret, daughter of Charles Earl of Nottingham; and was eminently distinguished as a naval officer and commander in all the expeditions against the Spaniards in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, particularly in that to Cadiz in 1596, when he was aged 27. He died in 1605, and has a monument, with his effigy in brass, in Wolverhampton church. It is printed from an ancient black-letter copy, corrected in part by the Editor’s folio MS.

WILL you hear a Spanish lady, How shee wooed an English man? [2] Garments gay and rich as may be Decked with jewels she had on. Of a comely countenance and grace was she, And by birth and parentage of high degree.

As his prisoner there he kept her, In his hands her life did lye! Cupid’s bands did tye them faster By the liking of an eye. In his courteous company was all her joy, To favour him in any thing she was not coy.

But at last there came commandment For to set the ladies free, With their jewels still adorned, None to do them injury. Then said this lady mild, “Full woe is me; O let me still sustain this kind captivity!

“Gallant captain, shew some pity To a ladye in distresse; Leave me not within this city, For to dye in heavinesse: Thou hast this present day my body free, But my heart in prison still remains with thee.”

“How should’st thou, fair lady, love me, Whom thou knowest thy country’s foe? Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: Serpents lie where flowers grow.” “All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight, God grant the same upon my head may fully light!

“Blessed be the time and season, That you came on Spanish ground; If our foes you may be termed, Gentle foes we have you found: With our city, you have won our hearts eche one, Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.”

“Rest you still, most gallant lady; Rest you still, and weep no more; Of fair lovers there is plenty, Spain doth yield a wonderous store.” “Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.”

“Leave me not unto a Spaniard, You alone enjoy my heart: I am lovely, young, and tender, Love is likewise my desert: Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.”

“It wold be a shame, fair lady, For to bear a woman hence; English soldiers never carry Any such without offence.” “I’ll quickly change myself, if it be so, And like a page Ile follow thee, where’er thou go.”

“I have neither gold nor silver To maintain thee in this case, And to travel is great charges, As you know in every place.” “My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.”

“On the seas are many dangers, Many storms do there arise, Which wil be to ladies dreadful, And force tears from watery eyes.” “Well in troth I shall endure extremity, For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.”

“Courteous ladye, leave this fancy, Here comes all that breeds the strife; I in England have already A sweet woman to my wife: I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.”

“O how happy is that woman That enjoys so true a friend! Many happy days God send her; Of my suit I make an end: On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence.

“Commend me to thy lovely lady, Bear to her this chain of gold; And these bracelets for a token; Grieving that I was so bold: All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.

“I will spend my days in prayer, Love and all her laws’ defye; In a nunnery will I shroud mee Far from any companye: But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.

“Thus farewell, most gallant captain! Farewell too my heart’s content Count not Spanish ladies wanton, Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!” “The like fall ever to thy share, most fair laděe.”

NOTES

1. Both Shenstone and Wordsworth have employed this graceful romance as a model; the former in his Moral tale of Love and Honour; the latter in his Armenian Lady’s Love.— Editor. 2. Recent evidence, with good reason maintaines that Sir John Bolle, of Thorpe Hall, Lincolnshire, was the gallant hero of the romance.— Editor

XXIV. Argentile and Curan.

This piece is extracted from an ancient historical poem in thirteen books, intitled Albion’s England, by William Warner: “an author,” says a former editor, “only unhappy in the choice of his subject and measure of his verse. His poem is an epitome of the British history, and written with great learning, sense, and spirit; in some places fine to an extraordinary degree, as I think will eminently appear in the ensuing episode [of Argentile and Curan]— a tale full of beautiful incidents in the romantic taste, extremely affecting, rich in ornament, wonderfully various in style; and in short one of the most beautiful pastorals I ever met with.” [Muses Library, 1738, 8vo.] To his merit nothing can be objected, unless perhaps an affected quaintness in some of his expressions, and an indelicacy in some of his pastoral images. Warner is said, by A. Wood,[1] to have been a Warwickshire man, and to have been educated in Oxford, at Magdalen-hall: as also in the latter part of his life to have been retained in the service of Henry Cary Lord Hunsdon, to whom he dedicates his poem. However that may have been, new light is thrown upon his history, and the time and manner of his death are now ascertained, by the following extract from the parish register book of Amwell, in Hertfordshire; which was obligingly communicated to the Editor by Mr. Hoole, the very ingenious translator of Tasso, &c. [1608—1609.]”Master William Warner, a man of good yeares and of honest reputation; by his profession an atturnye of the Common Pleas; author of Albions England, diynge suddenly in the night in his bedde, without any former complaynt or sicknesse, on thursday night beeinge the 9th daye of March; was buried the satturday following, and lyeth in the church at the corner under the stone of Walter Ffader.” “Signed. Tho. Hassall, Vicarius. Though now Warner is so seldom mentioned, his contemporaries ranked him on a level with Spenser, and called them the Homer and Virgil of their age.[2] But Warner rather resembled Ovid, whose Metamorphosis he seems to have taken for his model, having deduced a perpetual poem from the deluge down to the era of Elizabeth, full of lively digressions and entertaining episodes. And though he is sometimes harsh, affected, and obscure, he often displays a most charming and pathetic simplicity; as where he describes Eleanor’s harsh treatment of Rosamond:

“With that she dasht her on the lippes So dyed double red: Hard was the heart that gave the blow, Soft were those lippes that bled.”

The edition of Albion’s England here followed was printed in 4to. 1602; said in the title-page to have been “first penned and published by William Warner, and now revised and newly enlarged by the same author.” The story of Argentile and Curan is, I believe, the poet’s own invention; it is not mentioned in any of our chronicles. It was however so much admired, that not many years after he published it, came out a larger poem on the same subject in stanzas of six lines, intitled, “The most pleasant and delightful historie of Curan, a prince of Danske, and the fayre princesse Argentile, daughter and heyre to Adelbright, sometime king of Northumberland, &c.” By William Webster, London, 1617, in eight sheets 4to. An indifferent paraphrase of the following poem. This episode of Warner’s has also been altered into the common ballad “of the two young Princes on Salisbury Plain,” which is chiefly composed of Warner’s lines, with a few contractions and interpolations, but all greatly for the worse. See the Collection of Historical Ballads, 1727, 3 vols. 12mo. Though here subdivided into stanzas, Warner’s metre is the old- fashioned Alexandrine of fourteen syllables. The reader therefore must not expect to find the close of the stanzas consulted in the pauses.

THE Brutons being departed hence Seaven kingdoms here begonne, Where diversly in divers broyles The Saxons lost and wonne.

King Edel and King Adelbright In Diria jointly raigne; In loyal concorde during life These kingly friends remaine.

When Adelbright should leave his life, To Edel thus he sayes; “By those same bondes of happie love, That held us friends alwaies;

“By our by-parted crowne, of which The moyetie is mine; By God, to whom my Soule must passe, And so in time may thine;

“I pray thee, nay I conjure thee, To nourish, as thine owne, Thy niece, my daughter Argentile, Till she to age be growne; And then, as thou receivest it, Resigne to her my throne.”

A promise had for his bequest, The testatňr he dies; But all that Edel undertooke, He afterwards denies.

Yet well he fosters for a time The damsell that was growne The fairest lady under heaven; Whose beautie being knowne,

A many princes seeke her love; But none might her obtaine; For grippell Edel to himselfe Her kingdome sought to gaine; And for that cause from sight of such He did his ward restraine.

By chance one Curan, sonne unto A prince in Danske, did see The maid, with whom he fell in love, As much as man might bee.

Unhappie youth, what should he doe? His saint was kept in mewe; Nor he, nor any noble-man Admitted to her vewe.

One while in melancholy fits He pines himselfe awaye; Anon he thought by force of arms To win her if he maye:

And still against the kings restraint Did secretly invay. At length the high controller Love, Whom none may disobay,

Imbased him from lordlines Into a kitchen drudge, That so at least of life or death She might become his judge.

Accesse so had to see and speake, He did his love bewray, And tells his birth: her answer was, She husbandles would stay.

Meane while the king did beate his braines, His booty to atchieve, Not caring what became of her, So he by her might thrive; At last his resolution was Some pessant should her wive.

And (which was working to his wish) He did observe with joye How Curan, whom he thought a drudge, Scapt many an amorous toye.[3]

The king, perceiving such his veine, Promotes his vassal still, Lest that the basenesse of the man Should lett, perhaps, his will.

Assured therefore of his love, But not suspecting who The lover was, the king himselfe In his behalf did woe.

The lady resolute from love, Unkindly takes that he Should barre the noble, and unto So base a match agree;

And therefore shifting out of doores, Departed thence by stealth; Preferring povertie before A dangerous life in wealth.

When Curan heard of her escape, The anguish in his hart Was more than much, and after her From court he did depart;

Forgetfull of himselfe, his birth, His country, friends, and all, And only minding (whom he mist) The foundresse of his thrall.

Nor meanes he after to frequent Or court, or stately townes, But solitarily to live Amongst the country grownes.

A brace of years he lived thus, Well pleased so to live, And shepherd-like to feed a flocke Himselfe did wholly give.

So wasting, Love, by worke, and want, Grew almost to the waine: But then began a second love, The worser of the twaine.

A country wench, a neatherds maid, Where Curan kept his sheepe, Did feed her drove: and now on her Was all the shepherds keepe.

He borrowed on the working daies His holy russets[4] oft, And of the bacon’s fat, to make His startops blacke and soft.

And least his tarbox should offend, He left it at the folde: Sweete growte, or whig, his bottle had, As much as it might holde.

A sheeve of bread as browne as nut, And cheese as white as snow, And wildings, or the seasons fruit He did in scrip bestow.

And whilst his py-bald curre did sleepe, And sheep-hooke lay him by, On hollow quilles of oten straw He piped melody.

But when he spyed her his saint, He wip’d his greasie shooes, And clear’d the drivell from his beard, And thus the shepheard wooes.

“I have, sweet wench, a peece of cheese, As good as tooth may chawe, And bread and wildings souling well, (And therewithall did drawe

His lardrie) and in yeaning see Yon crumpling ewe,” quoth he, “Did twinne this fall, and twin shouldst thou, If I might tup with thee.”

“Thou art too elvish, faith thou art, Too elvish and too coy: Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, That such a flocke enjoy?

“I wis I am not: yet that thou Doest hold me in disdaine Is brimme abroad, and made a gybe To all that keepe this plaine.

“There be as quaint (at least that thinke Themselves as quaint) that crave The match, that thou, I wot not why, Maist but mislik’st to have.

“How wouldst thou match? (for well I wot, Thou art a female) I Her know not here that I willingly With maiden-head would die.

“The plowmans labour hath no end, And he a churle will prove: The craftsman hath more worke in hand Then fitteth unto love:

“The merchant, traffiquing abroad, Suspects his wife at home: A youth will play the wanton; and An old man prove a mome.

“Then chuse a shepheard: with the sun He doth his flocke unfold, And all the day on hill or plaine He merrie chat can hold;

“And with the sun doth folde againe; Then jogging home betime, He turnes a crab,[5] or turves a round, Or sings some merry ryme.

“Nor lacks he gleefull tales, whilst round The nut-brown bowl doth trot; And sitteth singing care away, Till he to bed be got:

“Theare sleepes he soundly all the night, Forgetting morrow-cares: Nor feares he blasting of his corne, Nor uttering of his wares;

“Or stormes by seas, or stirres on land, Or cracke of credit lost: Not spending franklier than his flocke Shall still defray the cost.

“Well wot I, sooth they say, that say More quiet nights and daies The shepheard sleeps and wakes, than he Whose cattel he doth graize.

“Beleeve me, lasse, a king is but A man, and so am I: Content is worth a monarchie, And mischiefs hit the hie;

“As late it did a king and his Not dwelling far from hence, Who left a daughter, save thyselfe, For fair a matchless wench.”— Here did he pause, as if his tongue Had done his heart offence.

The neatresse, longing for the rest, Did egge him on to tell How faire she was, and who she was. “She bore,” quoth he, “the bell

“For beautie: though I clownish am, I know what beautie is; Or did I not, at seeing thee, I senceles were to mis.

- * * * * *

“Her stature comely, tall; her gate Well graced; and her wit To marvell at, not meddle with, As matchless I omit.

“A globe-like head, a gold-like haire, A forehead smooth, and hie, An even nose; on either side Did shine a grayish eie:

“Two rosie cheeks, round ruddy lips, White just-set teeth within; A mouth in meane; and underneathe A round and dimpled chin.

“Her snowie necke, with blewish veines, Stood bolt upright upon Her portly shoulders: beating balles Her veined breasts, anon

“Adde more to beautie. Wand-like was Her middle falling still, And rising whereas women rise:*** — Imagine, nothing ill.

“And more, her long, and limber armes Had white and azure wrists; And slender fingers aunswere to Her smooth and lillie fists.

“A legge in print, a pretie foot; Conjecture of the rest: For amorous eies, observing forme, Think parts obscured best.

“With these, O raretie! with these Her tong of speech was spare; But speaking, Venus seem’d to speake, The balle from Ide to bear.

“With Phoebe, Juno, and with both Herselfe contends in face; Wheare equall mixture did not want Of milde and stately grace.

“Her smiles were sober, and her lookes Were chearefull unto all: Even such as neither wanton seeme, Nor waiward; mell nor gall.

“A quiet midde, a patient moode, And not disdaining any; Not gybing, gadding, gawdy: and Sweete faculties had many.

“A nimph, no tong, no heart, no eie, Might praise, might wish, might see; For life, for love, for forme; more good, More worth, more faire than shee.

“Yea such an one, as such was none, Save only she was such: Of Argentile to say the most, Were to be silent much.”

“I knew the lady very well, But worthles of such praise, The neatresse said: and muse I do, A shepheard thus should blaze The coate of beautie.[6] Credit me, Thy latter speech bewraies

“Thy clownish shape a coined shew. But wherefore dost thou weepe? The shepheard wept, and she was woe, And both doe silence keepe.

“In troth,” quoth he, “I am not such, As seeming I professe: But then for her, and now for thee, I from myselfe digresse.

“Her loved I (wretch that I am A recreant to be) I loved her, that hated love, But now I die for thee.

“At Kirkland is my fathers court, And Curan is my name, In Edels court sometimes in pompe, Till love countrould the same:

“But now — what now? — deare heart, how now? What ailest thou to weepe? ” The damsell wept, and he was woe, And both did silence keepe.

“I graunt,” quoth she, “it was too much, That you did love so much: But whom your former could not move, Your second love doth touch.

“Thy twice-beloved Argentile Submitteth her to thee, And for thy double love presents Herself a single fee, In passion not in person chang’d, And I, my lord, am she.

They sweetly surfeiting in joy, And silent for a space, When as the extasie had end, Did tenderly imbrace; And for their wedding, and their wish Got fitting time and place.

Not England (for of Hengist then Was named so this land) Then Curan had a hardier knight; His force could none withstand: Whose sheep-hooke laid apart, he then Had higher things in hand.

First, making knowne his lawfull claime In Argentile her right, He warr’d in Diria,[7] and he wonne Bernicia, too in fight: And so from trecherous Edel tooke At once his life and crowne, And of Northumberland was king, Long raigning in renowne.

NOTES

1. Athen. Oxon. 2. Athen. Oxon. 3. The construction is, “How that many an amorous toy, or foolery of love, escaped Curan;” i.e. escaped from him, being off his guard. 4. i.e. holy-day russets. 5. i.e. roasts a crab, or apple. 6. i.e. emblazon beauty’s coat. 7. During the Saxon Heptarchy, the kingdom of Northumberland (consisting of six northern counties, besides part of Scotland) was for a long time divided into two lesser sovereignties, viz. Deira (called here Diria), which contained the southern parts, and Bernicia, comprehending those which lay north.

XXV. Corin’s Fate.

Only the three first stanzas of this song are ancient; these are extracted from a small quarto manuscript in the Editor’s possession, written in the time of Queen Elizabeth. As they seemed to want application, this has been attempted by a modern hand.

CORIN, most unhappie swaine, Whither wilt thou drive thy flocke? Little foode is on the plaine; Full of danger is the rocke:

Wolfes and beares doe kepe the woodes; Forests tangled are with brakes: Meadowes subject are to floodes; Moores are full of miry lakes.

Yet to shun all plaine, and hill, Forest, moore, and meadow-ground, Hunger will as surely kill: How may then reliefe be found?

Such is hapless Corins fate: Since my waywarde love begunne, Equall doubts begett debate What to seeke, and what to shunne.

Spare to speke, and spare to speed; Yet to speke will move disdaine: If I see her not I bleed, Yet her sight augments my paine.

What may then poor Corin doe? Tell me, shepherdes, quicklye tell; For to linger thus in woe Is the lover’s sharpest hell.

XXVI. Jane Shore.

Though so many vulgar errors have prevailed concerning this celebrated courtesan, no character in history has been more perfectly handed down to us. We have her portrait drawn by two masterly pens: the one has delineated the features of her person, the other those of her character and story. Sir Thomas More drew from the life, and Drayton has copied an original picture of her. The reader will pardon the length of the quotations, as they serve to correct many popular mistakes relating to her catastrophe. The first is from Sir Thomas More’s History of Richard III, written in 1513, about thirty years after the death of Edward IV. “Now then by and by, as it wer for anger, not for covetise, the protector sent into the house of Shores wife (for her husband dwelled not with her) and spoiled her of al that ever she had (above the value of two or three thousand marks), and sent her body to prison. And when he had a while laide unto her, for the manner sake, that she went about to bewitch him, and that she was of counsel with the lord chamberlein to destroy him: in conclusion, when that no colour could fasten upon these matters, then he layd heinously to her charge the thing that herselfe could not deny, that al the world wist was true, and that natheles every man laughed at to here it then so sodainly so highly taken — that she was naught of her body. And for thys cause (as a goodly continent prince, clene and fautless of himself, sent oute of heaven into this vicious world for the amendment of mens maners) he caused the bishop of London to put her to open pennance, going before the crosse in procession upon a Sonday with a taper in her hand. In which she went in countenance and pace demure so womanly; and albeit she was out of al array save her kyrtle only, yet went she so fair and lovely, namelye, while the wondering of the people caste a comly rud in her chekes (of which she before had most misse) that her great shame wan her much praise among those that were more amorous of her body, than curious of her soule. And many good folke also, that hated her living, and glad wer to se sin corrected, yet pittied thei more her penance than rejoiced therin, when thei considred that the protector procured it more of a corrupt intent, than any virtuous affection. “This woman was born in London, worshipfully frended, honestly brought up, and very wel maryed, saving somewhat to soone; her husband an honest citizen, yonge, and goodly, and of good substance. But forasmuche as they were coupled ere she wer wel ripe, she not very fervently loved, for whom she never longed; which was happely the thinge, that the more easily made her encline unto the king’s appetite, when he required her. Howbeit the respect of his royaltie, the hope of gay apparel, ease, plesure, and other wanton welth, was able soone to perse a soft tender hearte. But when the king had abused her, anon her husband (as he was an honest man, and one that could his good not presuming to touch a kinges concubine) left her up to him al together. When the king died, the lord chamberlen [Hastings] toke her:[1] which in the kinges daies, albeit he was sore enamoured upon her, yet he forbare her, either for reverence, or for a certain friendly faithfulness. “Proper she was, and faire: nothing in her body that you wold have changed, but if you would have wished her somewhat higher. Thus say thei that knew her in her youthe. Albeit some that now see her (for yet she liveth) deme her never to have bene wel visaged: whose jugement seemeth me somewhat like, as though men should gesse the bewty of one longe before departed, by her scalpe taken out of the charnel-house; for now is she old, lene, withered, and dried up, nothing left but ryvilde skin and hard bone. And yet being even such, whoso wel advise her visage, might gesse and devise which partes how filled, wold make it a fair face. “Yet delited not men so much in her bewty, as in her pleasant behaviour. For a proper wit had she, and could both rede wel and write; mery in company, redy and quick of aunswer, neither mute nor full of bable; sometime taunting without displeasure, and not without disport. The king would say, That he had three concubines, which in three divers properties diversly excelled. One the meriest, another the wiliest, the thirde the holiest harlot in his realme, as one whom no man could get out of the church lightly to any place, but it wer to his bed. The other two wer somewhat greater personages, and natheles of their humilite content to be nameles, and to forbere the praise of those properties; but the meriest was the Shoris wife, in whom the king therfore toke special pleasure. For many he had, but her he loved, whose favour, to sai the trouth (for sinne it wer to belie the devil), she never abused to any mans hurt, but to many a mans comfort and relief. Where the king toke displeasure, she wold mitigate and appease his mind: where men were out of favour, she wold bring them in his grace: for many that had highly offended, shee obtained pardon: of great forfeitures, she gate men remission: and finally in many weighty sutes she stode many men in gret stede, either for none or very smal rewardes, and those rather gay than rich: either for that she was content with the dede selfe well done, or for that she delited to be sued unto, and to show what she was able to do wyth the king, or for that wanton women and welthy be not alway covetous. “I doubt not some shal think this woman too sleight a thing to he written of, and set amonge the remembraunces of great matters: which thei shal specially think, that happely shal esteme her only by that thei now see her. But me semeth the chaunce so much the more worthy to be remembered, in how much she is now in the more beggerly condicion, unfrended and worne out of acquaintance, after good substance, after as grete favour with the prince, after as grete sute and seeking to with al those, that in those days had busynes to spede, as many other men were in their times, which be now famouse only by the infamy of their it dedes. Her doinges were not much lesse, albeit thei be muche lesse remembred because thei were not so evil. For men use, if they have an evil turne, to write it in marble; and whoso doth us a good tourne, we write it in duste.[2] Which is not worst proved by her; for at this daye shee beggeth of many at this daye living, that at this day had begged, if shee had not bene.”— See More’s Workes, folio, black-letter, 1557, pp. 56, 57. Drayton has written a poetical epistle from this lady to her royal lover, and in his notes thereto he thus draws her portrait: “Her stature was meane, her haire of a dark yellow, her face round and full, her eye gray, delicate harmony being betwixt each part’s proportion, and each proportion’s colour, her body fat, white, and smooth, her countenance cheerfull and like to her condition. The picture which I have seen of hers was such as she rose out of her bed in the morning, having nothing on but a rich mantle cast under one arme over her shoulder, and sitting on a chaire, on which her naked arm did lye. What her father’s name was, or where she was borne, is not certainly knowne: but Shore, a young man of right goodly person, wealth and behaviour, abandoned her bed after the king had made her his concubine. Richard III. causing her to do open penance in Paul’s church-yard, commanded that no man should relieve her, which the tyrant did, not so much for his hatred to sinne, but that by making his brother’s life odious, he might cover his horrible treasons the more cunningly.”— See England’s Heroical Epistles, by Michael Drayton, Esq. London, 1637, 12mo. The history of Jane Shore receives new illustration from the following letter of King Richard III. which is preserved in the Harl. MSS. number 433, article 2378, but of which the copy transmitted to the Editor has been reduced to modern orthography, &c. It is said to have been addressed to Russel Bishop of Lincoln, Lord Chancellor, anno 1484.

By the KING.

“Right Reverend Father in God, &c. signifying unto you, that it is shewn unto us, that our servant and solicitor, Thomas Lynom, marvellously blinded and abused with the late wife of William Shore, now living in Ludgate by our commandment, hath made contract of matrimony with her, as it is said, and intendeth to our full great marvel, to effect the same. WE, for many causes, would be sorry that he should be so disposed; pray you therefore to send for him, and in that ye goodly may, exhort, and stir him to the contrary: and if ye find him utterly set for to marry her, and none otherwise would be advertised, then, if it may stand with the laws of the church, we be content the time of marriage be deferred to our coming next to London; that upon sufficient surety found of her good abearing, ye do so send for her keeper, and discharge him of our said commandment, by warrant of these, committing her to the rule and guiding of her father, or any other, by your direction, in the mean season. Given, &c. “RIC. Rex.” It appears from two articles in the same manuscript, that King Richard had granted to the said Thomas Linom the office of King’s Solicitor (article 134), and also the manor of Colmeworth, corn. Bedf. to him and his heirs male (article 596). An original picture of Jane Shore almost naked is preserved in the Provost’s Lodgings at Eton; and another picture of her is in the Provost’s Lodge at King’s College, Cambridge: to both which foundations she is supposed to have done friendly offices with Edward IV. A small quarto mezzotinto print was taken from the former of these by J. Faber. The following ballad is printed, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection. Its full title is, “The woefull lamentation of Jane Shore, a goldsmith’s wife in London, sometime King Edward IV. his concubine. To the tune of ‘Live with me,’ &c. To every stanza is annexed the following burthen:

Then maids and wives in time amend, For love and beauty will have end.

IF Rosamonde that was so faire, Had cause her sorrowes to declare, Then let Jane Shore with sorrowe sing, That was beloved of a king.

In maiden yeares my beautye bright Was loved dear of lord and knight; But yet the love that they requir’d, It was not as my friends desir’d.

My parents they, for thirst of gaine, A husband for me did obtaine; And I, their pleasure to fulfille, Was forc’d to wedd against my wille.

To Matthew Shore I was a wife, Till lust brought ruine to my life; And then my life I lewdlye spent, Which makes my soul for to lament.

In Lombard-street I once did dwelle, As London yet can witnesse welle; Where many gallants did beholde My beautye in a shop of golde.

I spred my plumes, as wantons doe, Some sweet and secret friende to wooe; Because chast love I did not finde Agreeing to my wanton minde.

At last my name in court did ring Into the eares of Englandes king, Who came and lik’d, and love requir’d, But I made coye what he desir’d:

Yet Mistress Blague, a neighbour neare, Whose friendship I esteemed deare, Did saye, it was a gallant thing To be beloved of a king.

By her persuasions I was led, For to defile my marriage-bed, And wronge my wedded husband Shore, Whom I had married yeares before.

In heart and mind I did rejoyce, That I had made so sweet a choice; And therefore did my state resigne, To be King Edward’s concubine.

From city then to court I went, To reape the pleasures of content; There had the joyes that love could bring, And knew the secrets of a king.

When I was thus advanc’d on highe Commanding Edward with mine eye, For Mrs. Blague I in short space Obtainde a livinge from his grace.

No friende I had but in short time I made unto a promotion climbe; But yet for all this costlye pride, My husbande could not mee abide.

His bed, though wronged by a king, His heart with deadlye griefe did sting; From England then he goes away To end his life beyond the sea.

He could not live to see his name Impaired by my wanton shame; Although a prince of peerlesse might Did reape the pleasure of his right.

Long time I lived in the courte, With lords and ladies of great sorte; And when I smil’d all men were glad, But when I frown’d my prince grewe sad,

But yet a gentle minde I bore To helplesse people, that were poore; I still redrest the orphans crye, And sav’d their lives condemnd to dye.

I still had ruth on widowes tears I succour’d babes of tender yeares; And never look’d for other gaine But love and thankes for all my paine.

At last my royall king did dye, And then my dayes of woe grew nighe, When crook-back Richard got the crowne, King Edwards friends were soon put downe.

I then was punisht for my sin, That I so long had lived in; Yea, every one that was his friend, This tyrant brought to shamefull end.

Then for my lewd and wanton life, That made a strumpet of a wife, I penance did in Lombard-street, In shamefull manner in a sheet.

Where many thousands did me viewe, Who late in court my credit knewe; Which made the teares run down my face, To thinke upon my foul disgrace.

Not thus content, they took from mee My goodes, my livings, and my fee, And charg’d that none should me relieve, Nor any succour to me give.

Then unto Mrs. Blague I went, To whom my jewels I had sent, In hope therebye to ease my want, When riches fail’d, and love grew scant:

But she denyed to me the same When in my need for them I came; To recompence my former love, Out of her doores shee did me shove.

So love did vanish with my state, Which now my soul repents too late; Therefore example take by mee, For friendship parts in povertie.

But yet one friend among the rest, Whom I before had seen distrest, And sav’d his life, condemn’d to die, Did give me food to succour me:

For which, by lawe, it was decreed That he was hanged for that deed; His death did grieve me so much more, Than had I dyed myself therefore.

Then those to whom I had done good, Durst not afford mee any food; Whereby I begged all the day, And still in streets by night I lay.

My gowns beset with pearl and gold, Were turn’d to simple garments old; My chains and gems and golden rings, To filthy rags and loathsome things.

Thus was I scorn’d of maid and wife, For leading such a wicked life; Both sucking babes and children small, Did make their pastime at my fall.

I could not get one bit of bread, Whereby my hunger might be fed: Nor drink, but such as channels yield, Or stinking ditches in the field.

Thus, weary of my life, at lengthe I yielded up my vital strength Within a ditch of loathsome scent, Where carrion dogs did much frequent:

The which now since my dying daye, Is Shoreditch call’d, as writers saye;[3] Which is a witness of my sinne, For being concubine to a king.

You wanton wives, that fall to lust, Be you assur’d that God is just; Whoredome shall not escape his hand, Nor pride unpunish’d in this land.

If God to me such shame did bring, That yielded only to a king, How shall they scape that daily run To practise sin with every one?

You husbands, match not but for love, Lest some disliking after prove; Women, be warn’d when you are wives: What plagues are due to sinful lives: Then, maids and wives, in time amend, For love and beauty will have end.

NOTES

1. After the death of Hastings she was kept by the Marquis of Dorset, son to Edward IV.’s queen. In Rymer’s Fdera is a proclamation of Richard’s, dated at Leicester, October 23, 1483, wherein a reward of 1000 marks in money, or 200 a year in land is offered for taking “Thomas late marquis of Dorset,” who, “not having the fear of God, nor the salvation of his own soul, before his eyes, has damnably debauched and defiled many maids, widows, and wives, and lived in actual adultery with the wife of Shore.”— Buckingham was at that time in rebellion, but as Dorset was not with him, Richard could not accuse him of treason, and therefore made a handle of these pretended debaucheries to get him apprehended. Vide Rym. Fd. tom. xii. pag.

204.

2. These words of Sir Thomas More probably suggested to Shakspeare that proverbial reflection in Hen. VIII. act iv. scene 2. “Men’s evil manners live in brass: their virtues We write in water.” Shakspeare, in his play of Richard III. follows More’s History of that reign, and therefore could not but see this passage. 3. But it had this name long before; being so called from its being a common Sewer (vulgarly Shore) or drain. See Stow.

XXVII. Corydon’s Doleful Knell.

This little simple elegy is given, with some corrections, from two copies, one of which is in The golden Garland of princely Delights. The burthen of the song, DING DONG, &c. is at present appropriated to burlesque subjects, and therefore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern reader; but in the time of our poet it usually accompanied the most solemn and mournful strains. Of this kind is that fine aerial dirge in Shakspeare’s Tempest:

“Full fadom five thy father lies, Of his bones are corrall made; Those are pearles that were his eyes: Nothing of him, that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange: Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell, Hark; now I heare them, Ding dong bell.” “Burthen, Ding, dong.”

I make no doubt but the poet intended to conclude the above air in a manner the most solemn and expressive of melancholy.

MY Phillida, adieu love! For evermore farewel! Ay me! I’ve lost my true love, And thus I ring her knell, Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, My Phillida is dead! I’ll stick a branch of willow At my fair Phillis’ head.

For my fair Phillida Our bridal bed was made: But ‘stead of silkes so gay, She in her shroud is laid. Ding, &c.

Her corpse shall be attended By maides in fair array, Till the obsequies are ended, And she is wrapt in clay. Ding, &c.

Her herse it shall be carried By youths, that do excell; And when that she is buried, I thus will ring her knell, Ding, &c.

A garland shall be framed By art and natures skill, Of sundry-colour’d flowers, In token of good-will.[1] Ding, &c.

And sundry-colour’d ribbands On it I will bestow; But chiefly black and yellowe:[2] With her to grave shall go. Ding, &c.

I’ll decke her tomb with flowers, The rarest ever seen, And with my tears, as showers, I’ll keepe them fresh and green. Ding, &c.

Instead of fairest colours, Set forth with curious art,[3] Her image shall be painted On my distressed heart. Ding, &c.

And thereon shall be graven Her epitaph so faire, “Here lies the loveliest maiden, That e’er gave shepheard care.” Ding, &c.

In sable will I mourne; Blacke shall be all my weede: Ay me! I am forlorne, Now Phillida is dead! Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, My Phillida is dead! I’ll stick a branch of willow At my fair Phillis’ head.

NOTES

1. It is a custom in many parts of England, to carry a flowery garland before the corpse of a woman who dies unmarried. 2. See above, preface to No. xi. book v. 3. This alludes to the painted effigies of alabaster, anciently erected upon tombs and monuments.

BOOK VI

On the Alliterative Metre, without Rhyme, in Pierce Plowman’s Visions.

I shall begin this Third Book with an old allegoric satire: a manner of moralizing, which, if it was not first introduced by the author of Pierce Plowman’s Visions, was at least chiefly brought into repute by that ancient satirist. It is not so generally known that the kind of verse used in this ballad hath any affinity with the peculiar metre of that writer, for which reason I shall throw together some cursory remarks on that very singular species of versification, the nature of which has been so little understood. We learn from Wormius,[1] that the ancient Islandic poets used a great variety of measures: he mentions 136 different kinds, without including rhyme, or a correspondence of final syllables; yet this was occasionally used, as appears from the Ode of Egil, which Wormius hath inserted in his book. He hath analysed the structure of one of these kinds of verse, the harmony of which neither depended on the quantity of the syllables, like that of the ancient Greeks and Romans; nor on the rhymes at the end, as in modern poetry; but consisted altogether in alliteration, or a certain artful repetition of the sounds in the middle of the verses. This was adjusted according to certain rules of their prosody, one of which was, that every distich should contain at least three words beginning with the same letter or sound. Two of these correspondent sounds might be placed either in the first or second line of the distich and one in the other: but all three were not regularly to be crowded into one line. This will be beet understood by the following examples.[2]

“Meire og mine Mogu heimdaller.”

“Gab Ginunga Enn Gras huerge.”

There were many other little niceties observed by the Islandic poets, who, as they retained their original language and peculiarities longer than the other nations of Gothic race, had time to cultivate their native poetry more, and to carry it to a higher pitch of refinement, than any of the rest. Their brethren the Anglo-Saxon poets occasionally used the same kind of alliteration, and it is common to meet in their writings with similar examples of the foregoing rules. Take an instance or two in modern characters:[3]

“Skeop tha and skyrede Skyppend ure.”

“Ham and Heahsetl Heofena rikes.”

I know not, however, that there is any where extant an entire Saxon poem all in this measure. But distichs of this sort perpetually occur in. all their poems of any length.

Now, if we examine the versification of Pierce Plowman’s Visions we shall find it constructed exactly by these rules; and therefore each line, as printed, is in reality a distich of two verses, and will, I believe, be found distinguished as such, by some mark or other in all the ancient MSS. viz.:

“In a Somer Season,[4] | when hot was the Sunne, I Shope me into Shroubs, | as I a Shepe were; In Habite as an Harmet | unHoly of werkes, Went Wyde in thys world | Wonders to heare, &c.”

So that the author of this poem will not be found to have invented any new mode of versification, as some have supposed, but only to have retained that of the old Saxon and Gothic poets: which was probably never wholly laid aside, but occasionally used at different intervals: though the ravages of time will not suffer us now to produce a regular series of poems entirely written in it.

There are some readers whom it may gratify to mention, that these Visions of Pierce [i.e. Peter] the Plowman, are attributed to Robert Langland, a secular priest, born at Mortimer’s Cleobury in Shropshire, and fellow of Oriel college in Oxford, who flourished in the reigns of Edward III. and Richard II. and published his poem a few years after 1350. It consists of twenty passus or breaks,[4] exhibiting a series of visions, which he pretends happened to him on Malvern hills in Worcestershire. The author excels in strong allegoric painting, and has with great humour, spirit, and fancy, censured most of the vices incident to the several professions of life but he particularly inveighs against the corruptions of the clergy, and the absurdities of superstition. Of this work I have now before me four different editions in black-letter quarto. Three of them are printed in 1550 by Robert Crowley dwelling in Ely rentes in Holbourne. It is remarkable that two of these are mentioned in the title-page as both of the second impression, though they contain evident variations in every page.[5] The other is said to be newly imprinted after the authors olde copy . . . by Owen Rogers, Feb. 21,

1561.

As Langland was not the first, so neither was he the last that used this alliterative species of versification. To Rogers’s edition of the Visions is subjoined a poem, which was probably writ in imitation of them, intitled Pierce the Ploughman’s Crede. It begins thus:

“Cros, and Curteis Christ, this beginning spede For the Faders Frendshipe, that Fourmed heaven, And through the Special Spirit that Sprung of hem tweyne, And al in one godhed endles dwelleth.”

The author feigns himself ignorant of his creed, to be instructed in which he applies to the four religious orders, viz. the gray friars of St. Francis, the black friars of St, Dominic, the Carmelities or white friars, and the Augustines. This affords him occasion to describe in very lively colours the sloth, ignorance, and immorality of these reverend drones. At length he meets with Pierce, a poor Ploughman, who resolves his doubts, and instructs him in the principles of true religion. The author was evidently a follower of Wiccliff, whom he mentions (with honour) as no longer living.[6] Now that reformer died in 1384. How long after his death this poem was written, does not appear. In the Cotton library is a volume of ancient English poems,[7] two of which are written in this alliterative metre, and have the division of the lines into distichs distinctly marked by a point, as is usual in old poetical MSS. That which stands first of the two (though perhaps the latest written) is intitled The Sege of I’erlam, [i.e. Jerusalem], being an old fabulous legend composed by some monk, and stuffed with marvellous figments concerning the destruction of the holy city and temple. It begins thus:

“In Tyberius Tyme . the trewe emperour Sir Sesar hymself . beSted in Rome Whyll Pylat was Provoste . under that Prynce ryche And Jewes Justice also . of Judeas londe Herode under empere . as Herytage wolde Kyng,” &c.

The other is intitled Chevalere Assigne [or De Cigne], that is, The Knight of the Swan, being an ancient romance, beginning thus:

“All-Weldynge God . When it is his Wylle Wele he Wereth his Werke . With his owene honde For ofte Harmes were Hente . that Helpe wene myzte Nere the Hyznes of Hym . that lengeth in Hevene For this,” &c.

Among Mr. Garrick’s collection of old plays[8] is a prose narrative of the adventures of this same Knight of the Swan, “newlye translated out of Frenshe into Englyshe, at thinstigacion of the puyssaunt and illustryous prynce, Lorde Edward Duke of Buckynghame.” This lord it seems had a peculiar interest in the book, for in the preface the translator tells us, that this “highe dygne and ilIustryous prynce my lorde Edwarde by the grace of God Duke of Buckyngham, Erle of Hereforde, Stafforde, and Northampton, desyrynge cotydyally to encrease and augment the name and fame of such as were relucent in vertuous feates and triumphaunt actes of chyvalry, and to encourage and styre every lusty and gentell herte by the exemplyficacyon of the same, havyng a goodli booke of the highe and miraculuos histori of a famous and puyssaunt kynge, named Oryant, sometime reynynge in the parties of beyonde the sea, havynge to his wife a noble lady; of whome she conceyved sixe sonnes and a daughter, and chylded of them at one only time; at whose byrthe ech one of them had a chayne of sylver at their neckes, the whiche were all tourned by the provydence of God into whyte swannes, save one, of the whiche this present hystory is cornpyled, named Helyas, the knight of the swanne, of whom linially is dyscended my sayde lorde. The whiche ententifly to have the sayde hystory more amply and unyversally knowen in thys hys natif countrie, as it is in other, hath of his hie bountie by some of his faithful and trusti servauntes cohorted mi mayster Wynkin de Worde[9] to put the said vertuous hystori in prynte at whose instigacion and stiring I (Roberte Copeland) have me applied, moiening the helpe of God, to reduce and translate it into our maternal and vulgare english tonge after the capacite and rudenesse of my weke entendement.”— A curious picture of the times! While in Italy literature and the fine arts were ready to burst forth with classical splendor under Leo X., the first peer of this realm was proud to derive his pedigree from a fabulous knight of the swan.[10]

To return to the metre of Pierce Plowman: In the folio MS. so often quoted in these volumes, are two poems written in that species of versification. One of these is an ancient allegorical poem, entitled Death and Life, (in two fitts or parts, containing 458 distichs) which, for aught that appears, may have been written as early, if not before, the time of Langland. The first forty lines are broke as they should be into distichs, a distinction that is neglected in the remaining part of the transcript, in order I suppose to save room. It begins:

“Christ Christen king, that on the Crosse tholed; Hadd Paines and Passyons to defend our soules; Give us Grace on the Ground the Greatlye to serve, For that Royall Red blood that Rann from thy side.”

The subject of this piece is a vision, wherein the poet sees a contest for superiority between “our lady Dame LIFE,” and the “ugly fiend Dame DEATH;” who with their several attributes and concomitants are personified in a fine vein of allegoric painting. Part of the description of Dame LIFE is:

“Shee was Brighter of her Blee, then was the Bright soon: Her Rudd Redder than the Rose, that on the Rise hangeth: Meekely smiling with her Mouth and Merry in her lookes; Ever Laughing for Love, as shee Like would. And as shee came by the Bankes, the Boughes eche one They Lowted to that Ladye, and Layd forth their branches; Blossomes and Burgens Breathed full sweete; Flowers Flourished in the Frith, where shee Forth stepped; And the Grasse, that was Gray, Greened belive.”

DEATH is afterwards sketched out with a no less bold and original pencil.

The other poem is that, which is quoted in the preface to Book iv. No. vi., and which was probably the last that was ever written in this kind of metre in its original simplicity unaccompanied with rhyme. It should have been observed in in that preface, that in this poem the lines are throughout divided into distichs, thus:

“Grant Gracious God, Grant me this time,” &c.

It is intitled Scottish Feilde (in 2 fitts, 420 distichs), containing a very circumstantial narrative of the battle of Flodden, fought Sept. 9, 1513: at which the author seems to have been present, from his speaking in the first person plural:

“Then WE Tild downe OUR Tents, that Told were a thousand.”

In the conclusion of the poem he gives this account of himself:

“He was a Gentleman by Jesu, that this Gest made: Which Say but as he Sayd[11] far Sooth and noe other. At Bagily that Bearne his Biding place had: And his ancestors of old time have yearded[12] theire longe, Before William Conqueror this Cuntry did inhabitt. Jesus Bring them to Blisse, that Brought us forth of BALE, That hath Hearkned me Heare or Heard my TALE.”

The village of Bagily or Baguleigh is in Cheshire, and had belonged to the ancient family of Legh for two centuries before the battle of Flodden. Indeed that the author was of that country appears from other passages in the body of the poem, particularly from the pains he takes to wipe off a stain from the Cheshire-men, who it seems ran away in that battle, and from his encomiums on the Stanleys, Earls of Derby, who usually headed that county. He laments the death of James Stanley, Bishop of Ely, as what had recently happened when this poem was written; which serves to ascertain its date, for that prelate died March 22, 1514-5. Thus we have traced the alliterative measure so low as the sixteenth century. It is remarkable that all such poets as used this kind of metre, retained along with it many peculiar Saxon idioms, particularly such as were appropriated to poetry: this deserves the attention of those who are desirous to recover the laws of the ancient Saxon poesy, usually given up as inexplicable: I am of opinion that they will find what they seek in the metre of Pierce Plowman.[13] About the beginning of the sixteenth century, this kind of versification began to change its form: the author of Scottish Field, we see, concludes his poem with a couplet in rhyme: this was an innovation that did but prepare the way for the general admission of that more modish ornament: till at length the old uncouth verse of the ancient writers would no longer go down without it. Yet when rhyme began to be superadded, all the niceties of alliteration were at first retained along with it, and the song of Little John Nobody exhibits this union very clearly. By degrees, the correspondence of final sounds engrossing the whole attention of the poet, and fully satisfying the reader; the internal embellishment of alliteration was no longer studied, and thus was this kind of metre at length swallowed up and lost in our common Burlesque Alexandrine, or Anapestic verse,[14] now never used but in ballads and pieces of light humour, as in the following song of Conscience, and in that well-known doggrel,

“A cobler there was, and he lived in a stall.”

But although this kind of measure hath with us been thus degraded, it still retains among the French its ancient dignity; their grand heroic verse of twelve syllables[15] is the same genuine offspring of the old alliterative metre of the ancient Gothic and Francic poets, stript like our Anapestic of its alliteration, and ornamented with rhyme; but with this difference, that whereas this kind of verse hath been applied by us only to light and trivial subjects, to which, by its quick and lively measure, it seemed best adapted, our poets have let it remain in a more lax unconfined state,[16] as a greater degree of severity and strictness would have been inconsistent with the light and airy subjects to which they have applied it. On the other hand, the French having retained this verse as the vehicle of their epic and tragic flights, in order to give it a stateliness and dignity were obliged to confine it to more exact laws of scansion; they have therefore limited it to the number of twelve syllables, and by making the cćsura or pause as full and distinct as possible, and by other severe restrictions, have given it all the solemnity of which it was capable. The harmony of both, however, depends so much on the same flow of cadence and disposal of the pause, that they appear plainly to be of the same original ; and every French heroic verse evidently consists of the ancient distich of their Francic ancestors : which, by the way, will account to us why this verse of the French so naturally resolves itself into two complete hemistichs; And, indeed, by making the cćsura or pause always to rest on the last syllable of a word, and by making a kind of pause in the sense, the French poets do in effect reduce their hemistichs to two distinct and independent verses, and some of their old poets have gone so far as to make the two hemistichs rhyme to each other.[17] After all, the old alliterative and anapestic metre of the English poets, being chiefly used in a barbarous age and in a rude unpolished language, abounds with verses defective in length, proportion, and harmony, and therefore cannot enter into a comparison with the correct versification of the best modern French writers; but making allowances for these defects, that sort of metre runs with a cadence so exactly resembling the French heroic Alexandrine, that I believe no peculiarities of their versification can be produced which cannot be exactly matched in the alliterative metre. I shall give, by way of example, a few lines from the modern French poets, accommodated with parallels from the ancient poem of Life and Death; in these I shall denote the cćsura or pause by a perpendicular line, and the cadence by the marks of the Latin quantity.

L? s?cc?s f?t to?jo?rs | ?n ?nf?nt d? l’?ud?ce; All sh?ll dr?e w?th th? d?nts | th?t I d?al w?th m? h?nds.

L’h?mm? pr?d?nt v?it tr?p | L’?ll?s??n l? s?it, Y?nd?r d?ms?l ?s d?ath | th?t dr?ss?th h?r t? sm?te.

L’?ntr?p?de v?it m?eux | ?t l? fant?me f?it,[18] Wh?n sh? d?lef?ll? s?w | h?w sh? d?ng d?wne h?r f?lke.

M?me a?x ye?x d? l’?nj?ste | ?n ?nj?ste ?st h?rr?bl?.[19] Th?n sh? c?st ?p ? cr?e | t? th? h?gh k?ng ?f h?av?n.

D? m?ns?ng? to?jo?rs | l? vr?i d?m?ur? m?itr?, Th?u sh?lt b?tt?rl?e b?e | ?r ?ls? the b?ok? f?il?th,

Po?r p?r?itr? h?nn?te | ?n ?n m?t, ?l f?ut l’?tre.[20] Th?s I f?red thr?ughe ? fr?the | wh?re th? fl?w?rs w?re m?n?e.

To conclude: the metre of Pierce Plowman’s Visions has no kind of affinity with what is commonly called blank verse; yet has it a sort of harmony of its own, proceeding not so much from its alliteration, as from the artful disposal of its cadence, and the contrivance of its pause; so that when the ear is a little accustomed to it, it is by no means unpleasing; but claims all the merit of the French heroic numbers, only far less polished; being sweetened, instead of their final rhymes, with the internal recurrence of similar sounds. This Essay will receive illustration from another specimen in Warton’s History of English Poetry, vol. i. p. 309, being the fragment of a manuscript poem on the subject of Alexander the Great, in the Bodleian Library, which he supposes to be the same with Number 44, in the Ashmol. manuscripts, containing 27 passus, and beginning thus:

“Whener folk fastid [feasted, qu.] and fed, Fayne wolde thei her [i.e. hear] Some farand thing, &c.”

It is well observed by Mr. Tyrwhitt, on Chaucer’s sneer at this old alliterative metre (vol. iii. p. 305): viz.

“--- I am a Sotherne [i.e. Southern] man, I cannot geste, rom, ram, raf, by my letter,”

that the fondness for this species of versification, &c. was retained longest in the northern provinces: and that the author of Plowman’s Visions is in the best MSS., called William, without any surname. — See vol. iv. p. 74.

ADDITIONS TO THE ESSAY ON THE ALLITERATIVE METRE

Since the foregoing Essay was first printed, the Editor hath met with some additional examples of the old alliterative metre. The first is in MS.,[21] which begins thus:

“Crist Crowned Kyng, that on Cros didest,[22] And art Comfort of all Care, thow[23] kind go out of Cours, With thi Halwes in Heven Heried mote thu be, And thy Worshipful Werkes Worshiped evre, That suche Sondry Signes Shewest unto man, In Dremyng, in Drecchyng,[24] and in Derke swevenes.”

The author, from this prmium, takes occasion to give an account of a dream that happened to himself, which he introduces with the following circumstances:

“Ones y me Ordayned, as y have Ofte doon, With Frendes and Felawes, Frendemen, and other; And Caught me in a Company on Corpus Christi even, Six other[25] Seven myle, oute of Suthampton, To take Melodye and Mirthes, among my Makes; With Redyng of ROMAUNCES, and Revelyng among, The Dym of the Derknesse Drewe me into the west; And beGon for to spryng in the Grey day. Than Lift y up my Lyddes, and Loked in the sky, And Knewe by the Kende Cours, hit clered in the est: Blyve y Busked me down, and to Bed went, For to Comforte my Kynde, and Cacche a stepe.”

He then describes his dream:

“Methought that y Hoved on High on an Hill, And loked Doun on a Dale Depest of othre; Ther y Sawe in my Sight a Selcouthe peple; The Multitude was so Moche, it Mighte not be nombred. Methoughte y herd a Crowned King of his Comunes axe A Soleyne[26] Subsidie, to Susteyne his werres.

- *

With that a Clerk Kneled adowne and Carped these wordes, Liege Lord, yif it you Like to Listen a while, Some Saws of Salomon y shall you Shewe Sone.”

The writer then gives a solemn lecture to kings on the art of governing. From the demand of subsidies “to susteyne his werres,” I am inclined to believe this poem composed in the reign of King Henry V. as the manuscript appears, from a subsequent entry, to have been written before the 9th of Henry VI. The whole poem contains but 146 lines. The alliterative metre was no less popular among the old Scottish poets, than with their brethren on this side the Tweed. In Maitland’s Collection of ancient Scottish Poems, MS. in the Pepysian Library, is a very long poem in this species of versification, thus inscribed:

“HEIR begins the Tretis of the twa Marriit Wemen and the Wedo, compylit be Maister William Dunbar.[27]

“Upon the Midsummer evven Mirriest of nichtis I Muvit furth alane quhen as Midnight was past Besyd ane Gudlie Grene Garth[28] full of Gay flouris Hegeit[29] of ane Huge Hicht with Hawthorn treeis Quairon ane Bird on ane Bransche so Birst out hir notis That nevir ane Blythfuller Bird was on the Beuche[30] hard,” &c.

The author pretends to overhear three gossips sitting in an arbour, and revealing all their secret methods of alluring and governing the other sex. It is a severe and humorous satire on bad women, and nothing inferior to Chaucer’s Prologue to his Wife of Bath’s Tale. As Dunbar lived till about the middle of the sixteenth century, this poem was probably composed after Scottish Field (described above), which is the latest specimen I have met with written in England. This poem contains about 500 lines. But the current use of the alliterative metre in Scotland, appears more particularly from those popular vulgar prophecies, which are still printed for the use of the lower people in Scotland, under the names of Thomas the Rymer, Marvellous Merling, &c. This collection seems to have been put together after the accession of James I. to the crown of England, and most of the pieces in it are in the metre of Pierce Plowman’s Visions. The first of them begins thus:

“Merling sayes in his book, who will Read Right, Although his Sayings be uncouth, they Shall be true found, In the seventh chapter, read Whoso Will, One thousand and more after Christ’s birth,” &c.

And the Prophesie of Beid:

“Betwixt the chief of Summer and the Sad winter; Before the Heat of summer Happen shall a war That Europ’s lands Earnestly shall be wrought And Earnest Envy shall last but a while,” &c.

So again the Prophesie of Berlington:

“When the Ruby is Raised, Rest is there none, But much Rancour shall Rise in River and plain, Much Sorrow is Seen through a Suth-hound That beares Hornes in his Head like a wyld Hart,” &c.

In like metre is the Prophesie of Waldhave:

“Upon Lowdon Law alone as I Lay, Looking to the Lennox, as me Lief thought, The first Morning of May Medicine to seek For Malice and Melody that Moved me sore,” &c.

And lastly, that intitled, the Prophesie of Gildas:

“When holy kirk is Wracked and Will has no Wit And Pastors are Pluckt, and Pil’d without Pity When Idolatry Is In ENS and RE And spiritual pastours are vexed away,” &c.

It will be observed in the foregoing specimens, that the alliteration is extremely neglected, except in the third and fourth instances; although all the rest are written in imitation of the cadence used in this kind of metre. It may perhaps appear from an attentive perusal, that the poems ascribed to Berlington and Waldhave are more ancient than the others: indeed the first and fifth appear evidently to have been new-modelled, if not entirely composed about the beginning of the last century, and are probably the latest attempts ever made in this species of verse. In this and the foregoing Essay are mentioned all the specimens I have met with of the alliterative metre without rhyme: but instances occur sometimes in old manuscripts, of poems written both with final rhymes and the internal cadence and alliterations of the metre of Pierce Plowman.

NOTES

1. Literatura Runica. Hafnić, 1636, 4to.—1651, fol. The Islandic language is of the same origin as our Anglo-Saxon, being both dialects of the ancient Gothic or Teutonic.— Vid. Hickesii Prćfat. in Grammat. Anglo-Saxon & Mso-Goth. 4to. 1689. 2. Vid. Hickes Antiq. Literatur. Septentrional. tom. i. p. 217. 3. Ibid. 4. The poem properly contains xxi. parts. The word Passus, adopted by the author, seems only to denote the break or division between two parts, though, by the ignorance of the printer, applied to the parts themselves. See Book vii. preface to ballad iii, where Passus seems to signify pause. 5. That which seems the first of the two, is thus distinguished in the title page: nowe the seconde time imprinted by Roberte Crowlye; the other thus, nowe the seconde time imprinted by Robert Crowley. In the former the folios are thus erroneously numbered, 34, 39, 41, 63, 43, 42, 45, &c. The booksellers of those days did not ostentatiously affect to multiply editions. 6. Signature C ii. 7. Caligula A. ij. fol. 109, 123. 8. K. vol. x. 9. W. de Worde’s edit. is in 1512.— See Ames, p. 92. Mr. G.’s copy is —”Emprinted at London by me William Copland.” 10. He is said in the story book to be the grandfather of Godfrey of Boulogne, through whom I suppose the duke made out his relation to him. This duke was beheaded May 17, 1521, 13 Henry VIII. 11. Probably corrupted for —”Says but as he Saw.” 12. “Yearded,” i.e. buried, earthed, earded. It is common to pronounce “earth,” in some parts of England, “yearth,” particularly in the north.— Pitscottie, speaking of James III. slain at Bannockbourn, says, “Nae man wot whar they yearded him.” 13. And in that of Robert of Gloucester.— See the next note. 14. Consisting of four anapests (???) in which the accent rests upon every third syllable. This kind of verse, which I also call the burlesque Alexandrine (to distinguish it from the other Alexandrines of eleven and fourteen syllables, the parents of our lyric measure: see examples, preface to book v. no. vi &c.) was early applied by Robert of Gloucester to serious subjects. That writer’s metre, like this of Langland’s, is formed on the Saxon models (each verse of his containing a Saxon distich); only instead of the internal alliterations adopted by Langland, he rather chose final rhymes, as the French poets have done since. Take a specimen:

“The Saxons tho in ther power, tho thii were so rive, Seven kingdoms made in Engelonde, and sutlie but vive: The king of Northomberlond, and of Eastangle also Of Kent, and of Westsex, and of the March, therto.”

Robert of Gloucester wrote in the western dialect, and his language differs exceedingly from that of other contemporary writers, who resided in the metropolis, or in the midland counties. Had the Heptarchy continued, our Engilsh language would probably have been as much distinguished for its different dialects as the Greek; or at least as that of the several independent states of Italy. 15. Or of thirteen syllables, in what they call a feminine verse. It is remarkable that the French alone have retained this old Gothic metre for their serious poems; while the English, Spaniards, &c., have adopted the Italic verse of ten syllables, although the Spaniards, as well as we, anciently used a short-lined metre. I believe the success with which Petrarch, and perhaps one or two others, first used the heroic verse of ten syllables in Italian poesy, recommended it to the Spanish writers; as it also did to our Chaucer, who first attempted it in English; and to his successors Lord Surrey, Sir Thomas Wyat, &c.; who afterwards improved it and brought it to perfection. To Lord Surrey we also owe the first introductlon of blank verse in his versions of the second and fourth books of the Ćneid, 1567, 4to. 16. Thus our poets use this verse indifferently with twelve, eleven, and even ten syllables. For though regularly it consists of four anapests (???) or twelve syllablles, yet they frequently retrench a syllable from the first or third anapest and sometimes from both; as in these instances from Prior, and from the following song of Conscience:

“Wh? h?s e?r be?n ?t P?r?s, m?st n?eds kn?w th? Gr?ve, Th? f?t?l r?tr?at ?f th’?nf?rt?n?te br?ve. H? st?pt t? h?m str?ight, ?nd d?d h?m r?qu?re.”

17.See instances in L’Hist. de la Poésie Françoise, par Massieu, &c. In the same book are also specimens of alliterative French verses. 18. Catalina, A. 3. 19. Boileau, Sat. 20. Boil., Sat 11. 21. In a small 4to. MS., containing 38 leaves, in private hands. 22. Didst dye. 23. Though. 24. Being overpowered. 25. i.e. either, or. 26. Solemn. 27. Since the above was written, this poem hath been printed in “Ancient Scottish Poems, &c. from the MS. Collections of Sir R. Maitland of Lethington, knight.” London, 1786, 2 vols. 12mo. The two first lines are here corrected by that edition. 28. Garden. 29. Hedged. 30. Bough.

I. The Complaint of Conscience.

The following song, intitled, “The Complaint of Conscience,” is printed from the Editor’s folio manuscript: some corruptions in the old copy are here corrected.

As I walked of late by an wood side, To God for to meditate was my entent; Where under a hawthorne I suddenlye spyed A silly poore creature ragged and rent, With bloody teares his face was besprent, His flesh and his color consumed away, And his garments they were all mire, mucke, and clay.

This made me muse, and much to desire To know what kind of man hee shold bee; I stept to him straight, and did him require His name and his secretts to shew unto mee. His head he cast up, and wooful was hee, “My name,” quoth he, “Is the cause of my care, And makes me scorned, and left here so bare.”

Then straightway he turnd him, and prayd me sit downe, “And I will,” saithe he, “declare my whole greefe; My name is called CONSCIENCE:”— wheratt he did frowne, He pined to repeate it, and grinded his teethe, “Thoughe now, silly wretche, I’m denyed all releef, Yet while I was young, and tender of yeeres, I was entertained with kinges, and with peeres.

“There was none in the court that lived in such fame, For with the kings councell I sate in commission; Dukes, earles, and barrons esteem’d of my name; And how that I liv’d there needs no repetition: I was ever holden in honest condition, For howsoever the lawes went in Westminster-hall, When sentence was given, for me they wold call.

“No incomes at all the landlords wold take, But one pore peny, that was their fine; And that they acknowledged to be for my sake. The poore wold doe nothing without councell mine: I ruled the world with the right line: For nothing was passed betweene foe and friend, But Conscience was called to bee at the end.

“Noe bargaines, nor merchandize merchants wold make But I was called a wittenesse therto: No use for noe money, nor forfett wold take, But I wold controule them, if that they did soe: And that makes me live now in great woe, For then came in Pride, Sathan’s disciple, That is now entertained with all kind of people.

“He brought with him three, whose names thus they call That is Covetousnes, Lecherye, Usury, beside: They never prevail’d, till they had wrought my downe-fall; So Pride was entertained, but Conscience decried, And now ever since abroad have I tryed To have had entertainment with some one or other; But I am rejected, and scorned of my brother.

“Then went I to the Court the gallants to Winn, But the porter kept me out of the gate: To Bartlemew Spittle to pray for my sinne, They bade me goe packe, it was fitt for my state; ‘Goe, goe, threed-bare Conscience, and seeke thee a mate!’ Good Lord, long preserve my king, prince, and queene, With whom evermore I esteemed have been.

“Then went I to London, where once I did dwell: But they bade away with me, when they knew my name; ‘For he will undoe us to bye and to sell!’ They bade me goe packe me, and hye me for shame: They lought at my raggs, and there had good game ‘This is old threed-bare Conscience, that dwelt with Saint Peter;’ But they wold not admitt me to be a chimney-sweeper.

“Not one wold receive me, the Lord he doth know; I having but one poor pennye in my purse, On an awle and some patches I did it bestow; For I thought better cobble shooes than doe worse. Straight then all the coblers began for to curse, And by statute wold prove me a rogue, and forlorne, And whipp me out of towne to seeke where I was borne.

“Then did I remember, and call to my minde, The Court of Conscience where once I did sit: Not doubting but there I some favor shold find, For my name and the place agreed soe fit; But there of my purpose I fayled a whit, For thoughe the judge us’d my name in everye commission, The lawyers with their quillets wold get my dismission.

“Then Westminster-hall was noe place for me; Good lord! how the lawyers began to assemble, And fearfull they were, lest there I shold bee! The silly poore clarkes began for to tremble; I showed them my cause, and did not dissemble; Soe they gave me some money my charges to beare, But swore me on a booke I must never come there.

“Next the Merchants said, ‘Counterfeite, get thee away; Dost thou remember how wee thee fond? We banisht thee the country beyond the salt sea, And set thee on shore in the New-found land; And there thou and wee most friendly shook hand, And we were right glad when thou didst refuse us; For when we wold reape profitt here thou woldst accuse us.’

“Then had I noe way, but for to goe on To Gentlemens houses of an ancyent name; Declaring my greeffes, and there I made moan; Telling how their forefathers held me in fame: And at letting their farmes how always I came. They sayd, Fye upon thee! we may thee curse: Theire leases continue, and we fare the worse.

“And then I was forced a begging to goe To husbandmens houses, who greeved right sore, And sware that their landlords had plagued them so, That they were not able to keepe open doore, Nor nothing had left to give to the poore: Therefore to this wood I doe me repayre, Where hepps and hawes, that is my best fare.

“Yet within this same desert some comfort I have Of Mercy, of Pittye, and of Almes-deeds; Who have vowed to company me to my grave, Wee are all put to silence, and live upon weeds, And hence such cold house-keeping proceeds; Our banishment is its utter decay, The which the riche glutton will answer one day.”

“Why then,” I said to him, “me-thinks it were best To goe to the Clergie; for dailye they preach Eche man to love you above all the rest; Of Mercye, and Pittie, and Almes- deeds, they teach.” “O,” said he, “noe matter of a pin what they preach, For their wives and their children soe hange them upon, That whosoever gives almes they will[1] give none.”

“Then laid he him down, and turned him away, And prayed me to goe, and leave him to rest. I told him, I haplie might yet see the day For him and his fellowes to live with the best. First, said he, banish Pride, then all England were blest; For then those wold love us, that now sell their land, And then good house-keeping wold revive out of hand.

NOTES

1. We ought in justice and truth to read ‘can.’

II. Plain Truth and Blind Ignorance.

This excellent old ballad is preserved in the little ancient miscellany, intitled The Garland of Goodwill. Ignorance is here made to speak in the broad Somersetshire dialect. The scene we may suppose to be Glastonbury Abbey.

TRUTH

“GOD speed you, ancient father, And give you a good daye; What is the cause, I praye you, So sadly here you staye? And that you keep such gazing On this decayed place, The which, for superstition, Good princes down did raze?”

IGNORANCE

“Chill tell thee, by my vazen,[1] That zometimes che have knowne A vair and goodly abbey Stand here of bricke and stone; And many a holy vrier, As ich may say to thee, Within these goodly cloysters Che did full often zee.”

TRUTH

“Then I must tell thee, father, In truthe and veritie, A sorte of greater hypocrites Thou couldst not likely see; Deceiving of the simple With false and feigned lies: But such an order truly Christ never did devise.”

IGNORANCE

“Ah! ah I che zmell thee now, man; Che know well what thou art; A vellow of mean learning, Thee was not worth a vart: Vor when we had the old lawe, A merry world was then; And every thing was plenty Among all sorts of men.”

TRUTH

“Thou givest me an answer, As did the Jewes sometimes Unto the prophet Jeremye, When he accus’d their crimes: ‘Twas merry, sayd the people,

And joyfull in our realme, When we did offer spice-cakes Unto the queen of heav’n.”

IGNORANCE

“Chill tell thee what, good vellowe, Before the vriers went hence, A bushell of the best wheate Was zold vor vourteen pence; And vorty egges a penny, That were both good and newe; And this the zay my zelf have zeene, And yet ich am no Jewe.”

TRUTH

“Within the sacred bible We find it written plain, The latter days should troublesome And dangerous be, certaine; That we should be self-lovers, And charity wax colde; Then ‘tis not true religion That makes thee grief to holde.”

IGNORANCE

“Chill tell thee my opinion plaine, And choul’d that well ye knew; Ich care not for the bible booke; ‘Tis too big to be true. Our blessed ladyes psalter Mall for my money goe; Zuch pretty prayers, as there bee,[2] The bible cannot zhowe.”

TRUTH

“Nowe hast thou spoken trulye, For in that booke indeede No mention of our lady, Or Romish saint we read: For by the blessed Spirit That book indited was, And not by simple persons, As was the foolish masse.”

IGNORANCE

“Cham zure they were not voolishe That made the masse, che trowe; Why, man, ‘tis all in Latine, And vools no Latine knowe. Were not our fathers wise men, And they did like it well; Who very much rejoyced To heare the zacring bell?”

TRUTH

“But many kinges and prophets, As I may say to thee, Have wisht the light that you have, And could it never see: For what art thou the better A Latin song to heare, And understandest nothing, That they sing in the quiere?”

IGNORANCE

“O hold thy peace, che pray thee, The noise was passing trim To heare the vriers zinging, As we did enter in: And then to zee the rood-loft Zo bravely zet with saints;— But now to zee them wandring My heart with zorrow vaints.”

TRUTH

“The Lord did give commandment, No image thou shouldst make, Nor that unto idolatry You should your self betake: The golden calf of Israel Moses did therefore spoile; And Baal’s priests and temple Were brought to utter foile.”

IGNORANCE

“But our lady of Walsinghame Was a pure and holy zaint, And many men in pilgrimage Did shew to her complaint. Yea with zweet Thomas Becket, And many other moe: The holy maid of Kent[3] likewise Did many wonders zhowe.”

TRUTH

“Such saints are well agreeing To your profession sure; And to the men that made them So precious and so pure, The one for being a traytoure, Met an untimely death; The other eke for treason Did end her hateful breath.”

IGNORANCE

“Yea, yea, it is no matter, Dispraise them how you wille: But zure they did much goodnesse; Would they were with us stille! We had our holy water, And holy bread likewise, And many holy reliques We zaw before our eyes.”

TRUTH

“And all this while they fed you With vain and empty showe, Which never Christ commanded, As learned doctors knowe; Search then the holy scriptures, And thou shalt plainly see That headlong to damnation They alway trained thee.”

IGNORANCE

“If it be true, good vellowe, As thou dost zay to mee, Unto my heavenly fader Alone then will I flee: Believing in the Gospel, And passion of his Zon, And with the zubtil papistes Ich have for ever done.”

NOTES

1. i.e. faithen: as in the midland counties they say housen, closen, for houses, closes. A. 2. Probably alluding to the illuminated Psalters, Missals, &c. 3. By name Eliz. Barton, executed April 24, 1534.— Stow, p. 570.

III. The Wandering Jew.

The story of the Wandering Jew is of considerable antiquity. It had obtained full credit in this part of the world before the year 1228, as we learn from Matthew Paris: for in that year it seems there came an Armenian archbishop into England, to visit the shrines and reliques preserved in our churches; who being entertained at the monastery of St. Albans, was asked several questions relating to his country, &c. Among the rest a monk, who sat near him, inquired “if he had ever seen or heard of the famous person named Joseph, that was so much talked of; who was present at our Lord’s crucifixion and conversed with him, and who was still alive in confirmation of the Christian faith.” The archbishop answered that the fact was true. And afterwards one of his train, who was well known to a servant of the abbot’s, interpreting his master’s words, told them in French, “That his lord knew the person they spoke of very well: that he had dined at his table but a little while before he left the east: that he had been Pontius Pilate’s porter, by name Cartaphilus; who, when they were dragging Jesus out of the door of the Judgment-hall, struck him with his fist on the back, saying, ‘Go faster, Jesus, go faster: why dost thou linger?’ Upon which Jesus looked at him with a frown, and said, ‘I indeed am going, but thou shalt tarry till I come.’ Soon after he was converted, and baptized by the name of Joseph. He lives for ever; but at the end of every hundred years falls into an incurable illness, and at length into a fit or ecstacy, out of which when he recovers, he returns to the same state of youth he was in when Jesus suffered, being then about thirty years of age. He remembers all the circumstances of the death and resurrection of Christ, the saints that arose with him, the composing of the apostles’ creed, their preaching, and dispersion; and is himself a very grave and holy person.” This is the substance of Matthew Paris’s account, who was himself a monk of St. Albans, and was living at the time when this Armenian archbishop made the above relation. Since his time several impostors have appeared at intervals under the name and character of the Wandering Jew; whose several histories may be seen in Calmet’s Dictionary of the Bible. See also the Turkish Spy, vol. ii. book iii. let. i. The story that is copied in the following ballad is of one who appeared at Hamburg in 1547, and pretended he had been a Jewish shoemaker at the time of Christ’s crucifixion. The ballad, however, seems to be of later date. It is preserved in black-letter in the Pepys Collection.

WHEN as in faire Jerusalem Our Saviour Christ did live, And for the sins of all the worlde His own deare life did give; The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes Did dailye him molest, That never till he left his life, Our Saviour could not rest.

When they had crown’d his head with thornes, And scourg’d him to disgrace, In scornfull sort they led him forthe Unto his dying place, Where thousand thousands in the streete Beheld him passe along, Yet not one gentle heart was there, That pityed this his wrong.

Both old and young reviled him, As in the streete he wente, And nought he found but churlish tauntes, By every ones consente: His owne deare crosse he bore himselfe, A burthen far too great, Which made him in the street to fainte, With blood and water sweat.

Being weary thus, he sought for rest, To ease his burthened soule, Upon a stone; the which a wretch Did churlishly controule; And sayd, “Awaye, thou king of Jewes, Thou shalt not rest thee here; Pass on; thy execution place Thou seest nowe draweth neare.”

And thereupon he thrust him thence; At which our Saviour sayd, “I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, And have no journey stayed.” With that this cursed shoemaker, For offering Christ this wrong, Left wife and children, house and all, And went from thence along.

Where after he had seene the bloude Of Jesus Christ thus shed, And to the crosse his bodye nail’d, Awaye with speed he fled Without returning backe againe Unto his dwelling place, And wandred up and downe the worlde, A runnagate most base.

No resting could he finde at all, No ease, nor hearts content; No house, nor home, nor biding place: But wandring forth he went From towne to towne in foreigne landes, With grieved conscience still, Repenting for the heinous guilt Of his fore-passed ill.

Thus after some fewe ages past In wandring up and downe; He much again desired to see Jerusalems renowne, But finding it all quite destroyd, He wandred thence with woe, Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke, To verifie and showe.

“I’ll rest,” sayd hee, “but thou shalt walke,” So doth this wandring Jew From place to place, but cannot rest For seeing countries newe; Declaring still the power of him, Whereas he comes or goes, And of all things done in the east, Since Christ his death, he showes.

The world he hath still compast round And seene those nations strange, That hearing of the name of Christ, Their idol gods doe change: To whom he hath told wondrous thinges Of time forepast, and gone, And to the princes of the worlde Declares his cause of moane:

Desiring still to be dissolv’d, And yield his mortal breath; But, if the Lord hath thus decreed, He shall not yet see death. For neither lookes he old nor young, But as he did those times, When Christ did suffer on the Crosse For mortall sinners crimes.

He hath past through many a foreigne place, Arabia, Egypt, Africa, Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace, And throughout all Hungaria. Where Paul and Peter preached Christ, Those blest apostles deare; There he hath told our Saviours wordes, In countries far, and neare.

And lately in Bohemia, With many a German towne; And now in Flanders, as ‘tis thought, He wandreth up and downe: Where learned men with him conferre Of those his lingering dayes, And wonder much to heare him tell His journeyes, and his wayes.

If people give this Jew an almes, The most that he will take Is not above a groat a time: Which he, for Jesus’ sake, Will kindlye give unto the poore, And thereof make no spare, Affirming still that Jesus Christ Of him hath dailye care.

He ne’er was seene to laugh nor smile, But weepe and make great moane; Lamenting still his miseries, And dayes forepast and gone: If he heare any one blaspheme, Or take God’s name in vaine, He telles them that they crucifie Their Saviour Christe againe.

“If you had seene his death,” saith he, “As these mine eyes hath done, Ten thousand thousand times would yee His torments think upon: And suffer for his sake all paine Of torments, and all woes, These are his wordes and eke his life Whereas he comes or goes.

IV. The Lye. BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

This poem is found in a very scarce miscellany intitled “Davison’s Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books . . . The 4th impression newly corrected and augmented, and put into a forme more pleasing to the reader.” Lond. 1621, 12mo. This poem is reported to have been written by its celebrated author the night before his execution, Oct. 29, 1618. But this must be a mistake; for there were at least two editions of Davison’s poems before that time, one in 1608,[1] the other in 1611:[2] so that unless this poem was an after insertion in the 4th. edit. it must have been written long before the death of Sir Walter. Perhaps it was composed soon after his condemnation in 1603. See Oldys s Life of Sir Walter Raleigh, p. 173, fol.

GOE, soule, the bodies guest, Upon a thankelesse arrant; Feare not to touche the best, The truth shall be thy warrant: Goe, since I needs must dye, And give the world the lye.

Goe tell the court, it glowes And shines like rotten wood; Goe tell the church it showes What’s good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye.

Tell potentates they live Acting by others actions; Not lov’d unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye.

Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practise onely hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lye.

Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; Tell love, it is but lust; Tell time, it is but motion; Tell flesh, it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lye.

Tell age, it daily wasteth; Tell honour, how it alters: Tell beauty, how she blasteth; Tell favour, how she falters; And as they shall reply, Give each of them the lye.

Tell wit, how much it wrangles In tickle points of nicenesse; Tell wisedome, she entangles Herselfe in over-wisenesse; And if they do reply, Straight give them both the lye.

Tell physicke of her boldnesse; Tell skill, it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law, it is contention; And as they yield reply, So give them still the lye.

Tell fortune of her blindnesse; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindnesse; Tell justice of delay: And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming; Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schooles reply, Give arts and schooles the lye.

Tell faith, it’s fled the citie; Tell how the countrey erreth; Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; Tell, vertue least preferreth: And, if they doe reply, Spare not to give the lye.

So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lye Deserves no less than stabbing, Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soule can kill.

NOTES

1. Catalogue of T. Rawlinson, 1727. 2. Catalogue of Sian College Library. This is either lost or mislaid.

V. Verses by King James I.

In the first edition of this book were inserted, by way of specimen of his majesty’s poetic talents, some punning verses made on the disputations at Sterling: but it having been suggested to the Editor, that the king only gave the quibbling commendations in prose, and that some obsequious court-rhymer put them into metre;[1] it was thought proper to exchange them for two sonnets of King James’s own composition. James was a great versifier, and therefore out of the multitude of his poems we have selected two, which (to shew our impartiality) are written in his best and his worst manner. The first would not dishonour any writer of that time; the second is a most complete example of the bathos.

A SONNET ADDRESSED BY KING JAMES TO HIS SON, PRINCE HENRY.

From King James’s Works in folio: where is also printed another called his Majesty’s OWN sonnet. It would perhaps be too cruel to infer from thence that it was NOT his Majesty’s OWN sonnet.

GOD gives not kings the stile of gods in vaine, For on his throne his scepter do they swey: And as their subjects ought them to obey, So kings should feare and serve their God againe. If then ye would enjoy a happie reigne, Observe the statutes of our heavenly King; And from his law make all your laws to spring; Since his lieutenant here ye should remaine.

Rewarde the just, be stedfast, true and plaine; Represse the proud, maintayning aye the right; Walke always so, as ever in HIS sight, Who guardes the godly, plaguing the prophane. And so ye shall in princely vertues shine, Resembling right your mightie King divine.

A SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE BAD WEATHER WHICH HINDERED THE SPORTS AT NEW-MARKET, IN JANUARY 1616

This is printed from Drummond of Hawthornden’s Works, folio: where also may be seen some verses of Lord Stirling’s upon this sonnet, which concludes with the finest anti-climax I remember to have seen.

How cruelly these catives do conspire! What loathsome love breeds such a baleful band Betwixt the cankred king of Creta land,[2] That melancholy old and angry sire, And him, who wont to quench debate and ire Among the Romans, when his ports were clos’d?[3] But now his double face is still dispos’d, With Saturn’s help, to freeze us at the fire. The earth ore-covered with a sheet of snow, Refuses food to fowl, to bird, and beast: The chilling cold lets every thing to grow, And surfeits cattle with a starving feast. Curs’d be that love and mought[4] continue short Which kills all creatures, and doth spoil our sport.

NOTES

1. See a folio intitled “The Muses welcome to King James.” 2. Saturn. 3. Janus. 4. i.e. may it.

VI. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury.

The common popular ballad of King John and the Abbot seems to have been abridged and modernized about the time of James I. from one much older, intitled, King John and the Bishop of Canterbury. The Editor’s folio manuscript contains a copy of this last, but in too corrupt a state to be reprinted: it however afforded many lines worth reviving, which will be found inserted in the ensuing stanzas. The archness of the following questions and answers hath been much admired by our old ballad-makers; for besides the two copies above-mentioned, there is extant another ballad on the same subject, but of no great antiquity or merit, intitled, King Olfrey and the Abbot.[1] Lastly, about the time of the Civil Wars, when the cry ran against the Bishops, some Puritan worked up the same story into a very doleful ditty, to a solemn tune concerning “King Henry and a Bishop;” with this stinging moral:

“Unlearned men hard matters out can find, When learned bishops princes eyes do blind.”

The following is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy to the tune of “Derry down.”

AN ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein’d little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbůrye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about

“How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work’st treason against my crown.”

“My liege,” quo’ the abbot, “would it were knowne, I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere, For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.”

“Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy boděe.

“And first,” quo’ the king, “when I’m in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

“Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about. And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.”

“O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.”

“Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.”

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard a going to fold: “How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What newes do you bring us from good King John?”

“Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give; That I have but three days more to live: For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my boděe.

“The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, Among all his liege men so noble of birth, To within one penny of all what he is worth.

“The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soon he may ride this whole world about And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke.”

“Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learn a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I’ll ride to London to answere your quarrel.”

“Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.”

“Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare ‘fore our fader the pope.”

“Now welcome, sire abbott,” the king he did say, “‘Tis well thou’rt come back to keep thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

“And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crowne of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.”

“For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told; And twenty nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.”

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,[2] “I did not thinke I had been worth so littel — Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride this whole world about.

“You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you’ll ride it about.”

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, “I did not think, it could be gone so soone!— Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

“Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I’m the Abbot of Canterbury; But I’m his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.”

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, “Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!” “Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write ne reade.”

“Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.”

NOTES

1. See the Collection of Historical Ballads, 3 vols. 1727. Mr. Wise supposes Olfrey to be a corruption of Alfred, in his pamphlet concerning the WHITE HORSE in Berkshire, p. 15. 2. Meaning probably St. Botolph.

VII. You Meaner Beauties.

This little sonnet was written by Sir Henry Wotton, Knight, on that amiable Princess, Elizabeth, daughter of James I. and wife of the Elector Palatine, who was chosen King of Bohemia, Sept. 5, 1619. The consequences of this fatal election are well known. Sir Henry Wotton, who, in that and the following year, was employed on several embassies in Germany in behalf of this unfortunate lady, seems to have had an uncommon attachment to her merit and fortunes; for he gave away a jewel worth a thousand pounds, that was presented him by the Emperor, “because it came from an enemy to his royal mistress the Queen of Bohemia.”— See Biog. Britan. This song is printed from the Reliquić Wottonianć, 1654 with some corrections from an old manuscript copy.

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfie our eies More by your number, than your light; You common people of the skies, What are you when the Moon shall rise?

Ye violets that first appeare, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the yeare, As if the Spring were all your own; What are you when the Rose is blown?

Ye curious chaunters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature’s layes, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents: what’s your praise, When Philomell her voyce shall raise?

So when my mistris shal be seene In sweetnesse of her looks and minde; By virtue first, then choyce a queen; Tell me, if she was not design’d Th’ eclypse and glory of her kind?

VIII. The Old and Young Courtier.

This excellent old song, the subject of which is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modem refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors, is given, with corrections, from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, compared with another printed among some miscellaneous “poems and songs” in a book intitled, Le Prince d’Amour, 1660, 8vo.

AN old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like an old courtier of the queen’s, And the queen’s old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong’d to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study fill’d full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain’d half a dozen old cooks: Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, And an old frize coat, to cover his worship’s trunk hose, And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c.

With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good chear enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds; Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier, &c.

But to his eldest son his house and land he assign’d, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifulI mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin’d; Like a young courtier of the king’s, And the king’s young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pound upon his father’s land, And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong’d to good house-keeping, or care, Who buyes gaudy-color’d fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other womens hair; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fashion’d hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne’er stood; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has din’d, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier, &c.

With new titles of honour bought with his father’s old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors’ old manors are sold; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king’s young courtiers.

IX. Sir John Suckling’s Campaigne.

When the Scottish Covenanters rose up in arms, and advanced to the English borders in 1639, many of the courtiers complimented the king by raising forces at their own expense. Among these none were more distinguished than the gallant Sir John Suckling, who raised a troop of horse so richly accoutred, that it cost him 12,000l. The like expensive equipment of other parts of the army, made the king remark, that “the Scots would fight stoutly, if it were but for the Englishmen’s fine cloaths.” [Lloyd’s Memoirs.] When they came to action, the rugged Scots proved more than a match for the fine showy English: many of whom behaved remarkably ill, and among the rest this splendid troop of Sir John Suckling’s. This humorous pasquil has been generally supposed to have been written by Sir John as a banter upon himself. Some of his contemporaries, however, attributed it to Sir John Mennis, a wit of those times, among whose poems it is printed in a small poetical miscellany, intitled, “Musarum Deliciae: or the Muses’ Recreation, containing several pieces of poetique wit,” 2d edition. By Sir J. M. [Sir John Mennis] and Ja. S. [James Smith]. London, 1656, I2mo. (See Wood’s Athenć, ii. 397, 418.) In that copy is subjoined an additional stanza, which probably was written by this Sir John Mennis, viz.

But now there is peace, he’s return’d to increase, His money, which lately he spent-a, But his lost honour must lye still in the dust; At Barwick away it went-a.

SIR John he got him an ambling nag, To Scotland for to ride-a, With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, To guard him on every side-a.

No Errant-knight ever went to fight With halfe so gay a bravado, Had you seen but his look, you’ld have sworn on a book, Hee’ld have conquer’d a whole armado.

The ladies ran all to the windows to see So gallant and warlike a sight-a, And as he pass’d by, they said with a sigh, Sir John, why will you go fight-a?

But he, like a cruel knight, spurr’d on; His heart would not relent-a, For, till he came there, what had he to fear? Or why should he repent-a?

The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes Of him and all his troop-a, The borderers they, as they met him on the way, For joy did hollow, and whoop-a.

None lik’d him so well, as his own colonell, Who took him for John de Wert-a;[1] But when there were shows of gunning and blows, My gallant was nothing so pert-a.

For when the Scots army came within sight, And all prepared to fight-a, He ran to his tent, they ask’d what he meant, He swore he must needs goe sh*te-a.

The colonell sent for him back agen, To quarter him in the van-a, But Sir John did swear, he would not come there, To be kill’d the very first man-a.

To cure his fear, he was sent to the reare, Some ten miles back and more-a; Where Sir John did play at trip and away, And ne’er saw the enemy more-a.

NOTES

1. John de Wert was a German general of great reputation, and the terror of the French in the reign of Louis XIII. Hence his name became proverbial in France, where be was called De Vert.— See Bayle’s Dictionary.

X. To Althea From Prison.

This excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement in the Gate-house, Westminster: to which he was committed by the House of Commons, in April 1642, for presenting a petition from the county of Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government. See Wood’s Athenć, vol. ii. p. 228, and Lysons’s Environs of London, vol. i. p. 109, where may be seen at large the affecting story of this elegant writer, who, after having been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in

1658.

This song is printed from a scarce volume of his poems, intitled “Lucasta,” 1649, 12mo. collated with a copy in the Editor’s folio manuscript.

WHEN love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lye tangled in her haire, And fetter’d with her eye, The birds that wanton in the aire, Know no such libertye.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,[1] Our carelesse heads with roses crown’d, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, When healths and draughts goe free, Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, Know no such libertie.

When, linnet-like, confinčd I With shriller note shall sing The mercye, sweetness, majestye, And glories of my king; When I shall voyce aloud how good He is, how great should be, Th’ enlargčd windes, that curle the flood, Know so such libertie.

Stone walls doe not a prison make, Nor iron barres a cage, Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, And in my soule am free, Angels alone, that soare above, Enjoy such libertěe.

NOTES

1. Thames is here used for water in general.

XI. The Downfall of Charing Cross.

Charing-cross, as it stood before the Civil Wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks erected to conjugal affection by Edward I. who built such a one wherever the hearse of his beloved Eleanor rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity), could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times: for, in 1647, it was demolished by order of the House of Commons, as popish and superstitious. This occasioned the following not unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times. The plot referred to in ver. 17, was that entered into by Mr. Waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and tower to the service of the king; for which two of them, Nathaniel Tomkins and Richard Chaloner, suffered death, July 5, 1643.— Vide. Athen. Ox. ii. 24.

UNDONE, undone the lawyers are, They wander about the towne, Nor can find the way to Westminster, Now Charing-cross is downe: At the end of the Strand, they make a stand, Swearing they are at a Ioss, And chaffing say, that’s not the way, They must go by Charing-cross.

The parliament to vote it down Conceived it very fitting, For fear it should fall, and kill them all, In the house, as they were sitting. They were told, god-wot, it had a plot, Which made them so hard-hearted, To give command, it should not stand, But be taken down and carted.

Men talk of plots, this might have been worse For any thing I know, Than that Tomkins, and Chaloner, Were hang’d for long agoe. Our parliament did that prevent, And wisely them defended, For plots they will discover still, Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child, Will say, I’m confident, They ever heard it speak one word Against the parliament. An informer swore, it letters bore. Or else it had been freed; I’ll take, in troth, my Bible oath, It could neither write, nor read.

The committee said, that verily To popery it was bent; For ought I know, it might be so, For to church it never went. What with excise, and such device, The kingdom doth begin To think you’ll leave them ne’er a cross, Without doors nor within.

Methinks the common-council shou’d Of it have taken pity, ‘Cause, good old cross, it always stood So firmly to the city. Since crosses you so much disdain, Faith, if I were as you, For fear the king should rule again, I’d pull down Tiburn too.

- Whitelocke says, “May 7, 1643, Cheapside-cross and other crosses were voted down,” &c. But this vote was not put in execution with regard to Charing-cross till four years after, as appears from Lilly’s Observations on the Life, &c. of King Charles, viz. “Charing- cross, we know, was pulled down, 1647, in June, July, and August. Part of the stones were converted to pave before Whitehall. I have seen knife-hafts made of some of the stones, which, being well polished, looked like marble.” Ed. 1715, p. 18, 12mo.

See an account of the pulling down Cheapside cross, in the Supplement to Gent. Mag. 1764.

XII. Loyalty Confined.

This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd’s “Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I.” London, 1668, fol. p. 96. He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author’s name he has not mentioned, but if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir Roger L’Estrange. Some mistakes in Lloyd’s copy are corrected by two others, one in manuscript, the other in the “Westminster Drollery, or a choice Collection of Songs and Poems,” 1671, 12mo.

BEAT on, proud billows! Boreas blow! Swell, curled waves, high as Jove’s roof! Your incivility doth show, That innocence is tempest proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me: Whilst a good conscience is my bail, And innocence my liberty: Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retir’d, Into this private room was turn’d; As if their wisdoms had conspir’d The salamander should be burn’d; Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am constrain’d to suffer what I wish.

The cynick loves his poverty, The pelican her wilderness; And ‘tis the Indian’s pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus: Contentment cannot smart, stoicks we see Make torments easie to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm I, as my mistress’ favours, wear; And for to keep my ancles warm, I have some iron shackles there: These wars are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I’m in the cabinet lockt up, Like some high-prized margarite, Or, like the great mogul or pope, Am cloyster’d up from publick sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus, proud sultan, I’m as great as thee.

Here sin for want of food must starve, Where tempting objects are not seen; And these strong walls do only serve To keep vice out, and keep me in: Malice of late’s grown charitable sure, I’m not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason’s life,[1] Thinking t’ have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to a cure: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th’ event.

When once my prince affliction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; And to make smooth so rough a path, I can learn patience from him: Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart, When kings want ease subjects must bear a part.

What though I cannot see my king Neither in person or in coin; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine: My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?

Have you not seen the nightingale, A prisoner like, coopt in a cage, How doth she chaunt her wonted tale In that her narrow hermitage? Even then her charming melody doth prove, That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corps confine, Yet maugre hate, my soul is free And though immur’d, yet can I chirp, and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

My soul is free, as ambient air, Although my baser part’s imnnew’d, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T’ accompany my solitude , Although rebellion do my body binde, My king alone can captivate my minde.

NOTES

1. See this remarkable story in Cicero de Nat. Deorum. lib. iii. c. xxviii.; Cic. de ofic. lib. i. c. xxx. See also Val. Max. l. viii.

XIII. Verses by King Charles I.

“This prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose. Bishop Burnet has given us a pathetic elegy, said to be written by Charles in Carisbrook castle [in 1648]. The poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety.”--- Mr. Walpole’s Royal and Noble Authors, vol. i. It is in his Memoirs of the Duke of Hamilton, p. 379, that Burnet hath preserved this elegy, which he tells us he had from a gentleman, who waited on the king at the time when it was written, and copied it out from the original. It is there intitled, MAJESTY IN MISERY: OR AN IMPLORATION TO THE KING OF KINGS,” Hume hath remarked of these stanzas, “that the truth of the sentiment, rather than the elegance of the expression, renders them very pathetic.” (See his History, 1763, 4to. vol. V. pp. 437. 442. which is no bad comment upon them.) These are almost the only verses known of Charles’s composition. Indeed a little poem On a quiet Conscience, printed in the “Poetical Calendar,” 1763, vol. viii. is attributed to King Charles I.; being reprinted from a thin 8vo, published by Nahum Tate, called “Miscellanea Sacra, or Poems on Divine and Moral Subjects.”

GREAT monarch of the world, from whose power springs The potency and power of kings, Record the royal woe my suffering sings;

And teach my tongue, that ever did confine Its faculties in truth’s seraphick line, To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.

Nature and law, by thy divine decree, (The only root of righteous royaltie) With this dim diadem invested me:

With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe, The holy unction, and the royal globe: Yet am I levell’d with the life of Job.

The fiercest furies, that do daily tread Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head, Are those that owe my bounty for their bread.

They raise a war, and christen it THE CAUSE, While sacrilegious hands have best applause, Plunder and murder are the kingdom’s laws;

Tyranny bears the title of taxation, Revenge and robbery are reformation, Oppression gains the name of sequestration.

My loyal subjects, who in this bad season Attend me (by the law of God and reason), They dare impeach, and punish for high treason.

Next at the clergy do their furies frown, Pious episcopacy must go down, They will destroy the crosier and the crown.

Churchmen are chain’d, and schismaticks are freed, Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed, The crown is crucified with the creed.

The church of England doth all factions foster, The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor, Extempore excludes the Paternoster.

The Presbyter, and Independent seed Springs with broad blades. To make religion bleed Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed.

The corner stone’s misplac’d by every pavier: With such a bloody method and behaviour Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour.

My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb So many princes legally have come, Is forc’d in pilgrimage to seek a tomb.

Great Britain’s heir is forced into France, Whilst on his father’s head his foes advance: Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance.

With my own power my majesty they wound, In the king’s name the king himself’s uncrown’d; So doth the dust destroy the diamond.

With propositions daily they enchant My people’s ears, such as do reason daunt, And the Almighty will not let me grant.

They promise to erect my royal stem, To make me great, t’advance my diadem, If I will first fall down, and worship them.

But for refusal they devour my thrones, Distress my children, and destroy my bones; I fear they’ll force me to make bread of stones.

My life they prize at such a slender rate, That in my absence they drew bills of hate, To prove the king a traytor to the state.

Felons obtain more privilege than I, They are allow’d to answer ere they die; ‘Tis death for me to ask the reason, why.

But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to Such, as thou know’st do not know what they do.

For since they from their lord are so disjointed, As to contemn those edicts he appointed, How can they prize the power of his anointed?

Augment my patience, nullifie my hate, Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate; Yet, though we perish, BLESS THIS CHURCH and STATE.

XIV. The Sale of Rebellious House-hold Stuff.

This sarcastic exultation of triumphant loyalty is printed from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in “A choice Collection of 120 loyal Songs,” &c. 1684, 12mo.— To the tune of Old Simon the king.

REBELLION hath broken up house, And hath left me old lumber to sell; Come hither, and take your choice, I’ll promise to use you well: Will you buy the old speaker’s chair? Which was warm and easie to sit in, And oft hath been clean’d I declare, When as it was fouler than fitting. Says old Simon the king, &c.

Will you buy any bacon-flitches, The fattest, that ever were spent? They’re the sides of old committees, Fed up in the long parliament. Here’s a pair of bellows, and tongs, And for a small matter I’ll sell ye ‘um; They are made of the presbyters lungs, To blow up the coals of rebellion. Says old Simon, &c.

I had thought to have given them once To some black-smith for his forge; But now I have considered on’t, They are consecrate to the church: So I’ll give them unto some quire, They will make the big organs roar, And the little pipes to squeeke higher, Than ever they could before. Says old Simon, &c.

Here’s a couple of stools for sale, One’s square, and t’other is round; Betwixt them both the tail Of the Rump fell down to the ground. Will you buy the states council-table, Which was made of the good wain Scot? The frame was a tottering Babel To uphold the Independent plot. Says old Simon, &c.

Here’s the beesom of Reformation, Which should have made clean the floor, But it swept the wealth out of the nation, And left us dirt good store. Will you buy the states spinning-wheel, Which spun for the roper’s trade? But better it had stood still, For now it has spun a fair thread. Says old Simon, &c.

Here’s a glyster-pipe well try’d, Which was made of a butcher’s stump.[1] And has been safely apply’d, To cure the colds of the rump. Here’s a lump of Pilgrims-Salve, Which once was a justice of peace, Who Noll and the Devil did serve; But now it is come to this. Says old Simon, &c.

Here’s a roll of the states tobacco, If any good fellow will take it; No Virginia had e’er such a smack-o, And I’ll tell you how they did make it: ‘Tis th’ Engagement, and Covenant cookt Up with the Abjuration oath; And many of them, that have took’t, Complain it was foul in the mouth. Says old Simon, &c.

Yet the ashes may happily serve To cure the scab of the nation, Whene’er ‘t has an itch to swerve To Rebellion by innovation. A Lanthorn here is to be bought, The like was scarce ever gotten, For many plots it has found out Before they ever were thought on. Says old Simon, &c.

Will you buy the Rump’s great saddle With which it jocky’d the nation? And here is the bitt, and the bridle, And curb of Dissimulation: And here’s the trunk-hose of the Rump, And their fair dissembling cloak, And a Presbyterian jump, With an Independent smock. Says old Simon, &c.

Will you buy a Conscience oft turn’d, Which serv’d the high-court of justice, And stretch’d until England it mourn’d: But Hell will buy that if the worst is. Here’s Joan[2] Cromwell’s kitchin-stuff tub, Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers, With which old Noll’s horns she did rub, When he was got drunk with false bumpers. Says old Simon, &c.

Here’s the purse of the public faith; Here’s the model of the Sequestration, When the old wives upon their good troth, Lent thimbles to ruine the nation.[3] Here’s Dick Cromwell’s Protectorship, And here are Lambert’s commissions, And here is Hugh Peters his scrip Cramm’d with the tumultuous Petitions. Says old Simon, &c.

And here are old Noll’s brewing vessels,[4] And here are his dray, and his slings; Here are Hewson’s awl, and his bristles, With diverse other odd things: And what is the price doth belong To all these matters before ye? I’ll sell them all for an old song, And so I do end my story. Says old Simon, &c.

NOTES 1. Alluding probably to Major-General Harrison, a butcher’s son, who assisted Cromwell in turning out the Long Parliament, April 20, 1653. 2. This was a cant name given to Cromwell’s wife by the Royalists, though her name was Elizabeth. She was taxed with exchanging the kitchen-stuff for the candles used in the Protector’s houshold, &c. See Gent. Mag. for March 1718, p. 242. 3. See Grey’s [sic] Hudibras, Part I. canto ii. ver.70, &c. 4. Cromwell had in his younger years followed the brewing trade at Huntingdon. Col. Hewson is said to have been originally a cobbler.

XV. The Baffled Knight, or Lady’s Policy.

Given, with some corrections, from a manuscript copy, and collated with two printed ones in the Roman character in the Pepys Collection.

THERE was a knight was drunk with wine, A riding along the way, sir; And there he met with a lady fine, Among the cocks of hay, sir.

“Shall you and I, O lady faire, Among the grass lye down-a: And I will have a special care Of rumpling of your gowne-a.”

“Upon the grass there is a dewe, Will spoil my damask gowne, sir: My gowne and kirtle they are newe, And cost me many a crowne, sir.”

“I have a cloak of scarlet red, Upon the ground I’ll throwe it; Then, lady faire, come lay thy head; We’ll play, and none shall knowe it.”

“O yonder stands my steed so free Among the cocks of hay, sir; And if the pinner should chance to see, He’ll take my steed away, sir.”

“Upon my finger I have a ring, Its made of finest gold-a, And, lady, it thy steed shall bring Out of the pinner’s fold-a.”

“O go with me to my father’s hall; Fair chambers there are three, sir: And you shall have the best of all, And I’ll your chamberlaine bee, sir.”

He mounted himself on his steed so tall, And her on her dapple gray, sir: And there they rode to her father’s hall, Fast pricking along the way, sir.

To her father’s hall they arrived strait; ‘Twas moated round about-a; She slipped herself within the gate, And lockt the knight without-a.

“Here is a silver penny to spend, And take it for your pain, sir; And two of my father’s men I’ll send To wait on you back again, sir.”

He from his scabbard drew his brand, And wip’d it upon his sleeve-a: “And curs’d,” he said, “be every man, That will a maid believe-a!”

She drew a bodkin from her haire, And whip’d it upon her gown-a; “And curs’d be every maiden faire, That will with men lye down-a!

“A herb there is, that lowly grows, And some do call it rue, sir; The smallest dunghill cock that crows, Would make a capon of you, sir.

“A flower there is, that shineth bright, Some call it mary-gold-a: He that wold not when he might, He shall not when he wold-a.”

The knight was riding another day, With cloak and hat and feather: He met again with that lady gay, Who was angling in the river.

“Now, lady faire, I’ve met with you, You shall no more escape me; Remember, how not long agoe You falsely did intrap me.”

The lady blushed scarlet red, And trembled at the stranger: “How shall I guard my maidenhead From this approaching danger?”

He from his saddle down did light, In all his rich attyer; And cryed, “As I am a noble knight, I do thy charms admyer.”

He took the lady by the hand, Who seemingly consented; And would no more disputing stand: She had a plot invented.

“Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray, Methinks I now discover A riding upon his dapple gray, My former constant lover.”

On tip-toe peering stood the knight, Fast by the rivers brink-a; The lady pusht with all her might: “Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.”

O’er head and ears he plunged in, The bottom faire he sounded; Then rising up he cried amain, “Help, helpe, or else I’m drownded”

“Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu! You see what comes of fooling: That is the fittest place for you; Your courage wanted cooling.”

Ere many days, in her father’s park, Just at the close of eve-a, Again she met with her angry sparke; Which made this lady grieve-a.

“False lady, here thou’rt in my powre, And no one now can hear thee: And thou shalt sorely rue the hour, That e’er thou dar’dst to jeer me.”

“I pray, sir knight, be not so warm With a young silly maid-a: I vow and swear I thought no harm, ‘Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.”

“A gentle jest, in soothe,” he cry ‘d, “To tumble me in and leave me! What if I had in the river dy’d? That fetch will not deceive me.

“Once more I’ll pardon thee this day,

Tho’ injur’d out of measure; But then prepare without delay To yield thee to my pleasure.”

“Well then, if I must grant your suit, Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir: Let me pull off both spur and boot, Or else you cannot stir, sir.”

He set him down upon the grass, And begg’d her kind assistance; Now, smiling thought this lovely lass, I’ll make you keep your distance.

Then pulling off his boots half-way; “Sir knight, now I’m your betters: You shall not make of me your prey; Sit there like a knave in fetters.”

The knight when she had served soe, He fretted, fum’d, and grumbled: For he could neither stand nor go; But like a cripple tumbled.

“Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten, Yet do not move nor stir, sir: I’ll send you my father’s serving men, To pull off your boots and spurs, sirs

“This merry jest you must excuse, You are but a stingless nettle: You’d never have stood for boots or shoes, Had you been a man of mettle.”

All night in grievous rage he lay, Rolling upon the plain-a; Next morning a shepherd past that way, Who set him right again-a.

Then mounting upon his steed so tall, By hill and dale he swore-a: “I’ll ride at once to her father’s hall; She shall escape no more-a.

“I’ll take her father by the beard, I’ll challenge all her kindred; Each dastard soul shall stand affeard; My wrath shall no more be hindred.”

He rode unto her father’s house, Which every side was moated The lady heard his furious vows, And all his vengeance noted.

Thought shee, “Sir Knight, to quench your rage, Once more I will endeavour: This water shall your fury ‘swage, Or else it shall burn for ever.”

Then faining penitence and feare, She did invite a parley: “Sir knight, if you’ll forgive me heare, Henceforth I’ll love you dearly.

“My father he is now from home, And I am all alone, sir: Therefore a-cross the water come; And I am all your own, sir.”

“False maid, thou canst no more deceive; I scorn the treacherous bait-a: If thou would’st have me thee believe, Now open me the gate a.”

“The bridge is drawn, the gate is bared, My father he has the keys, sir; But I have for my love prepar’d A shorter way and easier.

“Over the moate I’ve laid a plank Full seventeen feet in measure: Then step a-cross to the other bank, And there we’ll take our pleasure.”

These words she had no sooner spoke, But strait he came tripping over: The plank was saw’d, it snapping broke; And sous’d the unhappy lover.

XVI. Why so Pale?

From Sir John Suckling’s Poems. This sprightly knight was born in 1613, and cut off by a fever about the 29th year of his age. See above, Song ix. of this Book.

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? Prethee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prethee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prethee why so mute? Will, when speaking well can’t win her, Saying nothing doe’t? Prethee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her. The devil take her!

XVII. Old Tom of Bedlam. MAD SONG THE FIRST.

It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers; we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French, Italian songs, &c. Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen mad songs for these volumes. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot with the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within the eighteenth century. This is given from the Editor’s folio MS. compared with two or three old printed copies.— With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton’s Complete Angler, cap. 3, is a song in praise of angling, which the author says was made at his request “by Mr. William Basse, one that has made the choice songs of The Hunter in his Career, and of Tom of Bedlam, and many others of note,” p. 84. See Sir John Hawkins’s curious edition, 8vo. of that excellent old book.

FORTH from my sad and darksome cell, Or from the deepe abysse of hell, Mad Tom is come into the world againe To see if he can cure his distempered braine.

Feares and cares oppresse my soule; Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle! Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

Through the world I wander night and day To seeke my straggling senses, In an angrye moode I mett old Time, With his pentarchye of tenses:

When me he spyed, Away he hyed, For time will stay for no man In vaine with cryes I rent the skyes, For pity is not common.

Cold and comfortless I lye: Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye! Harke! I heare Apollo’s teame, The carman ‘gins to whistle; Chast Diana bends her bowe, The boare begins to bristle.

Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackles, To knocke off my troublesome shackles; Bid Charles make ready his waine To fetch me my senses againe.

Last night I heard the dog-star bark; Mars met Venus in the darke; Limping Vulcan het an iron barr, And furiouslye made at the god of war:

Mars with his weapon laid about, But Vulcan’s temples had the gout, For his broad horns did so hang in his light, He could not see to aim his blowes aright:

Mercurye, the nimble post of heaven, Stood still to see the quarrell; Gorrel-bellyed Bacchus, gyant-like, Bestryd a strong-beere barrell.

To mee he dranke, I did him thanke, But I could get no cyder; He dranke whole butts Till he burst his gutts, But mine were ne’er the wyder.

Poore naked Tom is very drye: A little drinke for charitye! Harke, I hear Acteon’s home! The huntsmen whoop and hallowe: Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Jowler, All the chase do followe.

The man in the moone drinkes clarret, Eates powder’d beef, turnip, and carret, But a cup of old Malaga sack Will fire the bushe at his backe.

XVIII. The Distracted Puritan. MAD SONG THE SECOND.

This piece was written about the beginning of the seventeenth century by the witty Bishop Corbet, and is printed from the third edition of his poems, 12mo. 1672, compared with a more ancient copy in the Editor’s folio manuscript.

AM I mad, O noble Festus, When zeal and godly knowledge Have put me in hope To deal with the pope, As well as the best in the college? Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice, Mitres, copes, and rochets; Come hear me pray nine times a day, And fill your heads with crochets.

In the house of pure Emanuel[1] I had my education, Where my friends surmise I dazel’d my eyes With the sight of revelation. Boldly I preach, &c.

They bound me like a bedlam, They lash’d my four poor quarters; Whilst this I endure, Faith makes me sure To be one of Foxes martyrs. Boldly I preach, &c.

These injuries I suffer Through antichrist’s perswasion Take off this chain, Neither Rome nor Spain Can resist my strong invasion. Boldly I preach, &c.

Of the beast’s ten horns (God bless us!) I have knock’d off three already; If they let me alone I’ll leave him none: But they say I am too heady. Boldly I preach, &c.

When I sack’d the seven-hill’d city, I met the great red dragon; I kept him aloof With the armour of proof, Though here I have never a rag on. Boldly I preach, &c.

With a fiery sword and target, There fought I with this monster: But the sons of pride My zeal deride, And all my deeds misconster. Boldly I preach, &c.

I un-hors’d the Whore of Babel, With the lance of Inspiration; I made her stink, And spill the drink In her cup of abomination. Boldly I preach, &c.

I have seen two in a vision With a flying book[2] between them. I have been in despair Five times in a year, And been cur’d by reading Greenham.[3] Boldly I preach, &c.

I observ’d in Perkin’s tables[4] The black line of damnation; Those crooked veins So stuck in my brains, That I fear’d my reprobation. Boldly I preach, &c.

In the holy tongue of Canaan I plac’d my chiefest pleasure: Till I prick’d my foot With an Hebrew root, That I bled beyond all measure. Boldly I preach, &c.

I appear’d before the archbishop,[5] And all the high commission; I gave him no grace, But told him to his face, That he favour’d superstition. Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice, Mitres, copes, and rochets: Come hear me pray nine times a day, And fill your heads with crotchets.

NOTES

1. Emanuel College, Cambridge, was originally a seminary of Puritans. 2. Alluding to some visionary exposition of Zech. ch. v. ver. 1; or, if the date of this song would permit, one might suppose it aimed at one Coppe, a strange enthusiast, whose life may be seen in Wood’s Athen. vol. ii. p. 501. He was author of a book, intitled, The Fiery Flying Roll: and afterwards published a recantation, part of whose title is, The Fiery Flying Roll’s Wings clipt, &c. 3. See Greenham’s Works, fol. 1605, particularly the tract intitled A sweet Comfort for an afflicted Conscience. 4. See Perkins’s Works, fol. 1616, vol. i. p. ii; where is a large half sheet folded, containing “A Survey or Table, declaring the Order of the Causes of Salvation and Damnation,” &c. the pedigree of Damnation being distinguished by a broad black zig-zag line. 5. Abp. Laud.

XIX. The Lunatic Lover. MAD SONG THE THIRD.

This is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, compared with another in the Pepys Collection; both in black-letter.

GRIM king of the ghosts, make haste, And bring hither all your train; See how the pale moon does waste, And just now is in the wane. Come, you night-hags, with all your charms, And revelling witches away, And hug me close in your arms; To you my respects I’ll pay.

I’ll court you, and think you fair, Since love does distract my brain: I’ll go, I’ll wed the night-mare, And kiss her, and kiss her again: But if she prove peevish and proud, Then, a pise on her love! let her go; I’ll seek me a winding shroud, And down to the shades below.

A lunacy sad I endure, Since reason departs away; I call to those hags for a cure, As knowing not what I say. The beauty, whom I do adore, Now slights me with scorn and disdain; I never shall see her more: Ah! how shall I bear my pain?

I ramble, and range about To find out my charming saint; While she at my grief does flout. And smiles at my loud complaint. Distraction I see is my doom, Of this I am now too sure; A rival is got in my room, While torments I do endure.

Strange fancies do fill my head, While wandering in despair, I am to the desarts lead, Expecting to find her there. Methinks in a spangled cloud I see her enthroned on high; Then to her I crie aloud, And labour to reach the sky.

When thus I have raved awhile, And wearyed myself in vain, I lye on the barren soil, And bitterly do complain. Till slumber hath quieted me, In sorrow I sigh and weep; The clouds are my canopy To cover me while I sleep.

I dream that my charming fair Is then in my rival’s bed, Whose tresses of golden hair Are on the fair pillow bespread. Then this doth my passion inflame, I start, and no longer can lie: Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame To ruin a lover? I cry.

Grim king of the ghosts, be true, And hurry me hence away, My languishing life to you A tribute I freely pay. To the Elysian shades I post In hopes to be freed from care, Where many a bleeding ghost Is hovering in the air.

XX. The Lady Distracted with Love MAD SONG THE FOURTH

This was originally sung in one of Tom D’Urfey’s Comedies of Don Quixote, acted in 1694 and 1696; and probably composed by himself. In the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty Mad-woman as, 1. sullenly mad; 2. mirthfully mad; 3. melancholy mad; 4. fantastically mad; and 5. stark mad. Both this and No. xiii. are printed from D’Urfey’s Pills to purge Melancholy, 1719, vol. i.

FROM rosie bowers, where sleeps the god of love, Hither ye little wanton cupids fly; Teach me in soft melodious strains to move With tender passion my heart’s darling joy: Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice, To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.

Or, if more influencing Is to be brisk and airy, With a step and a bound, With a frisk from the ground, I’ll trip like any fairy.

As once on Ida dancing Were three celestial bodies: With an air, and a face, And a shape, and a grace, I’ll charm, like beauty’s goddess.

Ah! ‘tis in vain! ‘tis all, ‘tis all in vain! Death and despair must end the fatal pain: Cold, cold despair, disguis’d like snow and rain, Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow; My veins all shiver, and my fingers glow: My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose, And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.

Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown, Shall I thaw myself, and drown Among the foaming billows? Increasing all with tears I shed, On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows, Lay down, lay down my love-sick head?

No, no, I’ll strait run mad, mad, mad; That soon my heart will warm; When once the sense is fled, is fled, Love has no power to charm. Wild thro’ the woods I’ll fly, I’ll fly, Robes,— locks — shall thus be tore! A thousand, thousand times I’ll dye Ere thus, thus, in vain,— ere thus in vain adore.

XXI. The Distracted Lover MAD SONG THE FIFTH

was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little theatrical entertainments, which the reader may find enumerated in the Companion to the Playhouse, &c. The sprightliness of this songster’s fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand. In his “Poems,” 4to. Lond. 1729, may be seen another mad song of this author, beginning thus:

“Gods! I can never this endure, Death alone must be my cure,” &c.

I GO to the Elysian shade, Where sorrow ne’er shall wound me; Where nothing shall my rest invade, But joy shall still surround me.

I fly from Celia’s cold disdain, From her disdain I fly; She is the cause of all my pain, For her alone I die.

Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun, When he but half his radiant course has run, When his meridian glories gaily shine, And gild all nature with a warmth divine.

See yonder river’s flowing tide, Which now so full appears; Those streams, that do so swiftly glide, Are nothing but my tears.

There I have wept till I could weep no more, And curst mine eyes, when they have wept their store: Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main, I’ve drain’d the flood to weep it back again.

Pity my pains, Ye gentle swains! Cover me with ice and snow, I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow!

Furies, tear me, Quickly bear me To the dismal shades below! Where yelling, and howling, And grumbling, and growling, Strike the ear with horrid woe.

Hissing snakes, Fiery lakes Would be a pleasure, and a cure: Not all the hells, Where Pluto dwells, Can give such pain as I endure.

To some peaceful plain convey me, On a mossey carpet lay me, Fan me with ambrosial breeze, Let me die and so have ease!

XXII. The Frantic Lady. MAD SONG THE SIXTH.

This, like No. xx. was originally sung in one of D’Urfey’s Comedies of Don Quixote (first acted about the year 1694), and was probably composed by that popular songster, who died Feb. 26, 1723. This is printed in the “Hive, a Collection of Songs,” 4 vols. 1721, 12mo., where may be found two or three other mad songs not admitted into these volumes.

I BURN, my brain consumes to ashes! Each eye-ball too like lightning flashes! Within my breast there glows a solid fire, Which in a thousand ages can’t expire!

Blow, blow, the winds’ great ruler! Bring the Po, and the Ganges hither, ‘Tis sultry weather; Pour them all on my soul, It will hiss like a coal, But be never the cooler.

‘Twas pride hot as hell, That first made me rebell, From love’s awful throne a curst angel I fell And mourn now my fate, Which myself did create: Fool, fool, that consider’d not when I was well!

Adieu! ye vain transporting joys! Off, ye vain fantastic toys That dress this face — this body — to allure! Bring me daggers, poison, fire! Since scorn is turn’d into desire. All hell feels not the rage, which I, poor I, endure.

XXIII. Lilli Burlero.

The following rhymes, slight and insignificant as they may now seem, had once a more powerful effect than either the Philippics of Demosthenes, or Cicero; and contributed not a little towards the great revolution in 1688. Let us hear a contemporary writer. “A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden said to be Irish words, ‘Lero, lero, lilliburlero,’ that made an impression on the [king’s] army, that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, both in city and country, were singing it perpetually. And perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect.”— Burnet. It was written, or at least republished, on the Earl of Tyrconnel’s going a second time to Ireland in October 1688. Perhaps it is unnecessary to mention, that General Richard Talbot, newly created Earl of Tyrconnel, had been nominated by King James II. to the lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, on account of his being a furious Papist, who had recommended himself to his bigoted master by his arbitrary treatment of the Protestants in the preceding year, when only lieutenant general, and whose subsequent conduct fully justified his expectations and their fears. The violence of his administration may be seen in any of the histories of those times: particularly in Bishop King’s “State of the Protestants in Ireland,” 1691, 4to. Lilliburleo and Bullen-a-lah are said to have been the words of distinction used among the Irish Papists in their massacre of the Protestants in 1641.

Ho! broder Teague, dost hear de decree? Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Dat we shall have a new deputie, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la, Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la.

Ho! by shaint Tyburn, it is de Talbote: Lilli, &c. And he will cut de Englishmen’s troate. Lilli, &c.

Dough by my shout de English do praat, Lilli, &c. De law’s on dare side, and Creish knows what. Lilli, &c.

But if dispence do come from de pope, Lilli, &c. We’ll hang Magna Charta and dem in a rope. Lilli, &c.

For de good Talbot is made a lord, Lilli, &c. And with brave lads is coming abroad Lilli, &c.

Who all in France have taken a sware, Lilli, &c. Dat dey will have no protestant heir. Lilli, &c.

Ara! but why does he stay behind? Lilli, &c. Ho! by my shoul ‘tis a protestant wind. Lilli, &c.

But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore, Lilli, &c. And we shall have commissions gillore. Lilli, &c.

And he dat will not go to de mass, Lilli, &c. Shall be turn out, and look like an ass. Lilli, &c.

Now, now de hereticks all go down, Lilli, &c. By Chrish and shaint Patrick, de nation’s our own. Lilli, &c.

Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog, Lilli, &c. “Ireland shall be rul’d by an ass and a dog.” Lilli, &c.

And now dis prophesy is come to pass, Lilli, &c. For Talbot’s de dog, and JA**S is de ass. Lilli, &c.

- The foregoing song is attributed to Lord Wharton in a small pamphlet, intitled, “A true relation of the several facts and circumstances of the intended riot and tumult on Queen Elizabeth’s birth-day,” &c. Third edition. London, 1712, price 2d. See p. 5, viz. “A late Viceroy [of Ireland] who has so often boasted himself upon his talent for mischief, invention, lying, and for making a certain Lilliburlero song, with which, if you will believe himself, he sung a deluded prince out of three kingdoms.”

XXIV. The Braes Of Yarrow. IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTS MANNER

This was written by William Hamilton, of Bangour, Esq. who died March 25, 1754, aged 50. It is printed from an elegant edition of his Poems, published at Edinburgh, 1760, 12mo. This song was written in imitation of an old Scottish ballad on a similar subject, with the same burden to each stanza.

A. “BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.”

B. “Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow?” A. “I gat her where I dare na weil be seen, Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.”

“Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; Nor let thy heart lament to leive Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.”

B. “Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?”

A. “Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow; And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

“For she has tint her luver, luver dear, Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comliest swain That eir pu’d birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

“Why rips thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weids Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

“What’s yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What’s yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! O ‘tis he the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

“Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

“Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; And weep around in waeful wise His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

“Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierc’d his breast, His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.

“Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve? And warn from fight? but to my sorrow Too rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou mett’st, and fell’st on the Braes of Yarrow.

“Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow’s bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

“Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae its rock as mellow.

“Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, In flow’ry bands thou didst him fetter; Tho’ he was fair, and weil beluv’d again Than me he never luv’d thee better.

“Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.”

C. “How can I busk a bonny bonny bride? How can I busk a winsome marrow? How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

“O Yarrow fields, may never never rain Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve, My luve, as he had not been a lover.

“The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, ‘twas my awn sewing: Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn’d He was in these to meet his ruin.

“The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow: But ere the toofall of the night He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.

“Much I rejoyc’d that waeful waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning: But lang ere night the spear was flown, That slew my luve, and left me mourning.

“What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me? My luver’s blood is on thy spear, How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?

“My happy sisters may be, may be proud With cruel and ungentle scoffin’, May bid me seek on Yarrow’s Braes My luver nailed in his coffin.

“My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatning words to muve me: My luver’s blood is on thy spear, How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

“Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband lover.

“But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bath’d in slaughter: Ah me! what ghastly spectre’s yon Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

“Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow; Take aff, take aff, these bridal weids, And crown my careful head with willow.

“Pale tho’ thou art, yet best, yet best beluv’d, O could my warmth to life restore thee! Yet lye all night between my breists, No youth lay ever there before thee.

“Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter: And lye all night between my breists; No youth shall ever lye there after.”

A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride, Return, and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, He lyes a corps in the Braes of Yarrow.

XXV. Admiral Hosier’s Ghost.

This was a party song written by the ingenious author of Leonidas,[1] on the taking of Porto Bello from the Spaniards by Admiral Vernon, Nov. 22, 1739. The case of Hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this. In April 1726, that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish West Indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country, or, should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England. He accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Porto Bello, but being employed rather to overawe than to attack the Spaniards, with whom it was probably not our interest to go to war, he continued long inactive on that station, to his own great regret. He afterwards removed to Carthagena, and remained cruising in these seas, till far the greater part of his men perished deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man, seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart. Such is the account of Smollett, compared with that of other less party writers. The following song is commonly accompanied with a Second Part, or Answer, which being of inferior merit, and apparently written by another hand, hath been rejected.

As near Porto-Bello lying On the gently swelling flood, At midnight with streamers flying Our triumphant navy rode; There while Vernon sate all-glorious From the Spaniards’ late defeat; And his crews, with shouts victorious, Drank success to England’s fleet,

On a sudden shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; Then each heart with fear confounding, A sad troop of ghosts appear’d, All in dreary hammocks shrouded, Which for winding-sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleam’d the moon’s wan lustre, When the shade of Hosier brave His pale bands were seen to muster Rising from their watry grave. O’er the glimmering wave he hy’d him, Where the Burford[2] rear’d her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail.

“Heed, oh heed our fatal story, I am Hosier’s injur’d ghost, You who now have purchas’d glory At this place where I was lost Tho’ in Porto-Bello’s ruin You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing, You will mix your joy with tears.

“See these mournful spectres sweeping Ghastly o’er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stain’d with weeping; These were English captains brave. Mark those numbers pale and horrid, Those were once my sailors bold: Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead, While his dismal tale is told.

“I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders not to fight. Oh! that in this rolling ocean I had cast them with disdain, And obey’d my heart’s warm motion To have quell’d the pride of Spain!

“For resistance I could fear none, But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast atchiev’d with six alone. Then the bastimentos never Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver Of this gallant train had been.

“Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, And her galleons leading home, Though condemn’d for disobeying, I had met a traitor’s doom, To have fallen, my country crying He has play’d an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a griev’d and broken heart.

“Unrepining at thy glory, Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier’s wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain.

“Hence with all my train attending From their oozy tombs below, Thro’ the hoary foam ascending, Here I feed my constant woe: Here the bastimentos viewing, We recal our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing, Wander thro’ the midnight gloom.

“O’er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam depriv’d of rest, If to Britain’s shores returning You neglect my just request; After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England sham’d in me.”

NOTES

1. An ingenious correspondent informs the Editor, that this ballad hath also been attributed to the late Lord Bath. 2. Admiral Vernon’s ship.

XXVI. Jemmy Dawson.

James Dawson was one of the Manchester rebels, who was hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-Common, in the county of Surrey, July 30, 1746. This ballad is founded on a remarkable fact, which was reported to have happened at his execution. It was written by the late William Shenstone, Esq. soon after the event, and has been printed amongst his posthumous works, 2 vols. 8vo. It is here given from a manuscript which contained some small variations from that printed copy.

COME listen to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, Nor will you blush to shed a tear.

And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid, Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at every woe, And pity every plaint, but mine.

Young Dawson was a gallant youth, A brighter never trod the plain; And well he lov’d one charming maid, And dearly was he lov’d again.

One tender maid she lov’d him dear, Of gentle blood the damsel came, And faultless was her beauteous form, And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse on party’s hateful strife, That led the faithful youth astray The day the rebel clans appear’d O had he never seen that day!

Their colours and their sash he wore, And in the fatal dress was found; And now he must that death endure, Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true love’s cheek, When Jemmy’s sentence reach’d her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows So pale, nor yet so chill appear.

With faltering voice she weeping said, “Oh, Dawson, monarch of my heart, Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part.

“Yet might sweet mercy find a place, And bring relief to Jemmy’s woes, O GEORGE, without a prayer for thee My orisons should never close.

“The gracious prince that gives him life Would crown a never-dying flame, And every tender babe I bore Should learn to lisp the giver’s name.

“But though, dear youth, thou should’st be dragg’d To yonder ignominious tree, Thou shalt not want a faithful friend To share thy bitter fate with thee.”

O then her mourning-coach was call’d, The sledge mov’d slowly on before; Tho’ borne in a triumphal car, She had not lov’d her favourite more.

She follow’d him prepar’d to view, The terrible behests of law; And the last scene of Jemmy’s woes With calm and stedfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face, Which she had fondly lov’d so long: And stifled was that tuneful breath, Which in her praise had sweetly sung:

And sever’d was that beauteous neck, Round which her arms had fondly clos’d And mangled was that beauteous breast, On which her love-sick head repos’d

And ravish’d was that constant heart, She did to every heart prefer; For though it could his king forget, ‘Twas true and loyal still to her.

Amid those unrelenting flames She bore this constant heart to see; But when ‘twas moulder’d into dust, “Now, now,” she cried, “I’ll follow thee.

“My death, my death alone can show The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O heaven, of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.”

The dismal scene was o’er and past, The lover’s mournful hearse retied; The maid drew back her languid head, And sighing forth his name expir’d.

Tho’ justice ever must prevail, The tear my Kitty sheds is due; For seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, and so true.

BOOK VII.

Poems on King Arthur, etc.

The remaining books being chiefly devoted to romantic subjects, may not be improperly introduced with a few slight strictures on the old metrical romances: a subject the more worthy attention, as it seems not to have been known to such as have written on the nature and origin of books of chivalry, that the first compositions of this kind were in verse, and usually sung to the harp.

ON THE ANCIENT METRICAL ROMANCES, ETC.

I. The first attempts at composition among all barbarous nations are ever found to be poetry and song. The praises of their gods, and the achievements of their heroes, are usually chanted at their festival meetings. These are the first rudiments of history. It is in this manner that the savages of North America preserve the memory of past events:[1] and the same method is known to have prevailed among our Saxon ancestors, before they quitted their German forests.[2] The ancient Britons had their bards, and the Gothic nations their scalds or popular poets,[3] whose business it was to record the victories of their warriors, and the genealogies of their princes, in a kind of narrative songs, which were committed to memory, and delivered down from one reciter to another. So long as poetry continued a distinct profession, and while the bard, or scald, was a regular and stated officer in the prince’s court, these men are thought to have performed the functions of the historian pretty faithfully; for though their narrations would be apt to receive a good deal of embellishment, they are supposed to have had at the bottom so much of truth as to serve for the basis of more regular annals. At least succeeding historians have taken up with the relations of these rude men, and, for want of more authentic records, have agreed to allow them the credit of true history.[4]

After letters began to prevail, and history assumed a more stable form, by being committed to plain simple prose; these songs of the scalds or bards began to be more amusing than useful. And in proportion as it became their business chiefly to entertain and delight, they gave more and more into embellishment, and set off their recitals with such marvellous fictions as were calculated to captivate gross and ignorant minds. Thus began stories of adventures with giants and dragons, and witches and enchanters, and all the monstrous extravagances of wild imagination, unguided by judgment and uncorrected by art.[5] This seems to be the true origin of that species of romance which so long celebrated feats of chivalry, and which at first in metre, and afterwards in prose, was the entertainment of our ancestors, in common with their contemporaries on the Continent, till the satire of Cervantes, or rather the increase of knowledge and classical literature, drove them off the stage, to make room for a more refined species of fiction, under the name of French romances, copied from the Greek.[6] That our old romances of chivalry may be derived in a lineal descent from the ancient historical songs of the Gothic bards and scalds, will be shewn below, and indeed appears the more evident, as many of those songs are still preserved in the North, which exhibit all the seeds of chivalry before it became a solemn institution.[7] “Chivalry, as a distinct military order, conferred in the way of investiture, and accompanied with the solemnity of an oath, and other ceremonies,” was of later date, and sprung out of the feudal constitution, as an elegant writer has clearly shown.[8] But the ideas of chivalry prevailed long before in all the Gothic nations, and may he discovered as in embryo in the customs, manners, and opinions of every branch of that people.[9] That fondness of going in quest of adventures, that spirit of challenging to single combat, and that respectful complaisance shewn to the fair sex (so different from the manners of the Greeks and Romans), all are of Gothic origin, and may be traced up to the earliest times among all the Northern nations.[10] These existed long before the feudal ages, though they were called forth and strengthened in a peculiar manner under that constitution, and at length arrived to their full maturity in the times of the Crusades, so replete with romantic adventures.[11] Even the common arbitrary fictions of romance were (as is hinted above) most of them familiar to the ancient scalds of the north, long before the time of the crusades. They believed the existence of giants and dwarfs;[12] they entertained opinions not unlike the more modern notion of fairies;[13] they were strongly possessed with the belief of spells and enchantment;[14] and were fond of inventing combats with dragons and monsters.[15] The opinion therefore seems very untenable, which some learned and ingenious men have entertained, that the turn for chivalry, and the taste for that species of romantic fiction, were caught by the Spaniards from the Arabians or Moors after their invasion of Spain, and from the Spaniards transmitted to the bards of Armorica[16], and thus diffused through Britain, France, Italy, Germany, and the north. For it seems utterly incredible that one rude people should adopt a peculiar taste and manner of writing or thinking from another, without borrowing at the same time any of their particular stories and fables, without appearing to know any thing of their heroes, history, laws, and Religion. When the Romans began to adopt and imitate the Grecian literature, they immediately naturalized all the Grecian fables, histories, and religious stories; which became as familiar to the poets of Rome as of Greece itself. Whereas all the old writers of chivalry, and of that species of romance, whether in prose or verse, whether of the northern nations, or of Britain, France, and Italy, not excepting Spain itself,[17] appear utterly unacquainted with whatever relates to the Mahometan nations. Thus with regard to their religion, they constantly represent them as worshipping idols, as paying adoration to a golden image of Mahomet, or else they confound them with the ancient Pagans, &c. And indeed in all other respects they are so grossly ignorant of the customs, manners, and opinions of every branch of that people, especially of their heroes, champions, and local stories, as almost amounts to a demonstration that they did not imitate them in their songs or romances: for as to dragons, serpents, necromancies, &c. why should these be thought only derived from the Moors in Spain so late as after the eighth century? since notions of this kind appear too familiar to the northern scalds, and enter too deeply into all the northern mythology, to have been transmitted to the unlettered Scandinavians, from so distant a country, at so late a period. If they may not be allowed to have brought these opinions with them in their original migrations from the north of Asia, they will be far more likely to have borrowed them from the Latin poets after the Roman conquests in Gaul, Britain, Germany, &c. For I believe one may challenge the maintainers of this opinion to produce any Arabian poem or history, that could possibly have been then known in Spain, which resembles the old Gothic romances of chivalry half so much as the Metamorphoses of Ovid. But we well know that the Scythian nations situate in the countries about Pontus, Colchis, and the Euxine sea, were in all times infamous for their magic arts; and as Odin and his followers are said to have come precisely from those parts of Asia, we can readily account for the prevalence of fictions of this sort among the Gothic nations of the North, without fetching them from the Moors in Spain, who for many centuries after their irruption lived in a state of such constant hostility with the unsubdued Spanish Christians, whom they chiefly pent up in the mountains, as gave them no chance of learning their music, poetry, or stories; and this, together with the religious hatred of the latter for their cruel invaders, will account for the utter ignorance of the old Spanish romancers in whatever relates to the Mahometan nations, although so nearly their own neighbours. On the other hand, from the local customs and situations, from the known manners and opinions of the Gothic nations in the north, we can easily account for all the ideas of chivalry, and its peculiar fictions.[18] For, not to mention their distinguished respect for the fair sex, so different from the manners of the Mahometan nations,[19] their national and domestic history so naturally assumes all the wonders of this species of fabling, that almost all their historical narratives appear regular romances. One might refer, in proof of this, to the old northern Sagas in general: but, to give a particular instance, it will be sufficient to produce the history of King Regner Lodbrog, a celebrated warrior and pirate, who reigned in Denmark about the year 800.[20] This hero signalized his youth by an exploit of gallantry. A Swedish prince had a beautiful daughter, whom he intrusted (probably during some expedition) to the care of one of his officers, assigning a strong castle for their defence. The officer fell in love with his ward, and detained her in his castle, spite of all the efforts of her father. Upon this he published a proclamation through all the neighbouring countries, that whoever would conquer the ravisher and rescue the lady should have her in marriage. Of all that undertook the adventure, Regner alone was so happy as to achieve it: he delivered the fair captive, and obtained her for his prize. It happened that the name of this discourteous officer was Orme, which in the Islandic language signifies serpent: wherefore the scalds to give the more poetical turn to the adventure, represent the lady as detained from her father by a dreadful dragon, and that Regner slew the monster to set her at liberty. This fabulous account of the exploit is given in a poem still extant, which is even ascribed to Regner himself, who was a celebrated poet, and which records all the valiant achievements of his life.[21] With marvellous embellishments of this kind the scalds early began to decorate their narratives: and they were the more lavish of these in proportion as they departed from their original institution; but it was a long time before they thought of delivering a set of personages and adventures wholly feigned. Of the great multitude of romantic tales still preserved in the libraries of the north, most of them are supposed to have had some foundation in truth; and the more ancient they are, the more they are believed to be connected with true history.[22] It was not probably till after the historian and the bard had been long disunited, that the latter ventured at pure fiction. At length, when their business was no longer to instruct or inform, but merely to amuse, it was no longer needful for them to adhere to truth. Then succeeded fabulous songs and romances in verse, which for a long time prevailed in France and England before they had books of chivalry in prose. Yet in both these countries the minstrels still retained so much of their original institution as frequently to make true events the subject of their songs;[23] and indeed, as during the barbarous ages, the regular histories were almost all written in Latin by the monks, the memory of events was preserved and propagated among the ignorant laity by scarce any other means than the popular songs of the minstrels.

II. The inhabitants of Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, being the latest converts to Christianity, retained their original manners and opinions longer than the other nations of Gothic race: and therefore they have preserved more of the genuine compositions of their ancient poets than their southern neighbours. Hence the progress, among them, from poetical history to poetical fiction is very discernible: they have some old pieces, that are in effect complete romances of chivalry.[24] They have also (as hath been observed) a multitude of Sagas[25], or histories on romantic subjects, containing a mixture of prose and verse of various dates, some of them written since the times of the crusades, others long before: but their narratives in verse only are esteemed the more ancient.

Now as the irruption of the Normans[26] into France under Rollo did not take place till towards the beginning of the tenth century, at which time the scaldic art was arrived to the highest perfection in Rollo’s native country, we can easily trace the descent of the French and English romances of chivalry from the northern sagas. That conqueror doubtless carried many scalds with him from the north, who transmitted their skill to their children and successors. These, adopting the religion, opinions, and language of the new country, substituted the heroes of Christendom instead of those of their Pagan ancestors, and began to celebrate the feats of Charlemagne, Roland, and Oliver; whose true history they set off and embellished with the scaldic figments of dwarfs, giants, dragons, and inchantments. The first mention we have in song of those heroes of chivalry is in the mouth of a Norman warrior at the conquest of England;[27] and this circumstance alone would sufficiently account for the propagation of this kind of romantic poems among the French and English. But this is not all; it is very certain that both the Anglo- Saxons and the Franks had brought with them, at their first emigrations into Britain and Gaul, the same fondness for the ancient songs of their ancestors, which prevailed among the other Gothic tribes,[28] and that all their first annals were transmitted in these popular oral poems. This fondness they even retained long after their conversion to Christianity, as we learn from the examples of Charlemagne and Alfred.[29] Now poetry, being thus the transmitter of facts, would as easily learn to blend them with fictions in France and England as she is known to have done in the north, and that much sooner, for the reasons before assigned.[30] This, together with the example and influence of the Normans, will easily account to us why the first romances of chivalry that appeared both in England and France[31] were composed in metre as a rude kind of epic songs. In both kingdoms tales in verse were usually sung by minstrels to the harp on festival occasions: and doubtless both nations derived their relish for this sort of entertainment from their Teutonic ancestors, without either of them borrowing it from the other. Among both people narrative songs on true or fictitious subjects had evidently obtained from the earliest times. But the professed romances of chivalry seem to have been first composed in France, where also they had their name. The Latin tongue, as is observed by an ingenious writer,[32] ceased to be spoken in France about the ninth century, and was succeeded by what was called the Romance tongue, a mixture of the language of the Franks and bad Latin. As the songs of chivalry became the most popular compositions in that language, they were emphatically called Romans or Romants; though this name was at first given to any piece of poetry. The romances of chivalry can be traced as early as the eleventh century.[33] I know not if the Roman de Brut, written in 1155, was such: But if it was, it was by no means the first poem of the kind; others more ancient are still extant.[34] And we have already seen, that, in the preceding century, when the Normans marched down to the battle of Hastings, they animated themselves, by singing (in some popular romance or ballad) the exploits of Roland and the other heroes of chivalry.[35] So early as this I cannot trace the songs of chivalry in English. The most ancient I have seen is that of Hornechild, described below, which seems not older than the twelfth century. However, as this rather resembles the Saxon poetry than the French, it is not certain that the first English romances were translated from that language.[36] We have seen above, that a propensity to this kind of fiction prevailed among all the Gothic nations;[37] and though, after the Norman conquest, this country abounded with French romances, or with translations from the French, there is good reason to believe that the English had original pieces of their own. The stories of King Arthur and his Round Table may be reasonably supposed of the growth of this island; both the French and the Armoricans probably had them from Britain.[38] The stories of Guy and Bevis, with some others, were probably the invention of English minstrels.[39] On the other hand, the English procured translations of such romances as were most current in France; and in the list given at the conclusion of these remarks many are doubtless of French origin. The first prose books of chivalry that appeared in our language were those printed by Caxton;[40] at least, these are the first I have been able to discover, and these are all translations from the French. Whereas romances of this kind had been long current in metre, and were so generally admired in the time of Chaucer, that his rhyme of Sir Thopas was evidently written to ridicule and burlesque them.[41] He expressly mentions several of them by name in a stanza, which I shall have occasion to quote more than once in this volume:

Men speken of romaunces of pris Of Horn-Child, and of Ipotis Of Bevis, and Sire Guy Of Sire Libeux, and Pleindamour,[42] But Sire Thopas, he bereth the flour Of real chevalrie.

Most if not all of these are still extant in MS. in some or other of our libraries, as I shall shew in the conclusion of this slight essay, where I shall give a list of such metrical histories and romances as have fallen under my observation. As many of these contain a considerable portion of poetic merit, and throw great light on the manners and opinions of former times, it were to be wished that some of the best of them were rescued from oblivion. A judicious collection of them accurately published, with proper illustrations, would be an important accession to our stock of ancient English literature. Many of them exhibit no mean attempts at epic poetry: and though full of the exploded fictions of chivalry, frequently display great descriptive and inventive powers in the bards who composed them. They are at least generally equal to any other poetry of the same age. They cannot indeed be put in competition with the nervous productions of so universal and commanding a genius as Chaucer; but they have a simplicity that makes them be read with less interruption, and be more easily understood; and they are far more spirited and entertaining than the tedious allegories of Gower, or the dull and prolix legends of Lydgate. Yet, while so much stress was laid upon the writings of these last, by such as treat of English poetry, the old metrical romances, though far more popular in their time, were hardly known to exist. But it has happened, unluckily, that the antiquaries, who have revived the works of our ancient writers, have been, for the most part, men void of taste and genius, and therefore have always fastidiously rejected the old poetical romances, because founded on fictitious or popular subjects, while they have been careful to grub up every petty fragment of the most dull and insipid rhymist, whose merit it was to deform morality or obscure true history. Should the public encourage the revival of some of those ancient epic songs of chivalry, they would frequently see the rich ore of an Ariosto or a Tasso, though buried it may be among the rubbish and dross of barbarous times. Such a publication would answer many important uses: It would throw new light on the rise and progress of English poetry, the history of which can be but imperfectly understood if these are neglected: It would also serve to illustrate innumerable passages in our ancient classic poets, which, without their help, must be for ever obscure. For, not to mention Chaucer and Spenser, who abound with perpetual allusions to them, I shall give an instance or two from Shakespeare, by way of specimen of their use. In his play of King John our great dramatic poet alludes to an exploit of Richard I. which the reader will in vain look for in any true history. Faulconbridge says to his mother, act. i. sc. 1.

“Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose . . . Against whose furie and unmatched force, The awlesse lion could not wage the fight, Nor keepe his princely heart from Richard’s hand: He that perforce robs Lions of their hearts May easily winne a woman’s:”—

The fact here referred to, is to be traced to its source only in the old romance of Richard Cur de Lyon,[43] in which his encounter with a lion makes a very shining figure. I shall give a large extract from this poem, as a specimen of the manner of these old rhapsodists, and to shew that they did not in their fictions neglect the proper means to produce the ends, as was afterwards so childishly done in the prose books of chivalry. The poet tells us, that Richard, in his return from the Holy Land, having been discovered in the habit of “a palmer in Almayne,” and apprehended as a spy, was by the king thrown into prison. Wardrewe, the king’s son, hearing of Richard’s great strength, desires the jailor to let him have a sight of his prisoners. Richard being the foremost, Wardrewe asks him, “if he dare stand a buffet from his hand?” and that on the morrow he shall return him another. Richard consents, and receives a blow that staggers him. On the morrow, having previously waxed his hands, he waits his antagonist’s arrival. Wardrewe accordingly, proceeds the story, “held forth as a trewe man,” and Richard gave him such a blow on the cheek, as broke his jawbone, and killed him on the spot. The king, to revenge the death of his son, orders, by the advice of one Eldrede, that a lion, kept purposely from food, shall be turned loose upon Richard. But the king’s daughter, having fallen in love with him, tells him of her father’s resolution, and at his request procures him forty ells of white silk “kerchers;” and here the description of the combat begins:

The kever-chefes[44] he toke on honde, And aboute his arme he wonde; And thought in that ylke while, To sle the lyon with some gyle. And syngle in a kyrtyll he stode, And abode the lyon fyers and wode, With that came the jaylere, And other men that wyth him were, And the lyon them amonge; His pawes were stiffe and stronge. The chambre dore they undone, And the lyon to them is gone. Rycharde sayd, Helpe, lorde Jesu, The lyon made to hym venu, And wolde hym have all to rente: Kynge Rycharde besyde him glente;[45] The lyon on the breste hym spurned, That aboute he tourned. The lyon was hongry and megre, And bette his tayle to be egre; He loked aboute as he were madde; Abrode he all his pawes spradde. He cryed lowde, and yaned[46] wyde. Kynge Rycharde bethought hym that tyde What hym was beste, and to him sterte, In at the throte his honde he gerte, And hente out the herte with his honde, Lounge and all that he there fonde. The lyon fell deed to the grounde: Rycharde felte no wem,[47] ne wounde. He fell on his knees on that place, And thanked Jesu of his grace.”

* * * * * * * What follows is not so well, therefore I shall extract no more of this poem — For the above feat the author tells us, the king was deservedly called

“Stronge Rycharde Cure de Lyowne,”

That distich which Shakespeare puts in the mouth of the madman in King Lear, act iii. sc. 4

“Mice and rats and such small deere Have been Tom’s food for seven long year,”

has excited the attention of the critics. Instead of deere, one of them would substitute geer; and another cheer.[48] But the ancient reading is established by the old romance of Sir Bevis, which Shakespeare had doubtless often heard sung to the harp. This distich is part of a description there given of the hardships suffered by Bevis, when confined for seven years in a dungeon:

“Rattes and myse and such small dere Was his meate that seven yere.”— Sign. F. iii.

III. In different parts of this work, the header will find various extracts from these old poetical legends; to which I refer him for farther examples of their style and metre. To complete this subject, it will be proper at least to give one specimen of their skill in distributing and conducting their fable, by which it will be seen that nature and common sense had supplied to these old simple bards the want of critical art, and taught them some of the most essential rules of epic poetry.— I shall select the romance of Libius Disconius,[49] as being one of those mentioned by Chaucer, and either shorter or more intelligible than the others he has quoted.

If an epic poem may be defined[50] “A fable related by a poet, to excite admiration, and inspire virtue, by representing the action of some one hero, favoured by heaven, who executes a great design, in spite of all the obstacles that oppose him,” I know not why we should withhold the name of epic poem from the piece which I am about to analyse. My copy is divided into nine parts or cantos, the several arguments of which are as follows.

PART I

Opens with a short exordium to bespeak attention: thee hero is described; a natural son of Sir Gawain, a celebrated knight of King Arthur’s court, who being brought up in a forest by his mother, is kept ignorant of his name and descent. He early exhibits marks of his courage, by killing a knight in single combat, who encountered him as he was hunting. This inspires him with a desire of seeking adventures: therefore cloathing himself in his enemy’s armour, he goes to King Arthur’s court, to request the order of knighthood. His request granted, he obtains a promise of having the first adventure assigned him that shall offer.— A damsel named Ellen, attended by a dwarf, comes to implore King Arthur’s assistance, to rescue a young princess, “the Lady of Sinadone,” their mistress, who is detained from her rights, and confined in prison. The adventure is claimed by the young knight Sir Lybius: the king assents; the messengers are dissatisfied, and object to his youth; but are forced to acquiesce. And here the first book closes with a description of the ceremony of equipping him forth.

PART II

Sir Lybius sets out on the adventure: he is derided by the dwarf and the damsel on account of his youth: they come to the bridge of Perill, which none can pass without encountering a knight called William de la Braunch. Sir Lybius is challenged: they just with their spears: De la Braunch is dismounted: the battle is renewed on foot: Sir William’s sword breaks: he yields. Sir Lybius makes him swear to go and present himself to King Arthur, as the first fruits of his valour. The conquered knight sets out for King Arthur’s court: is met by three knights, his kinsmen; who, informed of his disgrace, vow revenge, and pursue the conqueror. The next day they overtake him: the eldest of the three attacks Sir Lybius; but is overthrown to the ground. The two other brothers assault him: Sir Lybius is wounded; yet cuts off the second brother’s arm: the third yields; Sir Lybius sends them all to King Arthur. In the third evening he is awaked by the dwarf, who has discovered a fire in the wood.

PART III

Sir Lybius arms himself, and leaps on horseback: he finds two Giants roasting a wild boar, who have a fair lady their captive. Sir Lybius, by favour of the night, runs one of them through with his spear: is assaulted by the other: a fierce battle ensues: he cuts off the giant’s arm, and at length his head. The rescued lady (an earl’s daughter) tells him her story; and leads him to her father’s castle; who entertains him with a great feast; and presents him at parting with a suit of armour and a steed. He sends the giant’s head to King Arthur. PART IV Sir Lybius, maid Ellen, and the dwarf, renew their journey: they see a castle stuck round with human heads; and are informed it belongs to a knight called Sir Gefferon, who, in honour of his leman, or mistress, challenges all comers: he that can produce a fairer lady, is to be rewarded with a milk-white faulcon, but if overcome, to lose his head. Sir Lybius spends the night in the adjoining town: in the morning goes to challenge the faulcon. The knights exchange their gloves: they agree to just in the market place: the lady and maid Ellen are placed aloft in chairs: their dresses: the superior beauty of Sir Gefferon’s mistress described: the ceremonies previous to the combat. They engage: the combat described at large: Sir Gefferon is incurably hurt; and carried home on his shield. Sir Lybius sends the faulcon to King Arthur: and receives back a large present in florins. He stays forty days to be cured of his wounds, which he spends in feasting with the neighbouring lords.

PART V

Sir Lybius proceeds for Sinadone: in a forest he meets a knight hunting, called Sir Otes de Lisle: maid Ellen charmed with a very beautiful dog, begs Sir Lybius to bestow him upon her: Sir Otes meets them, and claims his dog: is refused: being unarmed he rides to his castle, and summons his followers: they go in quest of Sir Lybius: a battle ensues: he is still victorious, and forces Sir Otes to follow the other conquered knights to King Arthur.

PART VI

Sir Lybius comes to a fair city and castle by a river-side, beset round with pavilions or tents: he is informed, in the castle is a beautiful lady besieged by a giant named Maugys, who keeps the bridge and will let none pass without doing him homage: this Lybius refuses: a battle ensues: the giant described: the several incidents of the battle; which lasts a whole summer’s day: the giant is wounded; put to flight; slain. The citizens come out in procession to meet their deliverer: the lady invites him into her castle: falls in love with him; and seduces him to her embraces. He forgets the princess of Sinadone, and stays with this bewitching lady a twelvemonth. This fair sorceress, like another Alcina, intoxicates him with all kinds of sensual pleasure; and detains him from the pursuit of honour.

PART VII

Maid Ellen by chance gets an opportunity of speaking to him; and upbraids him with his vice and folly: he is filled with remorse, and escapes the same evening. At length he arrives at the city and castle of Sinadone: is given to understand that he must challenge the constable of the castle to single combat, before he can be received as a guest. They just: the constable is worsted: Sir Lybius is feasted in the castle: he declares his intention of delivering their lady; and inquires the particulars of her history. “Two Necromancers have built a fine palace by sorcery, and there keep her inchanted, till she will surrender her duchy to them, and yield to such base conditions as they would impose.”

PART VIII

Early on the morrow Sir Lybius sets out for the inchanted palace. He alights in the court: enters the hall: the wonders of which are described in strong Gothic painting. He sits down at the high table: on a sudden all the lights are quenched: it thunders, and lightens: the palace shakes; the walls fall in pieces about his ears. He is dismayed and confounded: but presently hears horses neigh, and is challenged to single combat by the sorcerers. He gets to his steed: a battle ensues, with various turns of fortune: he loses his weapon; but gets a sword from one of the necromancers, and wounds the other with it: the edge of the sword being secretly poisoned, the wound proves mortal.

PART IX

He goes up to the surviving sorcerer, who is carried away from him by inchantment: at length he finds him, and cuts off his head: he returns to the palace to deliver the lady; but cannot find her: as he is lamenting, a window opens, through which enters a horrible serpent with wings and a woman’s face: it coils round his neck and kisses him; then is suddenly converted into a very beautiful lady. She tells him she is the Lady of Sinadone, and was so inchanted, till she might kiss Sir Gawain, or some one of his blood: that he has dissolved the charm, and that herself and her dominions may be his reward. The Knight (whose descent is by this means discovered) joyfully accepts the offer; makes her his bride, and then sets out with her for King Arthur’s court. Such is the fable of this ancient piece: which the reader may observe, is as regular in its conduct, as any of the finest poems of classical antiquity. If the execution, particularly as to the diction and sentiments, were but equal to the plan, if would be a capital performance; but this is such as might be expected in rude and ignorant times, and in a barbarous unpolished language.

IV. I shall conclude this prolix account, with a list of such old Metrical Romances as are still extant; beginning with those mentioned by Chaucer.

1. The Romance of Horne Childe is preserved in the British Museum, where it is intitled The geste of kyng Horne. See Catalog. Harl. MSS. 2253, p. 70. The language is almost Saxon, yet from the mention in it of Sarazens, it appears to have been written after some of the Crusades. It begins thus:

“All heo ben blithe That to my sons ylythe A song ychulle ou sing Of Allof the gode kynge,”[51] &c.

Another copy of this poem, but greatly altered, and somewhat modernized, is preserved in the Advocates’ Library at Edinburgh, in an MS. quarto volume of old English poetry [W. 4,1] no. xxxiv. in seven leaves or folios,[52] intitled, Hornchild and Maiden Rinivel, and beginning thus:

“Mi leve frende dere Herken and ye may here.”

2. The Poem of Ipotis (or Ypotis) is preserved in the Cotton Library, Calig. A.2, fol. 77, but is rather a religious legend than a romance. Its beginning is:

“He that wyll of wysdome here Herkeneth now ze may here Of a tale of holy wryte Seynt Jon the Evangelyste wytnesseth hyt.”

3. The Romance of Sir Guy was written before that of Bevis, being quoted in it.[53] An account of this old poem is given in Book viii. No. i., below. To which it may be added, that two complete copies in MS. are preserved at Cambridge, the one in the public Library,[54] the other in that of Caius College, Class A.8.— In Ames’s Typog. p. 153, may be seen the first lines of the printed copy. The first MS. begins:

“Sythe the tyme that God was borne.”

4. Guy and Colbrande, an old romance in three parts, is preserved in the Editor’s folio MS. (p. 349.) It is in stanzas of six lines, the first of which begins thus:

“When meate and drinke is great plentye.”

In the Edinburgh MS. (mentioned above) are two ancient poems on the subject of Guy of Warwick: viz. No. xviii. containing 26 leaves, and xx. 59 leaves. Both these have unfortunately the beginnings wanting, otherwise they would perhaps be found to be different copies of one or both the preceding articles.

5. From the same MS. I can add another article to this list, viz. The Romance of Rembrun son of Sir Guy; being No. xxi. in nine leaves: this is properly a continuation of the History of Guy: and in art. 3, the Hist. of Rembrun follows that of Guy as a necessary part of it. This Edinburgh Romance of Rembrun begins thus:

“Jesu that erst of mighte most Fader and Sone and Holy Ghost.”

Before I quit the subject of Sir Guy, I must observe, that if we may believe Dugdale in his Baronage (vol. i. p. 243, col. 2), the fame of our English Champion had in the time of Henry IV. travelled as far as the East, and was no less popular among the Sarazens, than here in the West among the nations of Christendom. In that reign a Lord Beauchamp travelling to Jerusalem, was kindly received by a noble person, the Soldan’s lieutenant, who hearing he was descended from the famous Guy of Warwick, “whose story they had in books of their own language,” invited him to his palace; and royally feasting him, presented him with three precious stones of great value; besides divers cloaths of silk and gold given to his servants.

6. The Romance of Syr Bevis is described in Book ix. No. i., below. Two manuscript copies of this poem are extant at Cambridge; viz. in the public Library,[55] and in that of Caius Coll. Class A. 9. (5.)— The first of these begins:

“Lordyngs lystenyth grete and smale.”

There is also a copy of this Romance of Sir Bevis of Hamptoun, in the Edinburgh MS. No. xiii. consisting of twenty-five leaves, and beginning thus:

“Lordinges herkneth to mi tale, Is merrier than the nightingale.”

The printed copies begin different from both: viz.

“Lysten, Lordinges, and hold you styl.”

7. Libeaux (Libeaus, or Lybius) Disconius is preserved in the Editor’s folio MS. (pag. 317.) where the first stanza is,

“Jesus Christ christen king; And his mother that sweete thinge; Helpe them at their neede, That will listen to my tale, Of a Knight I will you tell, A doughtye man of deede.”

An older copy is preserved in the Cotton Library (Calig. A. 2. fol. 40), but containing such innumerable variations, that it is apparently a different translation of some old French original, which will account for the title of Le Beaux Disconus, or the Fair Unknown. The first line is,

“Jesu Christ our Savyour.”

As for Pleindamour, or Blandamoure, no romance with this title has been discovered; but as the word Blaundemere occurs in the romance of Libius Disconius, in the Editor’s folio MS. p. 319, he thought the name of Blandamoure (which was in all the editions of Chaucer he had then seen) might have some reference to this. But Pleindamour, the name restored by Mr. Tyrrwhitt, is more remote.

8. Le Morte Arthure is among the Harl. MSS. 2252, § 49. This is judged to be a translation from the French; Mr. Wanley thinks it no older than the time of Henry VII. but it seems to be quoted by Syr Bevis (Sign. K ij b). It begins,

“Lordinges that are leffe and deare.”

In the Library of Bennet College, Cambridge, No. 351. is a MS. intitled, in the catalogue, Acta Arthuris Metrico Anglicano, but I know not its contents.

9. In the Editor’s folio MS. are many songs and romances about King Arthur and his Knights, some of which are very imperfect, as King Arthur and the King of Cornwall, (p. 24) in stanzas of four lines, beginning:

“‘Come here,’ my cozen Gawaine so gay.”

The Turke and Gawain (p. 38), in stanzas of six lines, beginning thus:

“Listen lords great and small.”[56]

but these are so imperfect that I do not make distinct articles of them. See also below, Book vii. No. ii., iv., v.

In the same MS. (p. 203) is the Greene Knight, in two parts, relating a curious adventure of Sir Gawain, in stanzas of six lines, beginning thus:

“List: wen Arthur he was k:”

10. The Carle of Carlisle is another romantic tale about Sir Gawain, in the same MS. p. 448, in distichs:

“Listen: to me a little stond.”

In all these old poems the same set of knights are always represented with the same manners and characters; which seem to have been as well known, and as distinctly marked among our ancestors, as Homer’s heroes were among the Greeks; for, as Ulysses is always represented crafty, Achilles irascible, and Ajax rough; so Sir Gawain is ever courteous and gentle, Sir Kay rugged and disobliging, &c. “Sir Gawain with his olde curtysie,” is mentioned by Chaucer as noted to a proverb, in his Squire’s Tale. Canterb. Tales, vol. ii. p. 104.

11. Syr Launfal, an excellent old romance concerning another of King Arthur’s knights, is preserved in the Cotton Library, Calig. A. 2. f. 33. This is a translation from the French,[57] made by one Thomas Chestre, who is supposed to have lived in the reign of Henry VI. (See Tanner’s Biblioth.) It is in stanzas of six lines, and begins: “Be douzty Artours dawes.”

The above was afterwards altered by some minstrel into the romance of Sir Lambewell, in three parts, under which title it was more generally known.[58] This is in the Editor’s folio MS. p. 60, beginning thus:

“Doughty in King Arthures dares.”

12. Eger and Grime, in six parts (in the Editor’s folio MS. p. 124.) is a well invented tale of chivalry, scarce inferior to any of Ariosto’s. This, which was inadvertently omitted in the former editions of this list, is in distichs, and begins thus:

“It fell sometimes in the Land of Beame.”

13. The Romance of Merline, in nine parts, (preserved in the same folio MS. p. 145) gives a curious account of the birth, parentage, and juvenile adventures of this famous British prophet. In this poem the Saxons are called Sarazens; and the thrusting the rebel angels out of Heaven is attributed to “oure Lady.” It is in distichs, and begins thus:

“He that made with his hand.”

There is an old romance Of Arthour and of Merlin, in the Edinburgh MS. of old English poems: I know not whether it has any thing in common with this last mentioned. It is in the volume numbered xxiii., and extends through fifty-five leaves. The two first lines are,

“Jesu Crist, heven king, Al ous graunt gode ending.”

14. Sir Isenras (or as it is in the MS. copies, Sir Isumbras) is quoted in Chaucer’s R. of Thop. v. 6. Among Mr. Garrick’s old plays is a printed copy; of which an account has been already given in vol. i. Book iii. No. viii. It is preserved in MS. in the Library of Caius Coll. Camb. Class A. 9. (2) and also in the Cotton Library, Calig. A. 12. (f. 128). This is extremely different from the printed copy, e.g.

“God that made both erthe and hevene.”

15. Emarč, a very curious and ancient romance, is preserved in the same volume of the Cotton Library, f. 69. It is in stanzas of six lines, and begins thus:

“Jesu that ys kyng in trone.”

16. Chevelere assigne, or, The Knight of the Swan, preserved in the Cotton Library, has been already described in the Essay on P. Plowman’s Metre, &c., above, as hath also

17. The Siege of Jęrlam (or Jerusalem), which seems to have been written after the other, and may not improperly be classed among the romances; as may also the following, which is preserved in the same volume, viz.,

18. Owaine Myles, (fol. 90) giving an account of the wonders of St. Patrick’s Purgatory. This is a. translation into verse of the story related in Mat. Paris’s Hist. (sub. ann. 1153.)— It is in distichs beginning thus:

“God pat is so full of myght.”

In the same manuscript are three or four other narrative poems, which might be reckoned among the romances, but being rather religious legends, I shall barely mention them; as, Tundale, f. 17. Trentale Sci Gregorii, f. 84. Jerome, f. 133. Eustache, f. 136.

19. Octavian imperator, an ancient romance of chivalry, is in the same volume of the Cotton Library, f. 20.— Notwithstanding the name, this old poem has nothing in common with the history of the Roman emperors. It is in a very peculiar kind of stanza, whereof 1, 2, 3, and 5 rhyme together, as do the 4 and 6. It begins thus:

“Ihesu that was with spere ystonge.”

In the public Library at Cambridge,[59] is a poem with the same title, that begins very differently:

“Lyttyll and mykyll, olde and yonge.”

20. Eglamour of Artas (or Artoys) is preserved in the same volume with the foregoing, both in the Cotton Library, and public Library at Cambridge. It is also in the Editor’s folio MS. p. 295, where it is divided into six parts.— A printed copy is in the Bodleian Library, C. 39. Art. Seld. and also among Mr. Garrick’s old plays, K. vol. x. It is in distichs, and begins thus:

“Ihesu Crist of heven kyng.”

21. Syr Triamore (in stanzas of six lines) is preserved in MS. in the Editor’s volume (p. 210), and in the public Library at Cambridge, (690, § 29. Vid. Cat. MSS. p. 394.)— Two printed copies are extant in the Bodleian Library, and among Mr. Garrick’s plays, in the same volumes with the last article. Both the Editor’s MS. and the printed copies begin:

“Nowe Jesu Chryste our heven kynge.”

The Cambridge copy thus:

“Heven blys that all shall wynne.”

22. Sir Degree (Degare, or Degore, which last seems the true title), in five parts, in distichs, is preserved in the Editor’s folio MS. p. 371, and in the public Library at Cambridge (ubi supra. )— A printed copy is in the Bod. Library, C. 39. Art. Seld. and among Mr. Garrick’s plays, K. vol. ix.— The Editor’s MS. and the printed copies begin

“Lordinge, and you wyl holde you styl.”

The Cambridge MS. has it:

“Lystenyth, lordyngis, gente and free.”

23. Ipomydon (or Chylde Ipomydon) is preserved among the Harl. MSS. 2252, (44). It is in distichs, and begins:

“Mekely, lordyngis, gentylle and fre.”

In the Library of Lincoln Cathedral, K. k 3. 10. is an old imperfect printed copy, wanting the whole first sheet A.

24. The Squyr of Lowe Degre, is one of those burlesqued by Chaucer in his Rhyme of Thopas.[60]— Mr. Garrick has a printed copy of this among his old plays, K. vol. ix. It begins:

“It was a squyer of lowe degre, That loved the kings daughter of Hungre.”

25. Historye of K. Richard Cure [Cur] de Lyon (Impr. W. de Worde, 1528, 4to.) is preserved in the Bodleian Library, c. 39. Art. Selden. A fragment of it is also remaining in the Edinburgh MS. of old English poems, No. xxxvii. in two leaves. A large extract from this romance has been given already above. Richard was the peculiar patron of chivalry, and favourite of the old minstrels, and Troubadours.— See Warton’s Observ. vol. ii. p. 29.; vol. ii. p. 40.

26. Of the following I have only seen No. xxvii, but I believe they may all be referred to the class of romances.

The Knight of Courtesy and the Lady of Faguel (Bodl. Lib. C. 39., art. Seld. a printed copy). This Mr. Warton thinks is the story of Coucy’s Heart, related in Fauchet, and in Howel’s letters (V. i. s. 6. l. 20.— See Wart. Obs. v. ii. p. 40). The Editor has seen a very beautiful old ballad on this subject in French.

27. The four following are all preserved in the MS. so often referred to in the public Library at Cambridge (690. Appendix to Bp. More’s MSS. in Cat. MSS. tom. ii. p. 394), viz. The Lay of Erle of Tholouse, (No. 27), of which the Editor hath also a copy from “Cod. MSS. Mus. Ashmol. Oxon.” The first line of both is,

“Jesu Chryste in Trynyte.”

28. Roberd Kynge of Cysyll (or Sicily), shewing the fall of pride. Of this there is also a copy among the Harl. MSS. 2386, § 42) The Cambridge MS. begins:

“Princis that be prowde in prese.”

29. Le bone Florence of Rome, beginning thus:

“As ferre as men ride or gone.”

30. Dioclesian the Emperour, beginning

“Sum tyme ther was a noble man.”

31. The two knightly brothers Amys and Amelion (among the Harl. MSS. 2386, § 42) is an old romance of chivalry; as is also, I believe, the fragment of the Lady Belesant, the duke of Lombardy’s fair daughter, mentioned in the same article. See the Catalog. vol. ii.

32. In the Edinburgh MS. so often referred to (preserved in the Advocates’ Library, W. 4. 1), might probably be found some other articles to add to this list, as well as other copies of some of the pieces mentioned in it; for the whole volume contains not fewer than thirty-seven poems or romances, some of them very long. But as many of them have lost the beginnings, which have been cut out for the sake of the illuminations, and as I have not had an opportunity of examining the MS. myself, I shall be content to mention only the articles that follow;[61] viz.,

An old romance about Rouland (not I believe the famous Paladine, but a champion named Rouland Louth; query) being in the volume, No. xxvii, in 5 leaves, and wants the beginning.

33. Another romance, that seems to be a kind of continuation of this last, intitled, Otuel a Knight (No. xxviii, in 11 leaves and a half). The two first lines are:

“Herkneth both zinge and old, That willen heren of battailes bold.”

34. The King of Tars (No. iv, in 5 leaves and a half; as is also in the Bodleian Library, MS. Vernon, f. 304) beginning thus:

“Herkneth to me both eld and zing, For Maries love that swete thing.”

33. A tale or romance (No. i, 2 leaves) that wants both beginning and end. The first lines now remaining are:

“Th Erl him graunted his will y-wis, that the knicht him haden y told. The Baronnis that were of mikle pris, befor him thay weren y-cald.”

36. Another mutilated tale or romance (No. iii, 4 leaves). The first lines at present are:

“To Mr. Steward will y gon and tellen him the sothe of the Reseyved bestow sone anon, gif zou will serve and with hir be.”

37. A mutilated tale or romance (No. xi, in 13 leaves). The two first lines that occur are

“That riche Dooke his fest gan hold With Erls and with Baronns bold.”

I cannot conclude my account of this curious manuscript, without acknowledging, that I was indebted to the friendship of the Rev. Dr. Blair, the ingenious professor of Belles Lettres, in the University of Edinburgh, for whatever I learned of its contents, and for the important additions it enabled me to make to the foregoing list. To the preceding articles, two ancient metrical romances in the Scottish dialect may now be added, which are published in Pinkerton’s “Scottish Poems, reprinted from scarce editions.” Lond. 1792, in 3 vols. 8vo. viz.:

38. Gawan and Gotogras, a metrical romance, from an edition printed at Edinburgh, 1508, 8vo. beginning,

“In the tyme of Arthur, as trew men me tald.”

It is in stanzas of thirteen lines.

39. Sir Gawan and Sir Galaron of Galloway, a metrical romance, in the same stanzas as No. 38, from an ancient MS. beginning thus:

“In the time of Arthur an aunter[62] betydde By the Turnwathelan, as the boke tells; Whan he to Carlele was comen, and conqueror kyd, &c.”

Both these (which exhibit the union of the old alliterative metre, with rhyme, &c. and in the termination of each stanza the short triplets of the Turnament of Tottenham) are judged to be as old as the time of our King Henry VI., being apparently the production of an old poet, thus mentioned by Dunbar, in his “Lament for the Deth of the Makkaris:”

“Clerk of Tranent eik he hes take, That made the aventers of Sir Gawane.”

It will scarce be necessary to remind the reader, that Turne- wathelan is evidently Tearne-Wadling, celebrated in the old ballad of the Marriage of Sir Gawaine. See no. xix. book ix, below. Many new references, and perhaps some additional articles, might be added to the foregoing list from Mr. Warton’s History of English Poetry, 3 vols. 4to., and from the notes to Mr. Tyrwhitt’s improved edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, &c., in 5 vols. 8vo., which have been published since this Essay, &c., was first composed; but it will be sufficient once for all to refer the curious reader to those popular works. The reader will also see many interesting particulars on the subject of these volumes, as well as on most points of general literature, in Sir John Hawkins’s curious History of Music, &c. in 5 volumes. 4to. as also in Dr. Burney’s Hist, &c. in 4 vols. 4to.

NOTES

1. Vid. Lasiteau Murs des Sauvages, t. 2. Dr. Browne’s Hist. of the Rise and Progress of Poetry. 2. Germani celebrant carminibus antiquis (quod unum apud illos memorić et annalium genus est) Tuistonem, &c.— Tacit. Germ. c. 2. 3. Barth. Antiq. Dan. lib. i. cap. 10.— Wormii Literatura Runica, ad finem. 4. See “Northern Antiquities, or a Description of the Manners, Customs, &c. of the ancient Danes and other northern Nations, translated from the French of M. Mallet,” 1770, 2 vol. 8vo. (vol i. p. 49, &c.) 5. Vide infra. 6. Viz. Astrća, Cassandra, Clelia, &c. 7. Mallet, vide Northern Antiquities, vol. i, p. 318, &c. vol. ii. p. 234, &c. 8. Letters concerning Chivalry, 8vo, 1763. 9. Mallet. 10. Ibid. 11. The seeds of chivalry sprung up so naturally out of the original manners and opinions of the northern nations, that it is not credible they arose so late as after the establishment of the feudal system, much less the crusades. Nor, again, that the romances of chivalry were transmitted to other nations, through the Spaniards, from the Moors and Arabians. Had this been the case, the first French romances of chivalry would have been on Moorish or at least Spanish subjects: whereas the most ancient stories of this kind, whether in prose or verse, whether in Italian, French, English, &c. are chiefly on the subjects of Charlemagne, and the Paladins; or of our British Arthur, and his Knights of the Round Table, &c. being evidently borrowed from the fabulous Chronicles of the supposed Archbishop Turpin, and of Jeffery of Monmouth. Not but some of the oldest and most popular French romances are also on Norman subjects, as Richard Sans-peur, Robert Le Diable, &c.; whereas I do not recollect so much as one in which the scene is laid in Spain, much less among the Moors, or descriptive of Mahometan manners. Even in Arnadis de Gaul, said to have been the first romance printed in Spain, the scene is laid in Gaul and Britain; and the manners are French: which plainly shows from what school this species of fabling was learnt and transmitted to the southern nations of Europe. 12. Mallet, North. Antiquities, vol. i. p.36; vol. ii. passim 13.Olaus Verel. ad Herdarer Saga, pp. 44, 45. Hickes’s Thesaurus, vol ii. P. 311. Northern Antiquities, vol. ii. Passim. 14. North. Antiquities, vol. i. p.69, 374, &c.; vol. ii. P. 216, &c. 15. Rollof’s saga. Cap. xxxv. &c. 16. It is peculiarly uofortuuate that such as maintain this opinion are obliged to take their first step from the Moorish provinces in Spain, without one intermediate resting-place, to Armorica or Bretagne, the province in France from them most remote, not more in situation than in the manners, habits, and language of its Welsh inhabitants, which are allowed to have been derived from this island, as must have been their traditions, songs, and fables,— being doubtless all of Celtic origin. See p. 3 of the “Dissertation on the Origin of Romantic Fiction in Europe,” prefixed to Mr. Tho. Warton’s History of English Poetry, vol. i. 1774, 4to. If any pen could have supported this daring hypothesis of Dr. Warburton, that of this ingenious critic would have effected it. But under the general term Oriental, he seems to consider the ancient inhabitants of the north and south of Asia as having all the same manners, traditions, and fables; and because the secluded people of Arabia took the lead under the religion and empire of Mahomet, therefore everything must be derived from them to the northern Asiatics in the remotest ages, &c. With as much reason, under the word Occidental, we might represent the early traditions and fables of the north and south of Europe to have been the same; and that the Gothic mythology of Scandinavia, the Druidic or Celtic of Gaul and Britain, differed not from the classic of Greece and Rome.

There is not room here for a full examiuation of the minuter arguments, or rather slight coincidences, by which our agreeable dissertator endeavours to maintain and defend this favourite opinion of Dr. W., who has been himself so completely confuted by Mr. Tyrwhitt.— See his notes on Love’s Labour’s Lost, &c. But some of his positions it will be sufficient to mention: such as the referring the Gog and Magog, which our old Christian Bards might have had from Scripture, to the Jagiouge and Magiouge of the Arabians and Persians, &c. [p. 13.] — That “we may venture to affirm that this [Geoffrey of Monmouth’s] Chronicle, supposed to contain the ideas of the Welsh Bards, entirely consists of Arabian inventions.” [p. 13.] — And that, “as Geoffrey’s History is the grand repository of the acts of Arthur, so a fabulous history, ascribed to Turpin, is the groundwork of all the chimerical legends which have been related concerning the conquests of Charlemagne and his twelve peers. Its subject is the expulsion of the Saracens from Spain; and it is filled with fictions evidently congenial to those which characterize Geoffrey’s History.” [p. 17.] —That is, as he afterwards expresses it, “lavishly decorated by the Arabian Fablers.” [p. 58.] — We should hardly have expected that the Arabian Fablers would have been lavish in decorating a history of their enemy; but what is singular, as an instance and proof of this Arabian origin of the fictious of Turpin, a passage is quoted from his fourth chapter, which I shall beg leave to offer, as affording decisive evidence that they could not possibly be derived from a Mahometan source. Sc. “The Christians under Charlemagne are said to have found in Spain a golden idol, or image of Mahomet, as high as a bird can fly. It was framed by Mahomet himself of the purest metal, who, by his knowledge in necromancy, had sealed up within it a legion of diabolical spirits. It held in its hand a prodigious club; and the Saracens had a prophetic tradition, that this club should fall from the hand of the image in that year when a certain king should be born in France,” &c. [Vide p. 18, note.] 17. The little narrative songs on Morisco subjects, which the Spaniards have at present in great abundance, and which they call peculiarly Romances, (see book iii. no. xiv., &c.,) have present in great abundance, and which they call peculiarly romances, (see book iii. No. xiv &c.) have nothing in common with their proper romances (or Histories) of chivalry; which they call Historias de Cavallerias: these are evidently imitations of the French, and shew a great ignorance of Moorish manners: and with regard to the Morisco, or song-romances, they do not seem of very great antiquity: few of them appear, from their subjects, much earlier than the reduction of Granada, in the fifteenth century: from which period, I believe, may be plainly traced, among the Spanish writers, a more perfect knowledge of Moorish customs, &c. 18. See Northern Antiquities, passim. 19. Ibid. 20. Saxo Gram. p. 152, 153. Mallet, North. Antiq. vol. i. p. 321. 21. See a translation of this poem among “Five Pieces of Runic Poetry,” printed for Dodsley, 1764, 8vo. 22. Vid. Mallet Northern Antiquities, passim. 23. The Editor’s MS. contains a multitude of poems of this latter kind. It was probably from this custom of the minstrels that some of our first historians wrote their chronicles in verse, as Robert of Gloucester, Harding, &c. 24. See a specimen in second vol. of Northern Antiquities, &c. p. 248, &c. 25. Eccardi Hist. Stud. Etym. 1711, p. 179, &c. Hickes’s Thesaur. vol. ii. p. 314. 26. i.e. Northern Men: being chiefly emigrants from Norway, Denmark, &c. 27. See the account of Taillefer above. 28. Ipsa CARMINA memorić mandabant, et prćlia inituri decantabant: qua memoria tam fortium gestorum ŕ majoribus patratorum ad imitationem animus adderetur.— Jornandes de Gothis. 29. Eginhartus de Carolo Magno. “Item barbara, et antiquissima CARMINA, quibus veterum regum actus et bella canebantur, scripsit.” c. 29. Asscrius de Ćlfredo magno. “Rex inter bella, &c . . . Saxonicos libros recitare, et MAXIMA CARMINA SAXONICA memoriter discere, aliis imperare, et solos assidue pro viribus, studiosissime non desinebat.” Ed. 1722, 8vo. p. 43. 30. See above. &c. 31. The romances on the subject of Perceval, San Graal, Lancelot du Lac, Tristan, &c. were among the first that appeared in the French language in prose, yet these were originally composed in metre: The Editor has in his possession a very old French MS. in verse, containing L’ancien Roman de Perceval; and metrical copies of the others may be found in the libraries of the curious. See a note of Wanley’s in Harl. Catalog. No. 2252, p. 49, &c. Nicolson’s Eng. Hist. Library, 3d ed. p. 91, &c. — See also a curious collection of old French romances, with Mr. Wanley’s account of this sort of pieces, in Harl. MSS. Catal. 973, 106. 32. The Author of the Essay on the Genius of Pope, p. 282. 33. Ibid. p. 283. Hist. Lit. tom. vi. vii. 34. Voir Preface aux “Fabliaux & Contes des Poëtes François des xii, xiii, xiv, & xv. sičcles, &c. Paris, 1756 3 tom. 12mo.” (a very curious work.) 35. See the account of Taillefer in vol. i. Essay, and Note. And see Rapin, Carte, &c.— This song of Roland (whatever it was) continued for some centuries to be usually sung by the French in their marches, if we may believe a modern French writer. “Un jour qu’on chantoit la Chanson de Roland, comme c’etoit l’usage dans les marches. Il y a long temps, dit il [John K. of France who died in 1364], qu’on ne voit plus de Rolands parmi les Francois. On y verroit encore des Rolands, lui repondit un vieux Capitaine, s’ils avoient un Charlemagne ŕ leur tęte,”— Vid. tom. p. 202, des Essaies Hist. sur Paris de M. de Saintefoix, who gives, as his authority, Boethius in Hist. Scotorum. This author, however, speaks of the complaint and repartee as made in an assembly of the states (vocato senatu), and not upon any march, &c. Vid. Boeth. lib. xv. fol. 327. Ed. Paris,

1574.

36. See, on this subject, Notes on the Essay on the Ancient Minstrels, (S2) and (GG). 37. The first romances of chivalry among the Germans were in metre; they have some very ancient narrative songs (which they call Lieder) not only on the fabulous heroes of their own country, but also on those of France and Britain, as Tristram, Gawain and the Knights von der Tafel-ronde. Vid. Goldasti Not. In Eginhart. Vit. Car. Mag. 4to. 1711, p. 207. 38. The Welsh have still some very old romances about King Arthur; but as these are in prose, they are not probably their first pieces that were composed on that subject. 39. It is most credible that these stories were originally of English invention, even if the only pieces now extant should be found to be translations from the French. What now pass for the French originals were probably only amplifications, or enlargements of the old English story. That the French romancers borrowed some things from the English appears from the word Termagant, which they took up from our minstrels, and corrupted into Tervagaunte. 40. Recuyel of the Hystoryes of Troy, 1471. Godfroye of Boloyne 1481. Le Morte de Arthur, 1485. The Life of Charlemagne, 1485, &c. As the old minstrelsy wore out, prose books of chivalry became more admired, especially after the Spanish romances began to be translated into English, towards the end of Q. Elizabeth’s reign: then the most popular metrical romances began to be reduced into prose, as Sir Guy, Bevis, &c. 41. See extract from a letter, written by the Editor of these volumes, in Mr. Warton’s Observations, vol. ii. p. 139. 42. Canterbury Tales (Tyrwhitt’s Edit.), vol. ii. p. 238.— In all the former editions, which I have seen, the name at the end of the fourth line is Blandamoure. 43. Dr Grey has shewn that the same story is alluded to in Rastell’s Chronicle: As it was doubtless originally had from the romance, this is proof that the old Metrical Romances throw light on our first writers in prose: many of our ancient historians have recorded the fictions of romance. 44. i.e. handkerchiefs. Here we have the etymology of the word, viz. “Couvre le Chef.” 45. i.e. slipt aside. 46. i.e. yawned. 47. i.e. hurt. 48. Dr. Warburton.— Dr. Grey. 49. So it is intitled in the Editor’s MS. But the true title is Le beaux Disconus, or The Fair Unknown. See a Note on the Canterbury Tales, vol. iv. p. 333. 50. Vid. “Discours sur la Poésie Epique,” prefixed to TELEMAQUE. 51. i.e. May all they be blithe, that to my song listen: A song I shall you sing, Of Allgif the good king, &c. 52. In each full page of this vol. are forty-four lines, when the poem is in long metre: and eighty-eight when the metre is short, and the page in two columns. 53. Sign. K. 2. b. 54. For this and most of the following, which are mentioned as preserved in the public Library, I refer the reader to the Oxon Catalogue of MSS. 1697, vol. ii. p. 394; in Appendix to Bp. Moore’s MSS. no. 690, 33, since given to the University of Cambridge. 55. No. 690, § 31. Vid. Catalog. MSS. p. 394. 56. In the former editions, after the above, followed mention of a fragment in the same MS. intitled, Sir Lionel, in distichs (p. 32); but this being only a short ballad and not relating to King Arthur, is here omitted. 57. The French original is preserved among the Harl. MSS. No. 978, § 12. Lanval. 58. See Laneham’s Letter concerning Queen Eliz. entertainment at Killingworth, 1575, 12mo., p. 34. 59. No. 690 (30). Vid. Oxon. Catalog. MSS. p. 344. 60. This is alluded to by Shakespeare in his Henry V. (Act v.) where Fluellyn tells Pistol, he will make him a squire of low degree, when he means to knock him down. 61. Some of these I give, though mutilated and divested of their titles, because they may enable a curious inquirer to complete or improve other copies. 62. i.e. adventure.

END OF THE ESSAY.

I. The Boy and the Mantle.

This is printed verbatim from the old MS. described in the preface. The Editor believes it more ancient than it will appear to be at first sight; the transcriber of that manuscript having reduced the orthography and style in many instances to the standard of his own times. The incidents of the mantle and the knife have not, that I can recollect, been borrowed from any other writer. The former of these evidently suggested to Spenser his conceit of Florimel’s Girdle, b. iv., c. 5, st. 3.

“That girdle gave the virtue of chaste love And wivehood true to all that did it beare; But whosoever contrarie doth prove, Might not the same about her middle weare, But it would loose or else asunder teare.”

So it happened to the false Florimel, st. 16, when

“— Being brought, about her middle small They thought to gird, as best it her became, But by no means they could it thereto frame, For ever as they fastend it, it loos’d And fell away, as feeling secret blame, &c.

That all men wondred at the uncouth sight And each one thought as to their fancies came. But she herself did think it done for spight, And touched was with secret wrath and shame Therewith, as thing deviz’d her to defame: Then many other ladies likewise tride About their tender loynes to knit the same, But it would not on none of them abide, But when they thought it fast, eftsoones it was untide.

Thereat all knights gan laugh and ladies lowre, Till that at last the gentle Amoret Likewise assayed to prove that girdle’s powre. And having it about her middle set Did find it fit withouten breach or let Whereat the rest gan greatly to envie. But Florimel exceedingly did fret, And snatching from her hand, &c.”

As for the trial of the horne, it is not peculiar to our poet: It occurs in the old romance, entitled Morte Arthur, which was translated out of French in the time of King Edward IV., and first printed anno 1484. From that romance Ariosto is thought to have borrowed his tale of the Enchanted Cup, c. 42, &c. See Mr. Warton’s Observations on the Faerie Queen, &c. The story of the horn in Morte Arthur varies a good deal from this of our poet, as the reader will judge from the following extract:— “By the way they met with a knight that was sent from Morgan la Faye to King Arthur, and this knight had a fair home all garnished with gold, and the horne had such a virtue, that there might no ladye or gentlewoman drinke of that horne, but if she were true to her husband: and if shee were false she should spill all the drinke, and if shee were true unto her lorde, shee might drink peaceably: and because of queene Guenever and in despite of Sir Launcelot du Lake, this home was sent unto King Arthur.” This horn is intercepted and brought unto another king named Marke, who is not a whit more fortunate than the British hero, for he makes “his queene drinke thereof and an hundred ladies moe, and there were but four ladies of all those that drank cleane,” of which number the said queen proves not to be one.— Book ii chap. 22. Ed. 1632. In other respects the two stories are so different, that we have just reason to suppose this ballad was written before that romance was translated into English. As for Queen Guenever, she is here represented no otherwise than in the old histories and romances. Holinshed observes, that “she was evil reported of, as noted of incontinence and breach of faith to hir husband.”— Vol. i. p. 93.

- Such readers as have no relish for pure antiquity, will find a more modern copy of this ballad at the end of this volume.

IN the third day of May, To Carleile did come A kind curteous child, That cold much of wisdome.

A kirtle and a mantle This child had uppon, With brouches and ringes Full richelye bedone.

He had a sute of silke About his middle drawne; Without he cold of curtesye He thought itt much shame.

“God speed thee, King Arthur, Sitting at thy meate And the goodly Queene Guénever, I cannott her forgett.

“I tell you, lords, in this hall; I hett you all to heede; Except you be the more surer Is you for to dread.”

He plucked out of his poterner, And longer wold not dwell, He pulled forth a pretty mantle, Betweene two nut-shells.

“Have thou here, King Arthur; Have thou heere of mee: Give itt to thy comely queene Shapen as itt is alreadye.

“Itt shall never become that wiffe, That hath once done amisse.” Then every knight in the kings court Began to care for his.

Forth came Dame Guenever; To the mantle shee her hied; The ladye shee was newfangle, But yett shee was affrayd.

When shee had taken the mantle; She stoode as shee had beene madd: It was from the top to the toe As sheeres had itt shread.

One while was it gule; Another while was itt greene; Another while was it wadded: Ill itt did her beseeme.

Another while was it blacke And bore the worst hue: “By my troth,” quoth King Arthur, “I thinke thou be not true.”

Shee threw downe the mantle, That bright was of blee; Fast with a rudd redd, To her chamber can shee flee.

She curst the weaver, and the walker, That clothe that had wrought; And bade a vengeance on his crowne, That hither hath itt brought.

“I had rather be in a wood, Under a greene tree; Then in King Arthurs court Shamed for to bee.”

Kay called forth his ladye, And bade her come neere; Saies, “Madam, and thou be guiltye, I pray thee hold thee there.”

Forth came his ladye Shortlye and anon; Boldlye to the mantle Then is shee gone.

When she had tane the mantle, And cast it her about; Then was shee bare Before all the rout.

Then every knight, That was in the kings court, Talked, laughed, and showted Full oft att that sport.

Shee threw downe the mantle, That bright was of blee; Fast, with a redd rudd, To her chamber can shee flee.

Forth came an old knight Pattering ore a creede, And he proferred to this litle boy

Twenty markes to his meede;

And all the time of the Christmasse Willingly to ffeede; For why this mantle might Doe his wiffe some need.

When she had tane the mantle, Of cloth that was made, Shee had no more left on her, But a tassell and a threed: Then every knight in the kings court Bade evill might shee speed.

Shee threw downe the mantle, That bright was of blee; And fast, with a redd rudd, To her chamber can shee flee.

Craddocke called forth his ladye, And bade her come in; Saith, “Winne this mantle, ladye, With a little dinne.

“Winne this mantle, ladye, And it shal be thine, If thou never did amisse Since thou wast mine.”

Forth came Craddockes ladye Shortlye and anon; But boldlye to the mantle Then is shee gone.

When she had tane the mantle, And cast it her about, Upp att her great toe It began to crinkle and crowt: Shee said, “Bowe downe, mantle, And shame me not for nought.

“Once I did amisse, I tell you certainlye, When I kist Craddockes mouth Under a greene tree; When I kist Craddockes mouth Before he marryed mee.”

When shee had her shreeven, And her sines shee had tolde; The mantle stoode about her Right as shee wold:

Seemelye of coulour Glittering like gold: Then every knight in Arthurs court Did her behold.

Then spake Dame Guénever To Arthur our king; “She hath tane yonder mantle Not with right, but with wronge.

“See you not yonder woman, That maketh her self soe cleane? I have seene tane out of her bedd Of men fiveteene;

Priests, clarkes, and wedded men From her, bedeene: Yett shee taketh the mantle, And maketh her self cleane.”

Then spake the little boy, That kept the mantle in hold; Sayes, “King, chasten thy wife, Of her words shee is to bold:

“Shee is a bitch and a witch, And a whore bold: King, in thine owne hall Thou art a cuckold.”

The litle boy stoode Looking out a dore; And there as he was lookinge He was ware of a wyld bore.

He was ware of a wyld bore, Wold have werryed a man: He pulld forth a wood knife, Fast thither that he ran: He brought in the bores head, And quitted him like a man.

He brought in the bores head, And was wonderous bold: He said there was never a cuckolds knife Carve itt that cold.

Some rubbed their knives Uppon a whetstone: Some threw them under the table, And said they had none.

King Arthur, and the child Stood looking upon them; All their knives edges Turned backe againe.

Craddocke had a little knive Of iron and of steele; He britled the bores head Wonderous weele; That every knight in the kings court Had a morssell.

The litle boy had a horne; Of red gold-that ronge: He said, there was “noe cuckolde Shall drinke of my horne; But he shold it sheede Either behind or beforne.”

Some shedd on their shoulder, And some on their knee; He that cold not hitt his mouthe, Put it in his eye: And he that was a cuckold Every man might him see.

Craddocke wan the horne, And the bores head: His ladie wan the mantle Unto her meede. Everye such a lovely ladye God send her well to speede.

II. The Marriage of Sir Gawaine.

This is chiefly taken from the fragment of an old ballad in the Editor’s manuscript, which he has reason to believe more ancient than the time of Chaucer, and what furnished that bard with his Wife of Bath’s Tale. The original was so extremely mutilated, half of every leaf being torn away, that without large supplements, &c. it was deemed improper for this collection: these it has therefore received, such as they are. They are not here particularly pointed out, because the Fragment itself will be found printed at the end of this volume.

PART THE FIRST

KING Arthur lives in merry Carleile, And seemely is to see; And there with him Queene Guenever, That bride soe bright of blee.

And there with him queene Guenever, That bride soe bright in bowre: And all his barons about him stoode, That were both stiffe and stowre.

The king a royale Christmasse kept, With mirth and princelye cheare; To him repaired many a knighte, That came both farre and neare.

And when they were to dinner sette, And cups went freely round: Before them came a faire damselle, And knelt upon the ground.

“A boone, a boone, O Kinge Arthůre, I beg a boone of thee; Avenge me of a carlish knighte, Who hath shent my love and mee.

“At Tearne-Wadling[1] his castle stands, Near to that lake so fair, And proudlye rise the battlements, And streamers deck the air.

“Noe gentle knighte, nor ladye gay, May pass that castle-walle: But from that foule discurteous knighte, Mishappe will them befalle.

“Hee’s twyce the size of common men, Wi’ thewes, and sinewes stronge, And on his backe he bears a clubbe, That is both thicke and longe.

“This grimme barňne ‘twas our harde happe, But yester morne to see; When to his bowre he bare my love, And sore misused mee.

“And when I told him, King Arthůre As lyttle shold him spare; ‘Goe tell,’ sayd hee, ‘that cuckold kinge, To meete mee if he dare.’”

Upp then sterted King Arthůre, And sware by hille and dale, He ne’er wolde quitt that grimme barňne, Till he had made him quail.

“Goe fetch my sword Excalibar: Goe saddle mee my steede; Nowe, by my faye, that grimme barňne Shall rue this ruthfulle deede.”

And when he came to Tearne Wadlinge Benethe the castle walle: “Come forth; come forth; thou proude barňne, Or yielde thyself my thralle.”

On magicke grounde that castle stoode, And fenc’d with many a spelle: Noe valiant knighte could tread thereon, But straite his courage felle.

Forth then rush’d that carlish knight, King Arthur felte the charme: His sturdy sinewes lost their strengthe, Downe sunke his feeble arme.

“Nowe yield thee, yield thee, King Arthůre, Now yielde thee unto mee: Or fighte with mee, or lose thy lande, Noe better termes maye bee,

“Unlesse thou sweare upon the rood, And promise on thy faye, Here to returne to Tearne-Wadling, Upon the new-yeare’s daye:

“And bringe me worde what thing it is All women moste desyre: This is thy ransome, Arthur,” he sayes, “Ile have noe other hyre.”

King Arthur then helde up his hande, And sware upon his faye, Then tooke his leave of the grimme barňne, And faste hee rode awaye.

And he rode east, and he rode west, And did of all inquyre, What thing it is all women crave, And what they most desyre.

Some told him riches, pompe, or state; Some rayment, fine and brighte; Some told him mirthe; some flatterye; And some a jollye knighte.

In letters all King Arthur wrote, And seal’d them with his ringe: But still his minde was helde in doubte, Each tolde a different thinge.

As ruthfulle he rode over a more, He saw a ladye sette Betweene an oke, and a green hollye, All clad in red[2] scarlette.

Her nose was crookt and turnd outwŕrde, Her chin stoode all awrye; And where as sholde have been her mouthe, La! there was set her eye:

Her haires, like serpents, clung aboute Her cheekes of deadlye hewe: A worse-form’d ladye than she was, No man mote ever viewe.

To hail the king in seemelye sorte This ladye was fulle faine: But King Arthůre all sore amaz’d, No aunswere made againe.

“What wight art thou,” the ladye sayd, “That wilt not speake to mee; Sir, I may chance to ease thy paine, Though I bee foule to see.”

“If thou wilt ease my paine,” he sayd, “And helpe me in my neede; Ask what thou wilt, thou grimme ladyč, And it shall bee thy meede.”

“O sweare mee this upon the roode, And promise on thy faye; And here the secrette I will telle, That shall thy ransome paye.”

King Arthur promis’d on his faye, And sware upon the roode: The secrette then the ladye told, As lightlye well shee cou’de.

“Now this shall be my paye, Sir King, And this my guerdon bee, That some young fair and courtlye knight, Thou bringe to marrye mee.”

Fast then pricked King Arthůre Ore hille, and dale, and downe: And soone he founde the barone’s bowre: And soone the grimme baroůne.

He bare his clubbe upon his backe, Hee stoode bothe stiffe and stronge; And, when he had the letters reade, Awaye the lettres flunge.

“Nowe yielde thee, Arthur, and thy lands, All forfeit unto mee; For this is not thy paye, sir king, Nor may thy ransome bee.”

“Yet hold thy hand, thou proud barone, I pray thee hold thy hand; And give me leave to speake once more In reskewe of my land.

“This morne, as I came over a more, I saw a lady sette Betwene an oke, and a greene hollčye, All clad in red scarlčtte.

“Shee sayes, all women will have their wille, This is their chief desyre; Now yield, as thou art a barone true, That I have payd mine hyre.”

“An earlye vengeaunce light on her!” The carlish baron swore: “Shee was my sister tolde thee this, And shee’s a mishapen whore.

“But here I will make mine avowe, To do her as ill a turne: For an ever I may that foule thiefe gette, In a fyre I will her burne.”

PART THE SECONDE

HOMEWARDE pricked King Arthůre, And a wearye man was hee; And soone he mette Queene Guenever, That bride so bright of blee.

“What newes! what newes! thou noble king, Howe, Arthur, hast thou sped? Where hast thou hung the carlish knighte? And where bestow’d his head?”

“The carlish knight is safe for mee, And free fro mortal harme: On magicke grounde his castle stands, And fenc’d with many a charme.

“To bowe to him I was fulle faine, And yielde me to his hand: And but for a lothly ladye, there I sholde have lost my land.

“And nowe this fills my hearte with woe, And sorrowe of my life; I swore a yonge and courtlye knight, Sholde marry her to his wife.”

Then bespake him Sir Gawŕine, That was ever a gentle knighte: “That lothly ladye I will wed; Therefore be merrye and lighte.”

“Nowe naye, nowe naye, good Sir Gawŕine; My sister’s sonne yee bee; This lothlye ladye’s all too grimme, And all too foule for yee.

“Her nose is crookt, and turn’d outwŕrde; Her chin stands all awrye; A worse form’d ladye than she was Was never seen with eye.”

“What though her chin stand all awrye, And shee be foul to see; I’ll marry her, unkle, for thy sake, And I’ll thy ransome bee.”

“Nowe thankes, nowe thankes, good Sir Gawŕine; And a blessing thee betyde To-morrow wee’ll have knights and squires, And wee’ll goe fetch thy bride.

“And wee’ll have hawkes and wee’ll have houndes, To cover our intent; And wee’ll away to the greene forčst, As wee a hunting went.”

Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bolde, They rode with them that daye; And foremoste of the companye There rode the stewarde Kaye:

Soe did Sir Banier and Sir Bore, And eke Sir Garratte keene; Sir Tristram, too, that gentle knight, To the forest freshe and greene.

And when they came to the greene forrčst, Beneathe a faire holley tree There sate that ladye in red scarlette That unseemelye was to see.

Sir Kay beheld that lady’s face, And looked upon her sweere; “Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes, “Of his kisse he stands in feare.”

Sir Kay beheld that ladye againe, And looked upon her snout; “Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes, “Of his kisse he stands in doubt.”

“Peace, brother Kay,” sayde Sir Gawŕine, “And amend thee of thy life: For there is a knight amongst us all, Must marry her to his wife.”

“What marry this foule queane,” quoth Kay, “I’ the devil’s name anone; Gett mee a wife wherever I maye, In sooth shee shall be none.”

Then some tooke up their hawkes in haste, And some took up their houndes; And sayd they wolde not marry her, For cities, nor for townes.

Then bespake him King Arthůre, And sware there “by this daye; For a little foule sighte and mislikinge, Yee shall not saye her naye.”

“Peace, lordings, peace;” Sir Gawaine sayd; “Nor make debate and strife; This lothlye ladye I will take, And marry her to my wife.”

“Nowe thankes, nowe thankes, good Sir Gawaine, And a blessing be thy meede! For as I am thine own ladyč, Thou never shalt rue this deede.”

Then up they took that lothly dame, And home anone they bringe; And there Sir Gawaine he her wed, And married her with a ringe.

And when they were in wed-bed laid, And all were done awaye: “Come turne to mee, mine owne wed-lord, Come turne to mee I praye.”

Sir Gawaine scant could lift his head, For sorrowe and for care; When, lo! instead of that lothelye dame, Hee sawe a young ladye faire.

Sweet blushes stayn’d her rud-red cheeke, Her eyen was blacke as sloe: The ripening cherrye swellde her lippe, And all her necke was snowe.

Sir Gawaine kiss’d that lady faire, Lying upon the sheete: And swore, as he was a true knighte, The spice was never soe sweete.

Sir Gawaine kiss’d that lady brighte, Lying there by his side: “The fairest flower is not soe faire: Thou never can’st bee my bride.”

“I am thy bride, mine owne deare lorde, The same whiche thou didst knowe, That was soe lothlye, and was wont Upon the wild more to goe.

“Nowe, gentle Gawaine, chuse, quoth shee, And make thy choice with care; Whether by night, or else by daye, Shall I be foule or faire?

“To have thee foule still in the night, When I with thee should playe! I had rather farre, my lady deare, To have thee foule by daye.”

“What when gaye ladyes goe with their lordes To drinke the ale and wine; Alas! then I must hide myself, I must not goe with mine!”

“My faire ladye,” Sir Gawaine sayd, “I yield me to thy skille; Because thou art mine owne ladyč Thou shalt have all thy wille.”

“Nowe blessed be thou, sweete Gawŕine, And the daye that I thee see; For as thou seest mee at this time, Soe shall I ever bee.

“My father was an aged knighte, And yet it chanced soe, He tooke to wife a false ladyč, Whiche broughte me to this woe.

“Shee witch’d mee, being a faire yonge maide, In the green forest to dwelle; And there to abide in lothlye shape, Most like a fiend of helle.

“Midst mores and mosses; woods, and wilds; To lead a lonesome life: Till some yong faire and courtlye knighte Wolde marrye me to his wife:

“Nor fully to gaine mine owne trewe shape, Such was her devilish skille; Until he wolde yielde to be rul’d by mee, And let mee have all my wille.

“She witchd my brother to a carlish boore, And made him stiffe and stronge; And built him a bowre on magicke grounde, To live by rapine and wronge.

“But now the spelle is broken throughe, And wronge is turnde to righte; Henceforth I shall bee a faire ladyč, And hee be a gentle knighte.”

NOTES

1. Tearne-Wadling is the name of a small lake near Hesketh in Cumberland, on the road from Penrith to Carlisle. There is a tradition, that an old castle once stood near the lake, the remains of which were not long since visible. Tearn, in the dialect of that country, signifies a small lake, and is still in use. 2. This was a common phrase in our old writers; so Chaucer, in his Prologue to the Cant. Tales, says of the wife of Bath:

Her hosen were of fyne scarlet red.

III. King Ryence’s Challenge.

This song is more modern than many of those which follow it, but is placed here for the sake of the subject. It was sung before Queen Elizabeth at the grand entertainment at Kenilworth castle in 1575, and was probably composed for that occasion. In a letter describing those festivities it is thus mentioned: “A minstral came forth with a sollem song, warranted for story out of K. Arthur’s acts, whereof I gat a copy, and is this:

“So it fell out on a Pentecost, &c.”

After the song the narrative proceeds: “At this the minstrell made a pause and a curtezy for Primus Passus. More of the song is thear, but I gatt it not.” The story in Morte Arthur whence it is taken, runs as follows: “Came a messenger hastely from King Ryence of North Wales, saying,— that King Ryence had discomfited and overcomen eleaven kings, and everiche of them did him homage, and that was this: they gave him their beards cleane flayne off — wherefore the messenger came for King Arthur’s beard, for King Ryence had purfeled a mantell with kings beards, and there lacked for one a place of the mantell, wherefore he sent for his beard, or else he would enter into his lands, and brenn and slay, and never leave till he have thy head and thy beard. Well, said King Arthur, thou hast said thy message, which is the most villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent to a king. Also thou mayest see my beard is full young yet for to make a purfell of, but tell thou the king that — or it be long he shall do me homage on both his knees, or else he shall leese his head.” B. i. c. 24. See also the same romance, b. i. c. 92.] The thought seems to be originally taken from Jeff. Monmouth’s Hist. B. x. c. 3. which is alluded to by Drayton in his Poly-Olb. Song iv. and by Spenser in Faer. Queen vi. 1. 13, 15.— See the Observations on Spenser, vol. ii. p. 223. The following text is composed of the best readings selected from three different copies. The first in Enderbie’s Cambria Triumphans, p. 197. The second in the Letter above mentioned. And the third inserted in manuscript in a copy of Morte Arthur, 1632, in the Bodl. Library. Stow tells us, that King Arthur kept his round table at “diverse places, but especially at Carlion, Winchester, and Camalet in Somerset-shire.” This Camalet, “sometimes a famous towne or castle, is situate on a very high for or hill, &c.” See an exact description in Stow’s Annals, Ed. 1631, p. 55]

As it fell out on a Pentecost day, King Arthur at Camelot kept his court royall, With his faire queene Dame Guenever the gay; And many bold barons sitting in hall; With ladies attired in purple and pall; And heraults in hewkes, hooting on high, Cryed, Largesse, Largesse, Chevaliers tres-hardie.[1]

A doughty dwarfe to the uppermost dens Right pertlye gan pricke, kneeling on knee; With steven fulle stoute amids all the preas, Sayd, “Nowe sir King Arthur, God save thee and see! Sir Ryence of North-Gales greeteth well thee, And bids thee thy beard anon to him send, Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.

“For his robe of state is a rich scarlet mantle, With eleven kings beards bordered[2] about, And there is room lefte yet in a kantle, For thine to stande, to make the twelfth out: This must be done, be thou never so stout; This must be done, I tell thee no fable, Maugre the teethe of all thy round table.”

When this mortal message from his mouthe past, Great was the noyse bothe in hall and in bower: The king fum’d; the queene screecht; ladies were aghast; Princes puffd; barons blustred; lords began lower; Knights stormed: squires startled, like steeds in a stover; Pages and yeomen yell’d out in the hall, Then in came Sir Kay, the king’s seneschal.

“Silence, my soveraignes,” quoth this courteous knight, And in that stound the stowre began still: Then the dwarfe’s dinner full deerely was dight; Of wine and wassel he had his wille And, when he had eaten and drunken his fill, An hundred pieces of fine coyned gold Were given this dwarf for his message bold.

“But say to Sir Ryence, thou dwarf,” quoth the king, “That for his bold message I do him defye; And shortlye with basins and pans will him ring Out of North-Gales; where he and I With swords, and not razors, quickly shall trye, Whether he, or King Arthur will prove the best barbor;” And therewith he shook his good sword Escalŕbor.

- * * * * * * * * * * * *

- Strada, in his Prolusions, has ridiculed the story of the Giant’s Mantle, made of the beards of kings.

NOTES

1. Largesse, Largesse. The heralds resounded these words as oft as they received of the bounty of the knights. See Memoires de la Chevalerie, tom. i. p. 99.— The expression is still used in the form of installing knights of the garter. 2. i.e. set round the border, as furs are now round the gowns of Magistrates.

IV. King Arthur’s Death A FRAGMENT

The object of this ballad is evidently taken from the old romance Morte Arthur, but with some variations, especially in the concluding stanzas; in which the author seems rather to follow the traditions of the old Welsh bards, who “believed that King Arthur was not dead, but conveied awaie by the Fairies into some pleasant place, where he should remaine for a time, and then returne againe and reign in as great authority as ever.”— Holinshed, B. v. c. 14.; or, as it is expressed in an old Chronicle printed at Antwerp 1493, by Ger. de Leew, “The Bretons supposen, that he [K. Arthur] shall come yet and conquere all Bretaigne, for certes this is the prophicye of Merlyn: He sayd, that his deth shall be doubteous; and sayd soth, for men thereof yet have doubte, and shullen for ever more; for men wyt not whether that he lyveth or is dede.” See more ancient testimonies in Selden’s Notes on Poly Olbion, Song iii. This fragment, being very incorrect and imperfect in the original MS., hath received some conjectural emendations, and even a supplement of three or four stanzas composed from the romance of Morte Arthur.

- * * * * * * * * * * * *

ON Trinitye Mondaye in the morne, This sore battayle was doom’d to bee; Where manye a knighte cry’d, WeIl-awaye! Alacke, it was the more pittie.

Ere the first crowinge of the cocke, When as the kinge in his bed laye, He thoughte Sir Gawaine to him came,[1] And there to him these wordes did saye.

“Nowe, as you are mine unkle deare, And as you prize your life, this daye O meet not with your foe in fighte; Putt off the battayle, if yee maye.

“For Sir Launcelot is nowe in Fraunce, And with him many an hardye knighte: Who will within this moneth be backe, And will assiste yee in the fighte.”

The king then call’d his nobles all, Before the breakinge of the daye; And tolde them howe Sir Gawaine came, And there to him these wordes did saye.

His nobles all this counsayle gave, That earlye in the morning, hee Shold send awaye an herauld at armes, To aske a parley faire and free.

Then twelve good knightes King Arthur chose, The best of all that with him were: To parley with the foe in field, And make with him agreement faire.

The king he charged all his hoste, In readinesse there for to bee: But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, Unlesse a sword drawne they shold see.

And Mordred, on the other parte, Twelve of his knights did likewise bringe; The beste of all his companye, To hold the parley with the kinge.

Sir Mordred alsoe charged his hoste, In readinesse there for to bee; But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, But if a sworde drawne they shold see.

For he durste not his unkle truste, Nor he his nephewe, sothe to tell: Alacke! it was a woefulle case, As ere in Christentye befelle.

But when they were together mette, And both to faire accordance broughte; And a month’s league betweene them sette, Before the battayle sholde be foughte;

An addere crept forth of a bushe, Stunge one o’ th’ king’s knightes on the knee: Alacke! it was a woefulle chance, As ever was in Christentie.

When the knighte found him wounded sore, And sawe the wild-worme hanginge there; His sworde he from his scabberde drewe; A piteous case, as ye shall heare.

For when the two hostes sawe the sworde, They joyned battayle instantlye; Till of soe manye noble knightes, On one side there were left but three.

For all were slain that durst abide, And but some fewe that fled awaye: Ay mee! it was a bloodye fielde, As ere was foughte on summer’s daye.

Upon King Arthur’s own partyč, Onlye himselfe escaped there, And Lukyn Duke of Gloster free, And the king’s butler Bedevere.

And when the king beheld his knightes, All dead and scattered on the molde; The teares fast trickled downe his face; That manlye face in fight so bolde.

“Nowe reste yee all, brave knights,” he said, “Soe true and faithful to your trust: And must yee then, ye valiant hearts, Be lefte to moulder into dust!

“Most loyal have yee been to mee, Most true and faithful unto deathe: And, oh! to rayse yee up againe, How freelye could I yield my breathe!

“But see the traitor’s yet alive, Lo where hee stalkes among the deade! Nowe bitterlye he shall abye: And vengeance fall upon his head.”

“O staye, my liege,” then sayd the duke; “O staye for love and charitěe; Remember what the vision spake, Nor meete your foe, if it may bee.”

“O staye mee not, thou worthye wight, This debt my loyal knights I owe: Betide me life, betide me death, I will avenge them of their foe.”

Then straite he grasp’d his trustye speare, And on his horse then mounted hee: As his butler holpe him to his horse, His bowels gushed to his knee.

“Alas!” then sayd the noble king, “That I should live this sight to see To see this good knight here be slaine, All for his love in helping mee!”

He put his speare into his reste, And to Sir Mordred loud gan crye; “Nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde, For, traitor, nowe thy death is nye.”

Sir Mordred lifted up his sworde, And fierce to meet the king ran hee: The king his speare he through him thrust; A fathom thorow his boděe.

When Mordred felt the stroke of death, And found that he was wounded soe; He thruste himselfe upon the speare, And strucke the king a deadlye blowe.

Then grimmlye dyed Sir Mordered, Presentlye upon that tree: And bloody streames ranne from the kinge Ere to the duke returned hee.

Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake, “Sir knighte, thou hast beene faithfulle tryde, Nowe take my sword Excalibar,[2] That hangs so freelye by my syde:

“O take my sword Excalibar, And there into the river throwe: For here, henceforth, benethe this tree, All use of weapons I foregoe.

“And fare thee well, thou trustye sword, A better neer had valiant knighte, With thee full ofte, and manye a daye, Have I withstood my foe in fighte.

“With this good fauchion in my hande, Oft have I reapd the bloody feelde: But nowe the fatalle houre is come, That never more I may thee weelde.”

The duke to the river side he went, And there his owne sword in threwe he: But he kept back Excalibar, He kept it back in privitie.

For all of coleyne was the blade; And all the hilte of precious stone; “And ever alacke!” then sayd the knighte, “Must such a sword awaye be throwne?”

Then backe he came unto the kinge, Who sayd, “Sir Lukyn, what did yee see?” “Nothing, my liege, save that the winde Blewe oer the waters faire and free.”

“O goe againe,” then said the kinge, “O good Sir Lukyn, goe againe Into the rivere throwe my sword, Nor keepe me lingering here in paine.”

The duke then to the river went, And the kings scabberd in threwe hee; But hee kept backe Excalibar, And hid it undernethe a tree.

Then backe he came to tell the kinge, Who sayde, “Sir Lukyn, sawe ye oughte? Nothinge, my liege, save that the winde Nowe with the angrye waters fought.”

“O Lukyn, Lukyn,” said the kinge, “Twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye: Alacke, whom may wee ever truste, When suche a knighte soe false can bee?

“Saye, wouldst thou have thy master dead, All for a sword, that wins thine eye? Nowe goe againe, and throwe it in, Or here the one of us shall dye.”

The duke, all shent with this rebuke, No aunswere made unto the kinge: But to the rivere tooke the sworde, And threwe it far as he coulde flinge.

A hande and an arme did meete the sworde, And flourishd three times in the air; Then sunke benethe the renninge streme, And of the duke was seene noe mair.

All sore astonied stood the duke; He stood as still, as still mote bee: Then hastend backe to telle the kinge; But he was gone from under the tree.

But to what place he cold not tell, For never after hee did him spye: But hee saw a barge goe from the land, And hee heard ladyes howle and crye.[3]

And whether the kinge were there, or not, Hee never knewe, nor ever colde: For from that sad and direfulle daye, Hee never more was seene on molde.

NOTES

1. Sir Gawaine had been killed at Arthur’s landing on his return from abroad.— See the next Ballad, v. 73. 2. More commonly called Caliburn. In the folio MS. Escalberd. 3 Not unlike that passage in Virgil:

“Summoque ulularunt vertice nymphć.”

Ladies was the word our old English writers used for nymphs: as in the following lines of an old song in the Editor’s folio MS.

“When scorching Phoebus he did mount, Then Lady Venus went to hunt: To whom Diana did resort, With all the Ladyes of hills, and valleys, Of springs, and floodes,” &c.

V. The Legend of King Arthur.

We have here a short summary of King Arthur’s History as given by Jeff. of Monmouth and the old Chronicles, with the addition of a few circumstances from the romance Morte Arthur. The ancient Chronicle of Ger. de Leew (quoted above) seems to have been chiefly followed: upon the authority of which we have restored some of the names which were corrupted in the manuscript, and have transposed one stanza, which appeared to be misplaced, [viz, that beginning at v. 49, which in the manuscript followed v. 36.] Printed from the Editor’s ancient folio MS.

OF Brutus blood, in Brittaine borne, King Arthur I am to name; Through Christendome, and Heathynesse, Well knowne is my worthy fame.

In Jesus Christ I doe beleeve; I am a christyan bore: The Father, Sone, and Holy Gost One God,I doe adore.

In the four hundred ninetieth yeere,[1] Over Brittaine I did rayne, After my savior Christ his byrth: What time I did maintaine

The fellowshipp of the table round, Soe famous in those dayes; Whereatt a hundred noble knights, And thirty sat alwayes:

Who for their deeds and martiall feates, As bookes done yett record, Amongst all other nations Wer feared throwgh the world.

And in the castle off Tyntagill King Uther mee begate Of Agyana[2] a bewtyous ladye, And come of hie estate.

And when I was fifteen yeere old, Then was I crowned kinge: All Brittaine that was att an uprňre, I did to quiett bringe.

And drove the Saxons from the realme, Who had opprest this land; All Scotland then throughe manly feats I conquered with my hand.

Ireland, Denmarke, Norway, These countryes wan I all; Iseland, Gotheland, and Swethland; And made their kings my thrall.

I conquered all Gallya, That now is called France; And slew the hardye Froll in field[3] My honor to advance.

And the ugly gyant Dynabus Soe terrible to vewe, That in Saint Barnards mount did lye, By force of armes I slew:

And Lucyus the emperour of Rome I brought to deadly wracke; And a thousand more of noble knightes For feare did turne their backe:

Five kinges of paynims I did kill Amidst that bloody strife; Besides the Grecian emperour Who alsoe lost his life.

Whose carcasse I did send to Rome Cladd poorlye on a beere; And afterward I past Mount-Joye The next approaching yeere.

Then I came to Rome, where I was mett Right as a conquerour, And by all the cardinalls solempnelye I was crowned an emperour.

One winter there I made abode: Then word to mee was brought Howe Mordred had oppressd the crowne: What treason he had wrought

Att home in Brittaine with my queene; Therfore I came with speede To Brittaine backe, with all my power, To quitt that traiterous deede:

And soone at Sandwiche I arrivde, Where Mordred me withstoode: But yett at last I landed there, With effusion of much blood.

For there my nephew Sir Gawaine dyed, Being wounded in that sore, The whiche Sir Lancelot in fight Had given him before.

Thence chased I Mordered away, Who fledd to London right, From London to Winchester, and To Cornewalle tooke his flyght.

And still I him pursued with speed Till at the last wee mett: Wherby an appointed day of fight Was there agreed and sett.

Where we did fight, of mortal life Eche other to deprive, Till of a hundred thousand men Scarce one was left alive.

There all the noble chivalrye Of Brittaine tooke their end. O see how fickle is their state That doe on fates depend!

There all the traiterous men were slaine, Not one escapte away; And there dyed all my vallyant knightes. Alas! that woefull day!

Two and twenty yeere I ware the crowne In honor and great fame; And thus by death was suddenlye Deprived of the same.

NOTES

1. He began his reign A.D. 515, according to the Chronicles. 2. She is named Igerna in the old Chronicles. 3. Froll, according to the Chronicles, was a Roman knight, governor of Gaul.

VI. A Dyttie to Hey Downe.

Copied from an old manuscript in the Cotton Library [Vesp. A. 25.], intitled, “Divers Things of Hen. viij’s Time.”

WHO seeks to tame the blustering winde, Or causse the floods bend to his wyll, Or els against dame nature’s kinde To change things frame by cunning skyll: That man I thinke bestoweth paine, Thoughe that his laboure be in vaine.

Who strives to breake the sturdye steele, Or goeth about to staye the sunne; Who thinks to causse an oke to reele, Which never can by force be done: That man likewise bestoweth paine, Thoughe that his laboure be in vaine.

Who thinks to stryve against the streame, And for to sayle without a maste; Unlesse he thinks perhapps to faine, His travell ys forelorne and waste; And so in cure of all his paine, His travell ys his cheffest gaine.

So he lykewise, that goes about To please eche eye and every eare, Had nede to have withouten doubt A golden gyft with hym to beare; For evyll report shall be his gaine, Though he bestowe both toyle and paine.

God grant eche man one to amend; God send us all a happy place; And let us pray unto the end, That we may have our princes grace: Amen, amen! so shall we gaine A dewe reward for all our paine.

VII. Glasgerion.

An ingenious friend thinks that the following old ditty, (which is printed from the Editor’s folio MS.), may possibly have given birth to the tragedy of The Orphan, in which Polidore intercepts Monimia’s intended favours to Castalio. See what is said concerning the hero of this song, who is celebrated by Chaucer under the name of Glaskyrion, in the Essay prefixed to vol. i. Note (H), Part iv. (2.)

GLASGERION was a kings owne sonne, And a harper he was goode: He harped in the kinges chambere, Where cuppe and caudle stoode.

And soe did hee in the queens chamber, Till ladies waxed glad. And then bespake the kinges daughter; And these wordes thus shee sayd.

“Strike on, strike on, Glasgerion, Of thy striking doe not blinne: Theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe, But it glads my hart withinne.”

“Faire might he fall, ladye,” quoth hee, “Who taught you nowe to speake! I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere My minde I neere durst breake.”

“But come to my bower, my Glasgerion, When all men are att rest: As I am a ladie true of my promise, Thou shalt bee a welcome guest.”

Home then came Glasgčrion, A glad man, lord! was hee. “And, come thou hither, Jacke my boy; Come hither unto mee.”

“For the kinges daughter of Normandye Hath granted mee my boone: And att her chambre must I bee Beffore the cocke have crowen.”

“O master, master,” then quoth hee, “Lay your head downe on this stone: For I will waken you, master deere, Afore it be time to gone.”

But up then rose that lither ladd, And hose and shoone did on: A coller he cast upon his necke, Hee seemed a gentleman.

And when he came to the ladies chamber, He thrild upon a pinn.[1] The lady was true of her promise, Rose up and lett him in.

He did not take the lady gaye To boulster nor to bed: Nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille, A single word he sed.

He did not kisse that ladyes mouthe, Nor when he came, nor yode: And sore mistrusted that ladye gay, He was of some churls bloud.

But home then came that lither ladd, And did off his hose and shoone; And cast the coller from off his necke: He was but a churles sonne.

“Awake, awake,” my deere master, “The cock hath well-nigh crowen. Awake, awake, my master deere, I hold it time to be gone.

“For I have saddled your horsse, mastčr, Well bridled I have your steede: And I have served you a good breakfast: For thereof ye have need.”

Up then rose good Glasgerion, And did on hose and shoone; And cast a coller about his necke: For he was a kinge his sonne.

And when he came to the ladyes chamber, He thrild upon the pinne: The ladye was more than true of promise, And rose and let him inn.

“O whether have you left with me Your bracelett or your glove? Or are you returned backe againe To know more of my love?”

Glasgerion swore a full great othe, “By oake, and ashe, and thorne; Lady, I was never in your chamber, Sith the time that I was borne.”

“O then it was your lither foot-page, He hath beguiled mee.” Then shee pulled forth a litle pen-kněffe, That hanged by her knee:

Sayes, “there shall never noe churlčs blood Within my bodye spring: No churles blood shall ever defile The daughter of a kinge.”

Home then went Glasgerion, And woe, good lord, was hee. Sayes, “come thou hither, Jacke my boy, Come hither unto mee.

“If I had killed a man to-night, Jacke, I would tell it thee: But if I have not killed a man to night, Jacke, thou hast killed three.”

And he puld out his bright browne sword, And dryed it on his sleeve, And he smote off that lither ladds head, Who did his ladye grieve.

He sett the swords poynt till his brest, The pummil untill a stone: Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd, These three lives werte all gone.

NOTES

1. This is elsewhere expressed ‘twirled the pin,’ or ‘tirled at the pin’ and seems to refer to the turning round the button on the outside of a door, by which the latch rises, still used in cottages.

VIII. Old Robin of Portingale.

From an ancient copy in the Editor’s folio manuscript, which was judged to require considerable corrections. In the former Edition the hero of this piece had been called Sir Robin; but that title not being in the manuscript is now omitted.

LET never againe soe old a man Marrye soe yonge a wife, As did old Robin of Portingale; Who may rue all the dayes of his life.

For the mayors daughter of Lin, god wott, He chose her to his wife, And thought with her to have lived in love But they fell to hate and strife.

They scarce were in their wed-bed laid, And scarce was hee asleepe, But upp shee rose, and forth shee goes, To the steward, and gan to weepe.

“Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles? Or be you not within? Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles? Arise and let me inn.”

“O, I am waking, sweete,” he said, “Sweete ladye, what is your will? I have unbethought[1] me of a wile How my wed-lord weell spill.”

“Twenty-four good knights,” shee sayes, “That dwell about this towne, Even twenty-four of my next cozens, Will helpe to dinge him downe.”

All that beheard his litle footepage, As he watered his masters steed; And for his masters sad perělle His verry heart did bleed.

He mourned still, and wept full sore; I sweare by the holy roode The teares he for his master wept Were blent water and bloude.

And that beheard his deare master As he stood at his garden pale: Sayes, “Ever alacke, my litle foot-page, What causes thee to wail?

“Hath any one done to thee wronge, Any of thy fellowes here? Or is any of thy good friends dead, That thou shedst manye a teare?

“Or, if it be my head bookes-man, Aggrieved he shal bee: For no man here within my howse, Shall doe wrong unto thee.”

“O, it is not your head bookes-man, Nor none of his degree: But, on to-morrow, ere it be noone All deemed to die are yee.

“And of that bethank your head stewŕrd, And thank your gay ladye.” “If this be true, my litle foot-page, The heyre of my land thoust bee.”

“If it be not true, my dear master, No good death let me die.” “If it be not true, thou litle foot-page, A dead corse shalt thou lie.

“O call now downe my faire ladye, O call her downe to mee: And tell my ladye gay how sicke, And like to die I bee.”

Downe then came his ladye faire, All clad in purple and pall: The rings that were on her fingčrs, Cast light thorrow the hall.

“What is your will, my own wed-lord? What is your will with mee?” “O see, my ladye deere, how sicke, And like to die I bee.”

“And thou be sicke, my own wed-lord, Soe sore it grieveth me: But my five maydens and myselfe Will watch thy bedde for thee.

“And at the waking of your first sleepe, We will a hott drinke make: And at the waking of your next sleepe, Your sorrowes we will slake.”

He put a silke cote on his backe, And mail of manye a fold: And hee putt a steele cap on his head, Was gilt with good red gold.

He layd a bright browne sword by his side, And another att his feete: And twentye good-knights he placed at hand, To watch him in his sleepe.

And about the middle time of the night, Came twentye-four traitours inn: Sir Giles he was the foremost man, The leader of that ginn.

Old Robin with his bright browne sword, Sir Gyles head soon did winn: And scant of all those twenty-four, Went out one quick agenn.

None save only a litle foot page, Crept forth at a window of stone: And he had two armes when he came in, And he went back with one.

Upp then came that ladie gaye With torches burning bright: She thought to have brought Sir Gyles a drinke, Butt she found her owne wedd knight.

The first thinge that she stumbled on It was Sir Gyles his foote: Sayes, “Ever alacke, and woe is mee! Here lyes my sweet hart-roote.”

“The next thinge that she stumbled on It was Sir Gyles his heade: Sayes, “Ever alacke, and woe is me! Heere lyes my true love deade.”

He cutt the pappes beside her brest, And did her body spille; He cutt the eares beside her heade, And bade her love her fille.

He called then up his litle foot-page, And made him there his heyre; And sayd, “Henceforth my worldlye goodes And countrye I forsweare.”

He shope the crosse on his right shoulder, Of the white clothe and the redde,[2] And went him into the holy land, Wheras Christ was quicke and dead.

? In the foregoing piece, Giles, steward to a rich old merchant trading to Portugal, is qualified with the title of “Sir,” not as being a knight, but rather, I conceive, as having received an inferior order of priesthood.

NOTES

1. unbethought: [properly onbethought.] This word is still used in the midland counties in the same sense as bethought. 2. Every person, who went on a Croisade to the Holy Land, usually wore a cross on his upper garment, on the right shoulder, as a badge of his profession. Different nations were distinguished by crosses of different colours: the English wore white; the French red, &c. This circumstance seems to be confounded in the ballad. [V. Spelman, Gloss.]

IX. Child Waters.

Child is frequently used by our old writers, as a title. It is repeatedly given to Prince Arthur in the Faerie Queen; and the son of a king is in the same poem called Child Tristram. (B. v. c. 11. st. 8. 13.— B. vi. c. 2. st. 36.— ibid. c. 8. st. 15.) In an old ballad, quoted in Shakspeare’s King Lear, the hero of Ariosto is called Child Roland. Mr. Theobald supposes this use of the word was received along with their romances from the Spaniards, with whom Infante signifies a Prince. A more eminent critic tells us, that “in the old times of chivalry, the noble youth, who were candidates for knighthood, during the time of their probation, were called Infans, Varlets, Damoysels, Bacheliers. The most noble of the youth were particularly called Infans.” (See Warb. Shaksp.) A late commentator on Spenser observes, that the Saxon word Cnihz, Knight, signifies also a Child. [See Upton’s Gloss. to the Faerie Queen.] The Editor’s folio manuscript, whence the following piece is taken, with some corrections, affords several other ballads, wherein the word Child occurs as a title: but in none of these it signifies Prince. See the song intitled Gil Morrice, in this volume. It ought to be observed, that the word Child or Chield is still used in North Britain to denominate a Man, commonly with some contemptuous character affixed to him, but sometimes to denote man in general.

CHYLDE WATERS in his stable stoode And stroakt his milke white steede: To him a fayre yonge ladye came As ever ware womans weede.

Sayes, “Christ you save, good Childe Waters;” Sayes, “Christ you save, and see: My girdle of gold that was too longe, Is now too short for mee.

“And all is with one chyld of yours, I feel sturre att my side: My gowne of greene it is too straighte; Before, it was too wide.”

“If the child be mine, faire Ellen,” he sayd, “Be mine, as you tell mee; Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, Take them your owne to bee.

“If the childe be mine, fair Ellen,” he sayd, “Be mine, as you doe sweare; Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, And make that child your heyre.”

Shee sayes, “I had rather have one kisse, Child Waters, of thy mouth; Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, That lye by north and south.

“And I had rather have one twinkling, Childe Waters, of thine ee; Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, To take them mine owne to bee.”

“To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde, Farr into the north countrie; The fairest lady that I can find, Ellen, must goe with mee.”

“Thoughe I am not that lady fayre, Yet let me go with thee: And ever I pray you, Child Waters, Your foot-page let me bee.”

“If you will my foot-page be, Ellen, As you doe tell to mee; Then you must cut your gowns of greene, An inch above your knee:

“Soe must you doe your yellow lockes, An inch above your ee: You must tell no man what is my name; My foot-page then you shall bee.”

Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, Ran barefoote by his side; Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, To say, “Ellen, will you ryde?”

Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, Ran barefoote thorow the broome; Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, To say, “put on your shoone.”

“Ride softlye,” shee sayd, “O Childe Waters, Why doe you ryde soe fast? The childe, which is no mans but thine, My bodye itt will brast.”

Hee sayth, “seeth thou yonder water, Ellen, That flows from bank to brimme?”— “I trust to God, O Child Waters, You never will see[1] mee swimme.”

But when shee came to the waters side, Shee sayled to the chinne: “Nowe the Lord of heaven be my speed, Now must I learne to swimme.”

The salt waters bare up her clothes; Our Ladye bare upp her chinne: Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, To see faire Ellen swimme.

And when shee over the water was, Shee then came to his knee: He said, “Come hither, thou fair Ellen, Loe yonder what I see.

“Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd gold shines the yate; Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, The fairest is my mate.

“Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd gold shines the towre: There are twenty four fair ladyes there, The fairest is my paramoure.”

“I see the hall now, Child Waters, Of redd golde shines the yate: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your worthye mate.

“I see the hall now, Child Waters, Of redd gold shines the towre: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your paramoure.”

There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playing att the ball: And Ellen the fairest ladye there, Must bring his steed to the stall.

There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playinge at the chesse; And Ellen the fayrest ladye there, Must bring his horse to gresse.

And then bespake Childe Waters sister, These were the wordes said shee: “You have the prettyest foot-page, brother, That ever I did see.”

“But that his bellye it is soe bigg, His girdle goes wonderous hie: And let him, I pray you, Childe Waters, Goe into the chamber with mee.”

“It is not fit for a little foot-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, To go into the chamber with any ladye, That weares soe riche attyre.

“It is more meete for a litle foot-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, To take his supper upon his knee, And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.”

But when they had supped every one, To bedd they tooke theyr waye He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, And hearken what I saye.

“Goe thee downe into yonder towne, And low into the street; The fayrest ladye that thou can finde, Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,

“And take her up in thine armes twaine, For filinge[2] of her feete.” Ellen is gone into the towne, And low into the streete:

The fairest ladye that she cold find, Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; And tooke her up in her armes twayne, For filing of her feete.

“I pray you nowe, good Childe Waters, Let mee lye at your bedds feete: For there is noe place about this house, Where I may ‘saye[3] a sleepe.”

He gave her leave, and faire Ellen, Down at his beds feet laye: This done the nighte drove on apace, And when it was neare the daye,

Hee sayd, “Rise up, my litle foot-page, Give my steede corne and haye; And soe doe thou the good black oats, To carry mee better awaye.”

Up then rose the faire Ellen, And gave his steede corne and hay: And soe shee did the good blacke oats, To carry him the better away.

Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, And grievouslye did groane: Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, And there shee made her moane.

And that beheard his mother deere, Shee heard her there monand.[4] Shee sayd, “Rise up, thou Childe Waters, I think thee a cursed man.

“For in thy stable is a ghost, That grievouslye doth grone: Or else some woman laboures of childe, She is soe woe-begone.”

Up then rose Childe Waters soon, And did on his shirte of silke; And then he put on his other clothes, On his body as white as milke.

And when he came to the stable dore, Full still there hee did stand, That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen Howe shee made her monand.

Shee sayd, “Lullabye, mine owne deere child, Lullabye, dere child, dere; I wold thy father were a king, Thy mother layd on a biere.”

“Peace now,” he said, “good faire Ellen,” “Be of good cheere, I praye; And the bridal and the churching both Shall bee upon one day.”

We are informed that the German poet Bürger has translated this poem with much grace, and entitles it Graf Walter. Bger has also translated “King John and the Abbot of Canterbury” as Der Kaiser ubd der Abt, and “The Child of Elle” as Die Entführung.— Editor NOTES

1. i.e. permit, suffer, &c. 2. i.e. defiling, See Warton’s Observ. vol. ii. p. 158. 3. i.e. essay, attempt. 4. i.e. moaning, bemoaning, &c.

X. Phillida and Corydon.

This sonnet is given from a small quarto MS. in the Editor’s possession, written in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Another copy of it, containing some variations, is reprinted in the Muses Library, p. 295, from an ancient miscellany, intitled England’s Helicon, 1600, 4to. The author was Nicholas Breton, a writer of some fame in the reign of Elizabeth; who also published an interlude intitled “An old man’s lesson and a young man’s love,” 4to, and many other little pieces in prose and verse, the titles of which may be seen in Winstanley, Ames’ Typog. and Osborne’s Harl. Catalog. &c. He is mentioned with great respect by Meres, in his second part of Wit’s Commonwealth, 1598, f. 283, and is alluded to in Beaumont and Fletcher’s Scornful Lady, Act ii. and again in Wit without Money, Act iii.— See Whalley’s Ben Jonson, vol. iii. p. 103. The present edition is improved by a copy in England’s Helicon, edit. 1614. 8vo.

IN the merrie moneth of Maye, In a morne by break of daye, With a troupe of damselles playing Forthe I yode forsooth a maying:

When anon by a wood side, Where as Maye was in his pride, I espied all alone Phillida and Corydon.

Much adoe there was, god wot; He wold love, and she wold not. She sayde, “Never man was trewe;” He says, “None was false to you.”

He sayde, hee had lovde her longe: She sayes, love should have no wronge. Corydon wold kisse her then: She sayes, “Maydes must kisse no men,

“Tyll they doe for good and all.” When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe, Never loved a truer youthe.

Then with manie a prettie othe, Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe; Suche as seelie shepperdes use When they will not love abuse,

Love, that had bene long deluded, Was with kisses sweete concluded; And Phillida with garlands gaye Was made the lady of the Maye.

- The foregoing little pastoral of Phillida and Corydon is one of the songs in “The honourable Entertainment gieven to the Queen’s Majestie in Progresse at Elvetham in Hampshire, by the R. H. the Earle of Hertford,” 1591, 4to. [Printed by Wolfe. No name of author.] See in that pamphlet,

“The Thirde Daies Entertainment.

“On Wednesday morning about nine o’clock, as her Majestie opened a casement of her gallerie window, ther were three excellent musitians, who being disguised in auncient country attire, did greet her with a pleasant song of Corydon and Phillida, made in three parts for that purpose. The song, as well for the worth of the dittie, as the aptnesse of the note thereto applied, it pleased her Highnesse after it had been once sung to command it againe, and highly to grace it with her cheerefull acceptance and commendation.

“THE PLOWMAN’S SONG.

“In the merrie month of May, &c.”

The splendour and magnificence of Elizabeth’s reign is no where more strongly painted than in these little diaries of some of her summer excursions to the houses of her nobility; nor could a more acceptable present be given to the world, than a republication of a select number of such details as this of the Entertainment at Elvetham, that at Killing-worth, &c. &c. which so strongly mark the spirit of the times, and present us with scenes so very remote from modern manners. ? Since the above was written, the public hath been gratified with a most complete work on the foregoing subject, intitled, The Progresses and Public Processions of Queen Elizabeth, &c. By John Nichols, F.A.S. Edinb. and Perth, 1788, 2 vols. 4to.

XI. Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard.

This ballad is ancient, and has been popular; We find it quoted in many old plays.— See Beaum. and Fletcher’s Knight of the Burning Pestle, 4to. 1613, Act 5. The Varietie, a comedy, 12mo. 1649, Act iv. &c. In Sir William Davenant’s play, The Witts, Act iii. a gallant thus boasts of himself:

“Limber and sound! besides I sing Musgrave, And for Chevy-chace no lark comes near me.”

In the Pepys Collection, vol. iii. p. 314, is an imitation of this old song, in thirty-three stanzas, by a more modern pen, with many alterations, but evidently for the worse. This is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, with corrections; some of which are from a fragment in the Editor’s folio manuscript. It is also printed in Dryden’s Collection of Miscellanous Poems.

As it fell out on a highe holye daye, As many bee in the yeare, When young men and maides together do goe, Their masses and mattins to heare,

Little Musgrave came to the church door, The priest was at the mass; But he had more mind of the fine women, Then he had of our Ladyes grace.

And some of them were clad in greene, And others were clad in pall; And then came in my Lord Barnardes wife, The fairest among them all.

Shee cast an eye on little Musgrave, As bright as the summer sunne: O then bethought him little Musgrave, “This ladyes heart I have wonne.”

Quoth she, “I have loved thee, little Musgrave, Fulle long and manye a daye.” “So have I loved you, ladye faire, Yet word I never durst saye.”

“I have a bower at Bucklesford-Bury, Full daintilye bedight, If thoult wend thither, my little Musgrŕve, Thoust lig in mine armes all night.”

Quoth hee, “I thanke yee, ladye faire, This kindness yee shew to mee; And whether it be to my weale or woe, This night will I lig with thee.”

All this beheard a litle foot-page, By his ladyes coach as he ranne: Quoth he, “Thoughe I am my ladyes page, Yet Ime my Lord Barnardes manne.

“My Lord Barnard shall knowe of this, Although I lose a limbe.” And ever whereas the bridges were broke, He layd him downe to swimme.

“Asleep or awake, thou Lord Barnard, As thou art a man of life, Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury Little Musgrave’s in bed with thy wife.”

“If it be trew, thou title foote-page, This tale thou hast told to mee, Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury I freelye will give to thee.

“But and it be a lye, thou litle foot-page, This tale thou hast told to mee, On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury All hanged shalt thou bee.

“Rise up, rise up, my merry men all, And saddle me my good steede; This night must I to Bucklesford-Bury; God wott, I had never more neede.”

Then some they whistled, and some they sang, And some did loudlye saye, Whenever Lord Barnardes horne it blewe, “Awaye, Musgrave, away.”

“Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke, Methinkes I heare the jay, Methinkes I heare Lord Barnards horne; I would I were awaye.”

“Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgrave, And huggle me from the cold; For it is but some shephardes boye A whistling his sheepe to the fold.

“Is not thy hawke upon the pearche, Thy horse eating corne and haye? And thou a gay lady within thine armes, And wouldst thou be awaye?”

By this, Lord Barnard was come to the dore, And lighted upon a stone: And he pulled out three silver keyes, And opened the dores eche one.

He lifted up the coverlett, He lifted up the sheete; “How now, how now, thou little Musgrave, Dost find my gaye ladye sweete?”

“I find her sweete, quoth little Musgrave, The more is my griefe and paine; Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes That I were on yonder plaine.”

“Arise, arise, thou little Musgrave, And put thy cloathes nowe on, It shall never be said in my countree, That I killed a naked man.

“I have two swordes in one scabbards, Full deare they cost my purse; And thou shalt have the best of them, And I will have the worst.”

The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke, He hurt Lord Barnard sore; The next stroke that Lord Barnard strucke, Little Musgrave never strucke more.

With that bespake the ladye faire, In bed whereas she laye, “Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgrave, Yet for thee I will praye:

“And wishe well to thy soule will I, So long as I have life; So will I not do for thee, Barnard, Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.”

He cut her pappes from off her brest; Great pitye it was to see The drops of this fair ladyes bloode Run trickling down her knee.

“Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merry men all, You never were borne for my goode: Why did you not offer to staye my hande, When you sawe me wax so woode?

“For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte, That ever rode on a steede; So have I done the fairest lady, That ever ware womans weede.

“A grave, a grave,” Lord Barnard cryde, To putt these lovers in; “But lay my ladye o’ the upper hande, For shee comes o’ the better kin.”

? That the more modern copy is to be dated about the middle of the last century, will be readily conceived from the tenor of the concluding stanza, viz.

This sad Mischief by Lust was wrought; Then let us call for Grace, That we may shun the wicked vice And fly from Sin a-pace.

XII. The Ew-Bughts Marion.

A SCOTTISH SONG

This sonnet appears to be ancient: that and its simplicity of sentiment have recommended it to a place here.

WILL ze gae to the ew-bughts, Marion, And wear in the sheip wi’ mee? The sun shines sweit, my Marion, But nae half sae sweit as thee. O Marion’s a bonnie lass; And the blyth blinks in her ee: And fain wad I marrie Marion, Gin Marion wad marrie mee.

Theire’s gowd in zour garters, Marion; And siller on zour white hauss-bane:[1] Fou faine wad I kisse my Marion At eene quhan I cum hame. Theire’s braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, Quha gape and glowr wi’ their ee At kirk, quhan they see my Marion; Bot nane of them lues like mee.

Ive nine milk-ews, my Marion, A cow and a brawney quay; Ise gie tham au to my Marion, Just on her bridal day. And zees get a grein sey apron, And waistcote o’ London broun; And wow bot ze will be vaporing Quhaneir ze gang to the toun.

Ime yong and stout, my Marion, None dance lik mee on the greine; And gin ze forsake me, Marion, Ise een gae draw up wi’ Jeane. Sae put on zour pearlins, Marion, And kirtle oth’ cramasie, And sune as my chin has nae haire on, I sall cum west, and see zee.

NOTES

1. Hauss-bane, i.e. the neck-bone. Marion had probably a silver locket on, tied close to her neck with a riband, a usual ornament in Scotland; where a sore throat is called “a sair hause,” properly halse.

XIII. The Knight and Shepherd’s Daughter.

This ballad, given from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections, was popular in the time of Queen Elizabeth, being usually printed with her picture before it, as Hearne informs us in his preface to Gul. Newbrig, Hist. Oxon. 1719, 8vo. vol. i. p. lxx. It is quoted in Fletcher’s comedy of The Pilgrim, Act iv. sc. 1. [1]

THERE was a shepherds daughter Came tripping on the waye; And there by chance a knighte shee mett, Which caused her to staye.

“Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,” These words pronounced hee “O I shall dye this daye,” he sayd, “If Ive not my wille of thee.”

“The Lord forbid,” the maide replyde, That you shold waxe so wode!” But for all that shee could do or saye, He wold not be withstood.

“Sith you have had your wille of mee, And put me to open shame, Now, if you are a courteous knighte, Tell me what is your name?”

“Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart, And some do call mee Jille; But when I come to the kings faire courte They call me Wilfulle Wille.”

He sett his foot into the stirrup, And awaye then he did ride; She tuckt her girdle about her middle, And ranne close by his side.

But when she came to the brode water, She sett her brest and swamme; And when she was got out againe, She tooke to her heels and ranne.

He never was the courteous knighte, To saye, “faire maide, will ye ride?” And she was ever too loving a maide To saye, “Sir knighte, abide.”

When she came to the kings faire courte, She knocked at the ring; So readye was the king himself To let this faire maide in.

“Now Christ you save, my gracious liege, Now Christ you save and see, You have a knighte within your courte, This daye hath robbed mee.”

“What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? Of purple or of pall? Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring From off thy finger small?”

“He hath not robbed mee, my liege, Of purple nor of pall: But he hath gotten my maiden-head, Which grieves mee worst of all.”

“Now if he be a batchelor, His bodye Ile give to thee;[2] But if he be a married man, High hanged he shall bee.

He called downe his merrye men all, By one, by two, by three; Sir William used to bee the first, But nowe the last came hee.

He brought her downe full fortye pounde, Tyed up withinne a glove: “Faire maide, Ile give the same to thee; Go, seeke thee another love.”

“O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde, Nor Ile have none of your fee; But your faire bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee.”

“Sir William ranne and fetchd her then Five hundred pound in golde, Saying, faire maide, take this to thee, Thy fault will never be tolde.”

“Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt, These words then answered shee, But your own bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee.”

“Would I had dranke the water cleare, When I did drinke the wine, Rather than any shepherds brat Shold bee a ladye of mine!

“Would I had drank the puddle foule, When I did drink the ale, Rather than ever a shepherds brat Shold tell me such a tale!”

“A shepherds brat even as I was, You mote have let me bee, I never had come to the kings faire courte, To crave any love of thee.”

He sett her on a milk-white steede, And himself upon a graye; He hung a bugle about his necke, And soe they rode awaye.

But when they came unto the place, Where marriage-rites were done, She proved herself a dukes daughter, And he but a squires sonne.

“Now marrye me, or not, sir knight, Your pleasure shall be free: If you make me ladye of one good towne, Ile make you lord of three.”

“Ah! cursed bee the gold,” he sayd, “If thou hadst not been trewe, I shold have forsaken my sweet love, And have changed her for a newe.”

And now their hearts being linked fast, They joyned hand in hande: Thus he had both purse, and person too, And all at his commande.

NOTES

1. Earl Richard and Earl are the titles of the Scottish versions of this poem, which professor Child considers superior to the English in every respect.— Editor. 2. This was agreeable to the feudal customs: the lord had a right to give a wife to his vassals. See Shakspeare’s All’s well that ends well.

XIV. The Shepherd’s Address to his Muse.

This Poem, originally printed from the small manuscript volume mentioned above in No. x. has been improved by a more perfect copy in England’s Helicon, where the author is discovered to be N. Breton.

GOOD Muse, rocke me aslepe With some sweete harmony; This wearie eyes is not to kepe Thy wary company.

Sweete Love, begon a while, Thou seest my heaviness; Beautie is borne but to beguyle My harte of happines.

See howe my little flocke, Thou lovde to feede on highe, Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke And in the valley dye.

The bushes and the trees, That were so freshe and greene, Doe all their deintie colors leese, And not a leafe is seene.

The blacke birde and the thrushe, That made the woodes to ringe, With all the rest, are now at hushe, And not a note they singe.

Swete Philomele, the birde That hath the heavenly throte, Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde Recordinge of a note.

The flowers have had a frost, The herbs have loste their savoure; And Phillida the faire hath lost For me her wonted favour.

Thus all these careful sights So kill me in conceit: That now to hope upon delights, It is but meere deceite.

And therefore, my sweete Muse, That knowest what helpe is best, Doe nowe thy heavenlie conninge use To sett my harte at rest;

And in a dreame bewraie What fate shal be my frende; Whether my life shall still decaye, Or when my sorrowes ende.

XV. Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor.

This is given, with corrections, from an ancient copy in black- letter, in the Pepys Collection, intitled, “A tragical Ballad on the unfortunate Love of Lord Thomas and fair Ellinor, together with the Downfall of the browne Girl.” In the same Collection may be seen an attempt to modernize this old song, and reduce it to a different measure: a proof of its popularity.

LORD THOMAS he was a bold forrester, And a chaser of the kings deere; Faire Ellinor was a fine woman, And Lord Thomas he loved her deare.

“Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,” he sayd, “And riddle us both as one; Whether I shall marrye with faire Ellinor, And let the browne girl alone?”

“The browne girl she has got houses and lands, Faire Ellinor she has got none, And therefore I charge thee on my blessing, To bring me the browne girl home.”

And as it befelle on a high holidaye, As many there are beside, Lord Thomas he went to faire Ellinor, That should have been his bride.

And when he came to fair Ellinors bower, He knocked there at the ring, And who was so readye as faire Ellinor, To let Lord Thomas within?

“What newes, what newes, Lord Thomas?” she sayd, “What newes dost thou bring to mee?” “I am come to bid thee to my wedding, And that is bad newes for thee.”

“O God forbid, Lord Thomas,” she sayd, “That such a thing should be done; I thought to have been the bride my selfe, And thou to have been the bridegroome.”

“Come riddle my riddle,[1] dear mother,” she sayd, “And riddle it all in one; Whether I shall goe to Lord Thomas his wedding, Or whether shall tarry at home?”

“There are manye that are your friendes, daughter, And manye a one your foe, Therefore I charge you on my blessing, To Lord Thomas his wedding don’t goe.”

“There are manye that are my friendes, mother; But were every one my foe, Betide me life, betide me death, To Lord Thomas his wedding I’ld goe.”

She cloathed herself in gallant attire, And her merrye men all in greene; And as they rid through every towne, They took her to be some queene.

But when she came to Lord Thomas his gate, She knocked there at the ring; And who was so readye as Lord Thomas, To lett fair Ellinor in?

“Is this your bride?” fair Ellinor sayd; “Methinks she looks wonderous browne; Thou mightest have had as faire a woman, As ever trod on the grounde.”

“Despise her not, fair Ellin,” he sayd, “Despise her not unto mee; For better I love thy little finger, Than all her whole bodče.”

This browne bride had a little penknife, That was both long and sharpe, And betwixt the short ribs and the long, She prick’d faire Ellinor’s harte.

“O Christ thee save,” Lord Thomas hee sayd, “Methinks thou lookst wonderous wan; Thou usedst to look with as fresh a colour, As ever the sun shone on.”

“Oh, art thou blind, Lord Thomas?” she sayd, “Or canst thou not very well see? O dost thou not see my owne hearts bloode Run trickling down my knee.”

Lord Thomas he had a sword by his side; As he walked about the halle, He cut off his brides head from her shoulders. And threw it against the walle.

He set the hilte against the grounde, And the point against his harte. There never three lovers together did meete, That sooner againe did parte.

- The reader will find a Scottish song on a similar subject to this, towards the end of this volume, intitled, Lord Thomas and Lady Annet.

NOTES

1. It should probably be, “Reade me, read,” &c. i.e. Advise me, advise.

XVI. Cupid and Campaspe.

This elegant little sonnet is found in the third act of an old play, intitled, Alexander and Campaspe, written by John Lilye, a celebrated writer in the time of Queen Elizabeth. That play was first printed in 1591: but this copy is given from a later edition.

CUPID and my Campaspe played At cardes for kisses; Cupid payd: He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mothers doves, and teame of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lippe, the rose Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how,) With these, the crystal of his browe, And then the dimple of his chinne; All these did my Campaspe winne. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of mee?

XVII. The Lady turned Serving-Man.

This is given from a written copy, containing some improvements (perhaps modern ones) upon the popular ballad, intitled, “The famous Flower of Serving-men: or the Lady turned Serving-man.”

You beauteous ladyes, great and small, I write unto you one and all, Whereby that you may understand What I have suffered in the land.

I was by birth a lady faire, An ancient barons only heire, And when my good old father dyed, Then I became a young knightes bride.

And there my love built me a bower, Bedeck’d with many a fragrant flower; A braver bower you ne’er did see Then my true-love did build for mee.

And there I livde a ladye gay, Till fortune wrought our loves decay; For there came foes so fierce a band, That soon they over-run the land.

They came upon us in the night, And brent my bower, and slew my knight; And trembling hid in mans array, I scant with life escap’d away.

In the midst of this extremitie, My servants all did from me flee: Thus was I left myself alone, With heart more cold than any stone.

Yet though my heart was full of care, Heaven would not suffer me to dispaire, Wherefore in haste I chang’d my name From faire Elise, to sweet Williame:

And therewithall I cut my haire, Resolv’d my man’s attire to weare; And in my beaver, hose and band, I travell’d far through many a land.

At length all wearied with my toil, I sate me downe to rest awhile; My heart it was so fill’d with woe, That downe my cheeke the teares did flow.

It chanc’d the king of that same place With all his lords a hunting was, And seeing me weepe, upon the same Askt who I was, and whence I came.

Then to his grace I did replye, “I am a Poore and friendlesse boye, Though nobly borne, nowe forc’d to bee A serving-man of lowe degree.”

“Stand up, faire youth,” the king reply’d, “For thee a service I’ll provyde: But tell me first what thou canst do; Thou shalt be fitted thereunto.

“Wilt thou be usher of my hall, To wait upon my nobles all? Or wilt be taster of my wine, To ‘tend on me when I shall dine?

“Or wilt thou be my chamberlaine, About my person to remaine? Or wilt thou be one of my guard, And I will give thee great reward?

“Chuse, gentle youth, said he, thy place.” Then I reply’d, “If it please your grace To shew such favour unto mee, Your chamberlaine I faine would bee.”

The king then smiling gave consent, And straitwaye to his court I went; Where I behavde so faithfullle, That hee great favour showd to mee.

Now marke what fortune did provide; The king he would a hunting ride With all his lords and noble traine, Sweet William must at home remaine.

Thus being left alone behind, My former state came in my mind: I wept to see my mans array; No longer now a ladye gay.

And meeting with a ladyes vest, Within the same myself I drest; With silken robes, and jewels rare, I deckt me, as a ladye faire:

And taking up a lute straitwaye, Upon the same I strove to play; And sweetly to the same did sing, As made both hall and chamber ring.

“My father was as brave a lord, As ever Europe might afford; My mother was a lady bright; My husband was a valiant knight:

“And I myself a ladye gay, Bedeckt with gorgeous rich array; The happiest lady in the land Had not more pleasure at command.

“I had my musicke every day Harmonious lessons for to play; I had my virgins fair and free Continually to wait on mee.

“But now, alas! my husband’s dead, And all my friends are from me fled, My former days are past and gone, And I am now a serving-man.”

And fetching many a tender sigh, As thinking no one then was nigh, In pensive mood I lay me lowe, My heart was full, the tears did flowe.

The king, who had a huntinge gone, Grewe weary of his sport anone, And leaving all his gallant traine, Turn’d on the sudden home againe:

And when he reach’d his statelye tower, Hearing one sing within his bower, He stopt to listen, and to see Who sung there so melodiouslie.

Thus heard he everye word I sed, And saw the pearlye teares I shed, And found to his amazement there, Sweete William was a ladye faire.

Then stepping in, “Fair ladye, rise, And dry,” said he, “those lovely eyes, For I have heard thy mournful tale, The which shall turne to thy availe.”

A crimson dye my face orespred, I blusht for shame, and hung my head, To find my sex and story knowne, When as I thought I was alone.

But to be briefe, his Royal Grace Grewe so enamour’d of my face, The richest gifts he proffered mee, His mistress if that I would bee.

“Ah! no, my liege, I firmlye sayd, I’ll rather in my grave be layd, And though Your Grace hath won my heart, I ne’er will act soe base a part.”

“Faire ladye, pardon me, sayd hee, Thy virtue shall rewarded bee, And since it is soe fairly tryde Thou shalt become my royal bride.”

Then strait to end his amorous strife, He tooke sweet William to his wife. The like before was never seene, A serving-man became a queene.

XVIII. Gil Morrice. A SCOTTISH BALLAD

The following piece hath run through two editions in Scotland: the second was printed at Glasgow in 1755, 8vo. Prefixed to them both is an advertisement, setting forth that the preservation of this poem was owing “to a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses;” and “any reader that can render it more correct or complete,” is desired to oblige the public with such improvements. In consequence of this advertisement, sixteen additional verses have been produced and handed about in manuscript, which are here inserted in their proper places: (these are from ver. 109 to ver. 121, and from ver. 124 to ver. 129, but are perhaps, after all, only an ingenious interpolation.) As this poem lays claim to a pretty high antiquity, we have assigned it a place among our early pieces: though, after all, there is reason to believe it has received very considerable modern improvements: for in the Editor’s ancient manuscript collection is a very old imperfect copy of the same ballad: wherein though the leading features of the story are the same, yet the colouring here is so much improved and heightened, and so many additional strokes are thrown in, that it is evident the whole has undergone a revisal.

N.B.—The Editor’s manuscript instead of Lord Barnard, has John Stewart;and instead of Gil Morrice, Child Maurice, which last is probably the original title. See above, no. ix, Child Waters.

GIL MORRICE was an erles son, His name it waxed wide; It was nae for his great riches, Nor zet his mickle pride; Bot it was for a lady gay, That livd on Carron side.

“Quhair sall I get a bonny boy, That will win hose and shoen; That will gae to Lord Barnards ha’, And bid his lady cum? [1] And ze maun rin my errand, Willie; And ze may rin wi’ pride; Quhen other boys gae on their foot On horse-back ze sall ride.”

“O no! Oh no! my master dear! I dare nae for my life; I’ll no gae to the bauld barňns, For to triest furth his wife.” “My bird Willie, my boy Willie; My dear Willie,” he sayd: “How can ze strive against the stream? For I sall be obeyd.”

“Bot, O my master dear!” he cryd, “In grene wod ze’re zour lain; Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, For fear ze should be tain.” “Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha’, Bid hir cum here wi speid: If ze refuse my heigh command, Ill gar zour body bleid.

“Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, ‘Tis a’ gowd bot the hem;[2] Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, And bring nane bot hir lain: And there it is a silken sarke, Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, Speir nae bauld barons leave.”

“Yes, I will gae zour black errand, Though it be to zour cost; Sen ze by me will nae be warn’d, In it ze sall find frost. The baron he is a man of might, He neir could bide to taunt, As ze will see before its nicht, How sma’ ze hae to vaunt.

“And sen I maun zour errand rin Sae sair against my will, I’se mak a vow and keip it trove, It sall be done for ill.” And quhen he came to broken brigue, He bent his bow and swam; And quhen he came to grass growing, Set down his feet and ran.

And quhen he came to Barnards ha’, Would neither chap nor ca’: Bot set his bent bow to his breist, And lichtly lap the wa’.[3] He wauld nae tell the man his errand, Though he stude at the gait; Bot straiht into the ha’ he cam, Quhair they were set at meit.

“Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! My message winna waite; Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod Before that it be late.

“ze’re bidden tak this gay mantel, Tis a’ gowd bot the hem: zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, Ev’n by your sel alane.

“And there it is, a silken sarke, Your ain hand sewd the sleive; ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice Speir nae bauld barons leave.” The lady stamped wi’ hir foot, And winked wi’ hir ee; Bat a’ that she coud say or do, Forbidden he wad nae bee.

“Its surely to my bow’r-woman; It neir could be to me. I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; I trow that ze be she.” Then up and spack the wylie nurse, (The bairn upon hir knee) “If it be cum frae Gill Morice, It’s deir welcum to mee.”

“ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, Sae loud I heird zee lee;[4] I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; I trow ze be nae shee.”

Then up and spack the bauld barňn, An angry man was hee; He’s tain the table wi’ his foot, Sae has he wi’ his knee; Till siller cup and mazer[5] dish In flinders he gard flee.

“Gae bring a robe of zour cliděng, That hings upon the pin; And I’ll gae to the gude grene wode, And speik wi’ zour lemmŕn.” “O bide at hame, now Lord Barnard, I warde ze bide at hame; Neir wyte a man for violence, That neir wate ze wi’ nane.”

Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, He whistled and he sang: “O what mean a’ the folk coming, My mother tarries lang.” His hair was like the threeds of gold, Drawne frae Minerva’s loome: His lipps like roses drapping dew, His breath was a’ perfume.

His brow was like the mountain snae Gilt by the morning beam: His cheeks like living roses glow: His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, Sweete as the infant spring: And like the mavis on the bush, He gart the vallies ring.

The baron came to the grene wode, Wi’ mickle dule and care, And there he first spied Gill Morice Kameing his zellow hair: That sweetly wavd around his face, That face beyond compare: He sang sae sweet it might dispel A’ rage but fell despair.[6]

“Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice, My lady loed thee weel, The fairest part of my bodie Is blacker than thy heel. zet neir the less now, Gill Morice, For a’ thy great beautie, ze’s rew the day ze eir was born; That head sall gae wi’ me.”

Now he has drawn his trusty brand, And slaited on the strae; And thro’ Gill Morice’ fair body He’s gar cauld iron gae. And he has tain Gill Morice’ head And set it on a speir; The meanest man in a’ his train Has gotten that head to bear.

And he has tain Gill Morice up, Laid him across his steid, And brocht him to his painted bowr, And laid him on a bed. The lady sat on castil wa’, Beheld baith dale and doun; And there she saw Gill Morice’ head Cum trailing to the toun.

“Far better I loe that bluidy head, Both and that zellow hair, Than Lord Barnard, and a’ his lands, As they lig here and thair.” And she has tain her Gill Morice, And kissd baith mouth and chin: “I was once as fow of Gill Morice, As the hip is o’ the stean.

“I got ze in my father’s house, Wi’ mickle sin and shame; I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, Under the heavy rain. Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, And fondly seen thee sleip; But now I gae about thy grave, The saut tears for to weip.”

And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, And syne his bluidy chin: “O better I loe my Gill Morice Than a’ my kith and kin!” “Away, away, ze ill woman, And an ill deith mait ze dee: Gin I had kend he’d bin zour son, He’d neir bin slain for mee.”

“Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! Obraid me not for shame! Wi’ that saim speir O pierce my heart! And put me out o’ pain. Since nothing bot Gill Morice head Thy jelous rage could quell, Let that saim hand now tak hir life, That neir to thee did ill.

“To me nae after days nor nichts Will eir be saft or kind; I’ll fill the air with heavy sighs, And greet till I am blind.” “Enouch of blood by me’s been spilt, Seek not zour death frae mee; I rather lourd it had been my sel Than eather him or thee.

“With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; Sair, sair I rew the deid, That eir this cursed hand of mine Had gard his body bleid. Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, ze neir can heal the wound; ze see his head upon the speir, His heart’s blude on the ground.

“I curse the hand that did the deid, The heart that thocht the ill; The feet that bore me wi’ sik speid, The comely zouth to kill. I’ll ay lament for Gill Morice, As gin he were mine ain; I’ll neir forget the dreiry day On which the zouth was slain.

- This little pathetic tale suggested the plot of the tragedy of Douglas.

Since it was first printed, the Editor has been assured that the foregoing ballad is still current in many parts of Scotland, where the hero is universally known by the name of Child Maurice, pronounced by the common people Cheild or Cheeld; which occasioned the mistake. It may be proper to mention, that other copies read ver. 110 thus:

Shot frae the golden sun.

And ver. 116 as follows:

His een Iike azure sheene.

NOTES 1. Something seems wanting here. 2. Perhaps “‘bout the hem.” 3. Could this be the wall of the castle? 4. Perhaps, “loud say I heire.” 5. i.e. a drinking cup of maple: other edit. read ezar. 6. So Milton,—

“Vernal delight and joy: able to drive All sadness but despair.”— Paradise Lost, iv. 155

BOOK VIII.

I. The Legend of Sir Guy.

This ballad contains a short summary of the exploits of this famous champion, as recorded in the old story books; and is commonly intitled, “A pleasant song of the valiant deeds of chivalry atchieved by that noble knight Sir Guy of Warwick, who, for the love of fair Phelis, became a hermit, and dyed in a cave of craggy rocke, a mile distant from Warwick.” The history of Sir Guy, though now very properly resigned to children, was once admired by all readers of wit and taste: for taste and wit had once their childhood. Although of English growth, it was early a favourite with other nations. It appeared in French in 1525; and is alluded to in the old Spanish romance Tirante el blanco, which, it is believed, was written not long after the year 1430.— See advertisement to the French translation, 2 vols. 12mo. The original whence all these stories are extracted is a very ancient romance in old English verse, which is quoted by Chaucer as a celebrated piece even in his time (viz.,

“Men speken of romances of price, Of Horne childe and Ippotis, Of Bevis, and Sir Guy,” &c.— R. of Thop.)

and was usually sung to the harp at Christmas dinners and bride-ales, as we learn from Puttenham’s Art of Poetry, 4to. 1589.

This ancient romance is not wholly lost. An imperfect copy in black-letter, “Imprynted at London — for Wylliam Copland,” in 34 sheets 4to. without date, is still preserved among Mr. Garrick’s collection of old plays. As a specimen of the poetry of this antique rhymer, take his description of the dragon mentioned in ver. 105 of the following ballad:

“A messenger came to the king. Syr king, he sayd, lysten me now, For bad tydinges I bring you, In Northumberlande there is no man, But that they be slain everychone For there dare no man route, By twenty myle rounde about; For doubt of a fowle dragon, That sleath men and beastes downe. He is blacke as any cole, Rugged as a rough fole; His bodye from the navill upwarde No man may it pierce it is so harde; His neck is great as any summere; He renneth as swifte as any distrere; Pawes he hath as a lyon: All that he toucheth he sleath dead downe. Great winges he hath to flight, That is no man that bear him might. There may no man fight him agayne, But that be sleath him certayne: For a fowler beast then is he, Ywis of none never heard ye.”

Sir William Dugdale is of opinion that the story of Guy is not wholly apocryphal, though he acknowledges the monks have sounded out his praises too hyperbolically. In particular, he gives the duel fought with the Danish champion as a real historical truth, and fixes the date of it in the year 926, ćtat. Guy 67.— See his Warwickshire. The following is written upon the same plan as Ballad v., Book vii., but which is the original, and which the copy, cannot be decided. This song is ancient, as may be inferred from the idiom preserved in the margin, ver. 94, 102, and was once popular, as appears from Fletcher’s Knight of the Burning Pestle; Act ii. sc. ult. It is here published from an ancient manuscript in the Editor’s old folio volume, collated with two printed ones, one of which is in blackletter in the Pepys Collection.

WAS ever knight for ladyes sake Soe tost in love, as I Sir Guy For Phelis fayre, that lady bright As ever man beheld with eye?

She gave me leave myself to try, The valiant knight with sheeld and speare, Ere that her love shee wold grant me; Which made mee venture far and neare.

Then proved I a baron bold, In deeds of armes the doughtyest knight That in those days in England was, With sworde and speare in feild to fight.

An English-man I was by birthe: In faith of Christ a Christyan true: The wicked lawes of infidells I sought by prowesse to subdue.

Nine hundred twenty yeere and odde After our Saviour Christ his birth, When king Athčlstone wore the crowne, I lived heere upon the earth.

Sometime I was of Warwicke Erle, And, as I sayd, of very truth A ladyes love did me constraine To seeke strange ventures in my youth.

To win me fame by feates of armes In strange and sundry heathen lands; Where I atchieved for her sake Right dangerous conquests with my hands.

For first I sayled to Normandye, And there I stoutlye wan in fight The emperours daughter of Almaine, From manye a vallyant worthye knight.

Then passed I the seas to Greece To helpe the emperour in his right; Against the mightye souldans hoaste Of puissant Persians for to fight.

Where I did slay of Sarazens, And heathen pagans, manye a man; And slew the souldans cozen deere, Who had to name doughtye Coldrŕn.

Eskeldered a famous knight To death likewise I did pursue: And Elmayne king of Tyre alsoe, Most terrible in fight to viewe.

I went into the souldans hoast, Being thither on embassage sent, And brought his head away with mee; I having slaine him in his tent.

There was a dragon in that land Most fiercelye mett me by the waye As hee a lyon did pursue, Which I myself did alsoe slay.

Then soon I past the seas from Greece, And came to Pavye land aright: Where I the duke of Pavye killed, His hainous treason to requite.

To England then I came with speede, To wedd faire Phelis lady bright: For love of whome I travelled farr To try my manhood and my might.

But when I had espoused her, I stayd with her but fortye dayes, Ere that I left this ladye faire, And went from her beyond the seas.

All cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort, My voyage from her I did take Unto the blessed Holy Land, For Jesus Christ my Saviours sake.

Where I Erle Jonas did redeeme, And all his sonnes, which were fifteene, Who with the cruell Sarazens In prison for long time had beene.

I slew the gyant Amarant In battel fiercelye hand to hand: And doughty Barknard killed I, A treacherous knight of Pavye land.

Then I to England came againe, And here with Colbronde fell I fought: An ugly gyant, which the Danes Had for their champion hither brought.

I overcame him in the feild, And slewe him soone right valliantlye; Wherebye this land I did redeeme From Danish tribute utterlye.

And afterwards I offered upp The use of weapons solemnlye At Winchester, whereas I fought, In sight of manye farr and nye.

But first, neare Winsor, I did slaye A bore of passing might and strength; Whose like in England never was For hugenesse both in bredth and length.

Some of his bones in Warwicke yett Within the castle there doe lye: One of his sheeld-bones to this day Hangs in the citye of Coventrye.

On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe A monstrous wyld and cruell beast, Call’d the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath; Which manye people had opprest.

Some of her bones in Warwicke yett Still for a monument doe lye; And there exposed to lookers viewe As wonderous strange, they may espye.

A dragon in Northumberland I alsoe did in fight destroye, Which did both man and beast oppresse, And all the countrye sore annoye.

At length to Warwicke I did come, Like pilgrim poore, and was not knowne; And there I lived a hermitts life A mile and more out of the towne.

Where with my hands I hewed a house Out of a craggy rocke of stone; And lived like a palmer poore Within that cave myself alone

And daylye came to begg my bread Of Phelis att my castle gate; Not knowne unto my loved wiffe, Who dailye mourned for her mate.

Till att the last I fell sore sicke, Yea sicke soe sore that I must dye; I sent to her a ring of golde, By which she knew me presentlye.

Then shee repairing to the cave Before that I gave up the ghost; Herself clos’d up my dying eyes: My Phelis faire, whom I lovd most.

Thus dreadful death did me arrest, To bring my corpes unto the grave; And like a palmer dyed I, Wherby I sought my soule to save.

My body that endured this toyle, Though now it be consumed to mold; My statue faire engraven in stone, In Warwicke still you may behold.

II. Guy and Amarant.

The Editor found this Poem in his ancient folio manuscript among the old ballads; he was desirous, therefore, that it should still accompany them; and as it is not altogether devoid of merit, its insertion here will be pardoned. Although this piece seems not imperfect, there is reason to believe that it is only a part of a much larger poem, which contained the whole history of Sir Guy; for, upon comparing it with the common story book, 12mo. we find the latter to be nothing more than this poem reduced to prose: which is only effected by now and then altering the rhyme, and throwing out some few of the poetical ornaments. The disguise is so slight that it is an easy matter to pick complete stanzas in any page of that book. The author of this poem has shown some invention. Though he took the subject from the old romance quoted before, he has adorned it afresh, and made the story entirely his own.

GUY journeyes towards that sanctifyed ground, Whereas the Jewes fayre citye sometime stood, Wherin our Saviours sacred head was crownd, And where for sinfull man he shed his blood: To see the sepulcher was his intent, The tombe that Joseph unto Jesus lent.

With tedious miles he tyred his wearye feet, And passed desart places full of danger, At last with a most woefull wight[1] did meet, A man that unto sorrow was noe stranger: For he had fifteen sonnes, made captives all To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall.

A gyant called Amarant detaind them, Whom no man durst encounter for his strength: Who in a castle, which he held, had chaind them: Guy questions, where, and understands at length The place not farr.—”Lend me thy sword, quoth hee, Ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free.”

With that he goes, and lays upon the dore, Like one that sayes, I must, and will come in: The gyant never was soe rowz’d before, For noe such knocking at his gate had bin: Soe takes his keyes, and clubb, and cometh out Staring with ireful countenance about.

“Sirra,” quoth hee, “what busines hast thou heere? Art come to feast the crowes about my walls? Didst never hear, noe ransome can him cleere, That in the compasse of my furye falls? For making me to take a porters paines, With this same clubb I will dash out thy braines.”

“Gyant,” quoth Guy, “y’are quarrelsome I see, Choller and you seem very neere of kin: Most dangerous at the clubb belike you bee; I have bin better armd, though nowe goe thin; But shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spight, Keene is my weapone, and shall doe me right.”

Soe draws his sword, salutes him with the same About the head, the shoulders, and the side: While his erected clubb doth death proclaime, Standinge with huge Colossus’ spacious stride, Putting such vigour to his knotty beame, That like a furnace he did smoke extreame.

But on the ground he spent his strokes in vain; For Guy was nimble to avoyde them still, And ever ere he heav’d his clubb againe, Did brush his plated coat against his will Att such advantage Guy wold never fayle, To bang him soundlye in his coate of mayle.

Att last through thirst the gyant feeble grewe, And sayd to Guy, “As thou’rt of humane race, Shew itt in this, give natures wants their dewe, Let me but goe, and drinke in yonder place: Thou canst not yeeld to me a smaller thing, Than to graunt life, thats given by the spring.”

“I graunt thee leave,” quoth Guye, “goe drink thy last, Go pledge the dragon, and the salvage bore:[2] Succeed the tragedyes that they have past, But never thinke to taste cold water more: Drinke deep to Death, and unto him carouse; Bid him receive thee in his earthen house.”

So to the spring he goes, and slakes his thirst; Takeing the water in, extremely like Some wracked shipp that on a rocke is burst, Whose forced hulke against the stones does stryke; Scooping it in soe fast with both his hands, That Guy admiring to behold it stands.

“Come on,” quoth Guy, “let us to worke againe, Thou stayest about thy liquor overlong; The fish, which in the river doe remaine, Will want thereby; thy drinking doth them wrong: But I will see their satisfaction made; With gyants blood they must, and shall be payd.”

“Villaine,” quoth Amarant, “Ile crush thee streight; Thy life shall pay thy daring toungs offence: This clubb, which is about some hundred weight, Is deathes commission to dispatch thee hence: Dresse thee for ravens dyett I must needes, And breake thy bones as they were made of reedes.”

Incensed much by these bold pagan bostes, Which worthye Guy cold ill endure to heare, He hewes upon those bigg supporting postes, Which like two pillars did his body beare: Amarant for those wounds in choller growes And desperately att Guy his clubb he throwes:

Which did directly on his body light, Soe violent, and weighty there-withall, That downe to ground on sudden came the knight; And, ere he cold recover from the fall, The gyant gott his clubbe againe in fist, And aimd a stroke that wonderfullye mist.

“Traytor!” quoth Guy, “thy falshood Ile repay, This coward act to intercept my bloode.” Sayes Amarant, “Ile murther any way, With enemyes all vantages are good: O cold I poyson in thy nostrills blowe, Be sure of it I wold dispatch thee soe.”

“Its well,” said Guy, “thy honest thoughts appeare, Within that beastlye bulke where devills dwell; Which are thy tenants while thou livest heare, But will be landlords when thou comest in hell: Vile miscreant! prepare thee for their den, Inhumane monster, hatefull unto men.

“But breathe thyselfe a time, while I goe drinke, For flameing Phoebus with his fyerye eye Torments me soe with burning heat, I thinke My thirst wold serve to drinke an ocean drye Forbear a litle, as I delt with thee.” Quoth Amarant, “Thou hast noe foole of mee.

“Noe, sillye wretch, my father taught more witt, How I shold use such enemyes as thou; By all my gods I doe rejoice at itt, To understand that thirst constraines thee now; For all the treasure that the world containes, One drop of water shall not coole thy vaines.

“Releeve my foe! why, ‘twere a madmans part: Refresh an adversarye to my wrong! If thou imagine this, a child thou art: Noe, fellow! I have known the world too long To be soe simple: now I know thy want, A minutes space of breathing Ile not grant.”

And with these words heaving aloft his clubb Into the ayre, he swings the same about: Then shakes his lockes, and doth his temples rubb, And, like the Cyclops, in his pride doth strout: “Sirra,” says hee, “I have you at a lift, Now you are come unto your latest shift.

“Perish for ever; with this stroke I send thee A medicine, that will doe thy thirst much good; Take noe more care for drinke before I end thee, And then wee’ll have carouses of thy blood: Here’s at thee with a butcher’s downright blow, To please my furye with thine overthrow.”

“Infernall, false, obdurate feend,” said Guy, “That seemst a lumpe of crueltye from hell; Ungratefull monster, since thou dost deny The thing to mee wherin I used thee well: With more revenge, than ere my sword did make, On thy accursed head revenge Ile take.

“Thy gyants longitude shall shorter shrinke, Except thy sun-scorcht skin be weapon proof: Farewell my thirst; I doe disdaine to drinke; Streames keepe your waters to your owne behoof; Or let wild beasts be welcome thereunto; With those pearle drops I will not have to do.

“Here, tyrant! take a taste of my good-will, For thus I doe begin my bloodye bout: You cannot chuse but like the greeting ill; It is not that same clubb will beare you out; And take this payment on thy shaggye crowne A blowe that brought him with a vengeance downe.”

Then Guy sett foot upon the monsters brest, And from his shoulders did his head divide; Which with a yawninge mouth did gape, unblest; Noe dragons jawes were ever seen soe wide To open and to shut, till life was spent. Then Guye tooke keyes, and to the castle went:

Where manye woefull captives he did find, Which had been tyred with extremityes; Whom he in friendly manner did unbind, And reasoned with them of their miseryes: Eche told a tale with teares, and sighes, and cryes, All weeping to him with complaining eyes.

There tender ladyes in darke dungeons lay, That were surprised in the desart wood, And had noe other dyett everye day, But flesh of humane creatures for their food: Some with their lovers bodyes had beene fed, And in their wombes their husbands buryed.

Now he bethinkes him of his being there, To enlarge the wronged brethren from their woes: And, as he searcheth, doth great clamours heare, By which sad sound’s direction on he goes, Until he findes a darksome obscure gate, Armed strongly ouer all with iron plate.

That he unlockes, and enters, where appeares The strangest objects that he ever saw; Men that with famishment of many yeares, Were like deathes picture, which the painters draw; Divers of them were hanged by eche thombe; Others head-downward; by the middle, some.

With diligence he takes them from the walle, With lybertye their thraldome to acquaint: Then the perplexed knight their father calls, And sayes, “Receive thy sonnes though poore and faint: I promisd you their lives, accept of that; But did not warrant you they shold be fat.

“The castle I doe give thee, heere’s the keyes, Where tyranye for many yeeres did dwell: Procure the gentle tender ladyes ease, For pityes sake, use wronged women well: Men easilye revenge the wrongs men do; But poore weake women have not strength thereto.”

The good old man, even overjoyed with this, Fell on the ground, and wold have kist Guys feete: “Father,” quoth he, “refraine soe base a kiss, For age to honor youth I hold unmeete: Ambitious pryde hath hurt mee all it can, I goe to mortifie a sinfull man.”

- The foregoing poem on Guy and Amarant has been discovered to be a fragment of “The famous historie of Guy earle of Warwick; by Samuel Rowlands, London, printed by J. Bell, 1649,” 4to, in xii cantos, beginning thus:

“When dreadful Mars in armour every day.”

Whether the edition in 1649 was the first, is not known; but the author, Sam. Rowlands, was one of the minor poets who lived in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and James I. and perhaps later. His other poems are chiefly of the religious kind, which makes it probable that the history of Guy was one of his earliest performances. There are extant of his: (1.) “The betraying of Christ, Judas in dispaire, the seven words of our Saviour on the crosse, with other poems on the passion, &c., 1598,” 4to. [Ames Typ. p. 428.] (2.) “A Theatre of delightful Recreation. Lond. printed for A. Johnson, 1605,” 4to. [Penes editor.] This is a book of poems on subjects chiefly taken from the Old Testament. (3.) “Memory of Christ’s miracles, in verse, Lond. 1618,” 4to. (4.) “Heaven’s glory, earth’s vanity, and hell’s horror. Lond. 1638,” 8vo. [These two in Bod. Cat.) In the present edition the foregoing poem has been much improved from the printed copy.

NOTES

1. Erle Jonas, mentioned in the foregoing ballad. 2. Which Guy had slain before.

III. The Auld Goodman A SCOTTISH SONG

I have not been able to meet with a more ancient copy of this humorous old song, than that printed in The Tea-Table Miscellany, &c. which seems to have admitted some corruptions.

LATE in an evening forth I went A little before the sun gade down, And there I chanc’t, by accident, To light on a battle new begun: A man and his wife wer fawn in a strife, I canna weel tell ye how it began; But aye she wail’d her wretched life, Cryeng, “Evir alake! mine auld goodman.”

HE

“Thy auld goodman, that thou tells of, The country kens where he was born, Was but a silly poor vagabond, And ilka ane leugh him to scorn: For he did spend and make an end Of gear ‘his fathers nevir wan; He gart the poor stand frae the door, Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.”

SHE

“My heart, alake! is liken to break, Whan I think on my winsome John, His blinkan ee, and gait sae free, Was naithing like thee, thou dosend drone; Wi’ his rosie face, and flaxen hair, And skin as white as ony swan, He was large and tall, and comely withal; Thou’lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.”

HE

“Why dost thou plein? I thee maintein; For meal and mawt thou disna want: But thy wild bees I canna please, Now whan our gear gins to grow scant: Of houshold stuff thou hast enough, Thou wants for neither pot nor pan; Of siclike ware he left thee bare, Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.”

SHE

“Yes I may tell, and fret mysell, To think on those blyth days I had, When I and he together lay In armes into a weel-made bed: But now I sigh and may be sad, Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan, Thou falds thy feet, and fa’s asleep; Thou’lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.”

Then coming was the night sae dark, And gane was a’ the light of day: The carle was fear’d to miss his mark, And therefore wad nae longer stay: Then up he gat, and ran his way, I trowe, the wife the day she wan: And aye the owreword of the fray Was, “Evir alake! mine auld Goodman!”

IV. Fair Margaret and Sweet William.

This seems to be the old song quoted in Fletcher’s Knight of the Burning Pestle, Acts ii. and iii.; although the six lines there preserved are somewhat different from those in the ballad as it stands at present. The reader will not wonder at this, when he is

informed that this is only given from a modern printed copy picked up on a stall. Its full title is, “Fair Margaret’s Misfortunes; or Sweet William’s frightful dreams on his wedding night, with the sudden death and burial of those noble lovers.” The lines preserved in the play are this distich:

“You are no love for me, Margaret, I am no love for you.”

And the following stanza:

When it was grown to dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In came Margarets grimly ghost And stood at Williams feet.

These lines have acquired an importance by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any other language.— See the song intitled “Margaret’s Ghost,” at the end of this volume. Since the first edition some improvements have been inserted, which were communicated by a lady of the first distinction, as she had heard this song repeated in her infancy.

As it fell out out on a long summer’s day Two lovers they sat on a hill; They sat together that long summer’s day, And could not take their fill.

“I see no harm by you, Margaret, And you see none by mee; Before to-morrow at eight o’ the clock A rich wedding you shall see.”

Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window, Combing her yellow hair: There she spyed sweet William and his bride, As they were a riding near.

Then down she layd her ivory comb; And braided her hair in twain: She went alive out of her bower, But ne’er came alive in’t again.

When day was gone, and night was come, And all men fast asleep, Then came the spirit of fair Marg’ret, And stood at William’s feet.

“Are you awake, sweet William? shee said; Or, sweet William, are you asleep? God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, And me of my winding-sheet.”

When day was come, and night was gone, And all men wak’d from sleep, Sweet William to his lady sayd, “My dear, I have cause to weep.”

“I dreamt a dream, my dear ladyč, Such dreames are never good: I dreamt my bower was full of red wine, And my bride-bed full of blood.”

“Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured Sir, They never do prove good; To dream thy bower was full of red wine And the bride-bed full of blood.”

He called up his merry men all, By one, by two, and by three: Saying, “I’ll away to fair Marg’ret’s bower, By the leave of my ladie.”

And when he came to fair Marg’ret’s bower, He knocked at the ring; And who so ready as her seven brethren To let sweet William in.

Then he turned up the covering sheet, “Pray let me see the dead; Methinks she looks all pale and wan, She hath lost her cherry red.

“I’ll do more for thee, Margarčt, Than any of thy kin; For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win.”

With that bespake the seven brethren, Making most piteous mone: “You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, And let our sister alone.”

“If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse By day, nor yet by night.

“Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, Deal on your cake and your wine:[1] For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.”

Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, Sweet William dyed the morrow: Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, Sweet William dyed for sorrow.

Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, And William in the higher: Out of her brest there sprang a rose, And out of his a briar.

They grew till they grew unto the church top, And then they could grow no higher; And there they tyed in a true lovers knot, Which made all the people admire.

Then came the clerk of the parish, As you the truth shall hear, And by misfortune cut them down, Or they had now been there.

NOTES

1. Alluding to the dole anciently given at funerals.

V. Barbara Allen’s Cruelty.

Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, intitled, “Barbara Allen’s cruelty, or the young man’s tragedy.”

IN Scarlet towne, where I was borne, There was a faire maid dwellin, Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye! Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merrye month of May, When greene buds they were swellin, Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then, To the town where shee was dwellin; “You must come to my master deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen.

“For death is printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin: Then haste away to comfort him, O lovelye Barbara Allen.

Though death be printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee For bonny Barbara Allen.”

So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nye him; And all she sayd, when there she came, “Yong man, I think y’are dying.”

He turnd his face unto her strait, With deadlye sorrow sighing; “O lovely maid, come pity mee, Ime on my death-bed lying.”

“If on your death-bed you doe lye, What needs the tale you are tellin; I cannot keep you from your death; Farewell,” sayd Barbara Allen.

He turnd his face unto the wall, As deadlye pangs he fell in: Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, Adieu to Barbara Allen.

As she was walking ore the fields, She heard the bell a knellin; And every stroke did seem to saye, Unworthye Barbara Allen.

She turnd her bodye round about, And spied the corps a coming: “Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd, That I may look upon him.”

With scornful eye she looked downe, Her cheeke with laughter swellin; Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, “Unworthye Barbara Allen.”

When he was dead, and laid in grave, Her harte was struck with sorrowe, “O mother, mother, make my bed, For I shall dye to-morrowe.

“Hard-harted creature him to slight, Who loved me so dearlye: O that I had beene more kind to him When he was alive and neare me!”

She, on her death-bed as she laye, Beg’d to be buried by him; And sore repented of the daye, That she did ere denye him.

“Farewell,” she sayd, “ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.”

VI. Sweet William’s Ghost. A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

From Allan Ramsay’s Tea-Table Miscellany. The concluding stanza of this piece seems modern.

THERE came a ghost to Margaret’s door, With many a grievous grone, And aye he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none.

“Is this my father Philip? Or is’t my brother John? Or is’t my true love Willie, From Scotland new come home?”

“‘Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John: But ‘tis thy true love Willie From Scotland new come home.

“O sweet Margret! O dear Margret! I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee.

“Thy faith and troth thou’se nevir get, Of me shalt nevir win, Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin.”

“If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, Thy days will not be lang.

“O sweet Margret! O dear Margret I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee.

Thy faith and troth thou’se nevir get, Of me shalt nevir win, Till thou take me to yon kirk-yard, And wed me with a ring.”

“My bones are buried in a kirk-yard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, That’s speaking now to thee.”

She stretched out her lilly-white hand, As for to do her best: “Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest.”

Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a’ the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee.

“Is there any room at your head, Willie? Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie? Wherein that I may creep?”

“There’s nae room at my head, Margret, There’s nae room at my feet, There’s nae room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet.”

Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: “‘Tis time, ‘tis time my dear Margret, That I were gane away.”

No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous grone, Evanish’d in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone.

“O stay, my only true love, stay,” The constant Margret cried: Wan grew her cheeks, she clos’d her een, Stretch’d her saft limbs, and died.

VII. Sir John Grehme and Barbara Allan. A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.

IT was in and about the Martinmas time, When the greene leaves wer a fallan; That Sir John Grehme o’ the west countrye, Fell in luve wi’ Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down throw the towne, To the plaice wher she was dwellan; “O haste and cum to my maister deare, Gin ye bin Barbara Allan.”

O hooly, hooly raise she up, To the plaice wher he was lyan; And whan she drew the curtain by, “Young man, I think ye’re dyan.”[1]

“O its I’m sick, and very very sick, And its a’ for Barbara Allan.” “O the better for me ye’re never be, Though your harts blude wer spillan.

“Remember ye not in the tavern, Sir When ye the cups wer fillan; How ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan?”

He turn’d his face unto the wa’, And death was with him dealan; “Adiew! adiew! my dear friends a’, Be kind to Barbara Allan.”

Then hooly, hooly raise she up, And hooly, hooly left him; And sighan said, she could not stay, Since death of life had reft him.

She had not gane a mile but twa, When she heard the deid-bell knellan; And everye jow the deid-bell geid, Cried, “Wae to Barbara Allan”

“O mither, mither, mak my bed, O mak it saft and narrow: Since my love died for me to-day, Ise die for him to-morrowe.”

NOTES

1. An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes dyand and lyand ought to be transposed: as the taunt “Young man, I think ye’re lyand,” would be very characteristical.

VIII. The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.

From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. The full title is, “True love requited: or, the Bailiff’s daughter of Islington.” Islington in Norfolk is probably the place here meant.

THERE was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squires son; He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coye, and would not believe That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe.

But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, They sent him up to faire London An apprentice for to binde.

And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see,— “Many a teare have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of mee.”

Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffes daughter deare; She secretly stole awaye.

She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would goe Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; “One penny, one penny, kind Sir,” she sayd, “Will ease me of much paine.”

“Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne:” “At Islington, kind Sir,” sayd shee, “Where I have had many a scorne.”

“I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you knowe The bayliffes daughter of Islington.” “She is dead, Sir, long agoe.”

“If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe.”

“O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride.”

“O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, Ten thousand times therefore; For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, Whom I thought I should never see more.”

IX. The Willow-Tree. A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. From the small black-letter collection, intitled, “The Golden Garland of princely Delights;” collated with two other copies, and corrected by conjecture.

WILLY

“How now, shepherde, what meanes that? Why that willowe in thy hat? Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe Turn’d to branches of greene willowe?”

CUDDY

“They are chang’d, and so am I; Sorrowes live, but pleasures die: Phillis hath forsaken mee, Which makes me weare the willowe-tree.”

WILLY

“Phillis! shee that lov’d thee long? Is shee the lass hath done thee wrong? Shee that lov’d thee long and best, Is her love turned to a jest?”

CUDDY

“Shee that long true love profest, She hath robb’d my heart of rest; For she a new love loves, not mee; Which makes me weare the willowe-tree.”

WILLY

“Come then, shepherde, let us joine, Since thy happ is like to mine; For the maid I thought most true Mee hath also bid adieu.”

CUDDY

“Thy hard happ doth mine appease, Companye doth sorrowe ease; Yet, Phillis, still I pine for thee, And still must weare the willowe-tree.”

WILLY

“Shepherde, be advis’d by mee, Cast off grief and willowe-tree; For thy grief brings her content, She is pleas’d if thou lament.”

CUDDY

“Herdsman, I’ll be rul’d by thee, There lies grief and willowe-tree; Henceforth I will do as they, And love a new love every day.”

X. The Lady’s Fall.

This ballad is given (with corrections) from the Editor’s ancient folio manuscript, collated with two printed copies in black- letter; one in the British Museum, the other in the Pepys Collection. Its old title is, “A lamentable ballad of the Lady’s Fall.” To the tune of In Pescod Time, &c. The ballad here referred to is preserved in The Muses’ Library, 8vo. p. 281. It is an allegory or vision, intitled The Shepherd’s Slumber, and opens with some pretty rural images, viz.

“In pescod time when hound to horn Gives eare till buck be kil’d, And little lads with pipes of corne Sate keeping beasts a-field.

I went to gather strawberries By woods and groves full fair, &c.”

MARKE well my heavy dolefull tale, You loyall lovers all, And heedfully beare in your brest A gallant ladyes fall. Long was she wooed, ere shee was wonne, To lead a wedded life; But folly wrought her overthrowe Before shee was a wife.

Too soone, alas! shee gave consent And yeelded to his will, Though he protested to be true, And faithfull to her still. Shee felt her body altered quite, Her bright hue waxed pale, Her lovelye cheeks chang’d color white, Her strength began to fayle.

Soe that with many a sorrowful sigh, This beauteous ladye milde, With greeved hart, perceived herselfe To have conceived with childe. Shee kept it from her parents sight As close as close might bee, And soe put on her silken gowne None might her swelling see.

Unto her lover secretly Her greefe shee did bewray, And walking with him hand in hand, These words to him did say: “Behold, quoth shee, a maids distresse By love brought to thy bowe, Behold I goe with childe by thee, Tho none thereof doth knowe.

“The litle babe springs in my wombe To heare its fathers voyce, Lett it not be a bastard called, Sith I made thee my choyce: Come, come, my love, perform thy vowe And wed me out of hand; O leave me not in this extreme Of griefe, alas I to stand.

“Think on thy former promises, Thy oathes and vowes eche one; Remember with what bitter teares To mee thou madest thy moane. Convay me to some secrets place, And marry me with speede, Or with thy rapyer end my life, Ere further shame proceede.”

“Alacke! my beauteous love,” quoth hee, “My joye, and only dear; Which way can I convay thee hence, When dangers are so near? Thy friends are all of hye degree, And I of meane estate; Full hard it is to gett thee forthe Out of thy fathers gate.”

“Dread not thy life to save my fame, For, if thou taken bee, Myselfe will step betweene the swords, And take the harme on mee: Soe shall I scape dishonor quite; And if I should be slaine, What could they say, but that true love Had wrought a ladyes bane.

“But feare not any further harme, Myselfe will soe devise, That I will ryde away with thee Unknowen of mortall eyes: Disguised like some pretty page Ile meete thee in the darke, And all alone Ile come to thee Hard by my fathers parke.”

“And there,” quoth hee, “Ile meete my deare If God soe lend me life, On this day month without all fayle I will make thee my wife.” Then with a sweet and loving kisse, They parted presentlye, And att their partinge brinish teares Stoode in eche others eye.”

Att length the wished day was come, On which this beauteous mayd, With longing eyes, and strange attire, For her true lover stayd. When any person shee espyed Come ryding ore the plaine, She hop’d it was her owne true love: But all her hopes were vaine.

Then did she weepe and sore bewayle Her most unhappy fate; Then did shee speake these woefull words, As succourless she sate; “O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man, Disloyall in thy love, Hast thou forgott thy promise past, And wilt thou perjured prove?

“And hast thou now forsaken mee In this my great distresse, To end my dayes in open shame, Which thou mightst well redresse? Woe worth the time I eer believ’d That flattering tongue of thine; Wold God that I had never seene The teares of thy false eyne.”

And thus with many a sorrowful sigh, Homewards shee went againe; Noe rest came in her waterye eyes, Shee felt such privye paine. In travail strong shee fell that night, With many a bitter throwe; What woefull paines shee did then feel, Doth eche good woman knowe.

Shee called up her waiting mayd, That lay at her bedds feete, Who musing at her mistress woe, Began full fast to weepe: “Weepe not,” said shee, “but shutt the dores, And windows round about, Let none bewray my wretched state, But keepe all persons out.”

“O mistress, call your mother deare, Of women you have neede, And of some skilfull midwifes helpe, That better may you speed.” Call not my mother for thy life, Nor fetch no woman here; The midwifes helpe comes all too late, My death I doe not feare.”

With that the babe sprang from her wombe No creature being nye, And with one sighe, which brake her hart, This gentle dame did dye. The lovely little infant young; The mother being dead, Resigned its new received breath To him that had it made.

Next morning came her own true love, Affrighted at the newes; And he for sorrow slew himselfe, Whom eche one did accuse. The mother with her new borne babe, Were laide both in one grave: Their parents overworne with woe, No joy thenceforth cold have.

Take heed, you dayntye damsells all, Of flattering words beware, And to the honour of your name Have an especial care. Too true, alas I this story is, As many one can tell; By others harmes learne to be wise, And you shall do full well.

XI. Waly Waly, Love be Bonny. A SCOTTISH SONG.

This is a very ancient song, but we can only give it from a modern copy. Some of the editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed:

“When cockle shells turn siller bells, And muscles grow on every tree, When frost and snaw sall warm us a’, Then sall my love prove true to me.” — See the Orpheus Caledonius, &c.

Arthur’s-seat, mentioned in ver. 17, is a hill near Edinburgh; at the bottom of which is St. Anthony’s well.

O WALY, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn side, Where I and my love wer wont to gae. I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow’d, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly, waly, gin love be bonny, A little time while it is new; But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades awa’ like morning dew. O wherfore shuld I busk my head? Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says he’ll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed, The sheets sall neir be fyl’d by me: Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? For of my life I am wearěe.

‘Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaws inclemencie; ‘Tis not sic cauld that maks me cry, But my love’s heart grown cauld to me. Whan we came in by Glasgowe town, We were a comely sight to see, My love was cled in black velvet, And I myself in cramasěe.

But had I wist; before I kisst, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, And pinnd it with a siller pin. And oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurses knee, And I mysell were dead and, gane! For a maid again Ise never be.

XII. The Wanton Wife of Bath.

[1]From an ancient copy in black-print, in the Pepys Collection. Mr. Addison has pronounced this an excellent ballad.— See the Spectator, No. 248.

In Bath a wanton wife did dwelle, As Chaucer he doth write, Who did in pleasure spend her dayes, And many a fond delight.

Upon a time sore sicke she was, And at the length did dye ; And then her soul at Heaven’s gate Did knocke most mightilye.

First Adam came unto the gate: “Who knocketh there?” quoth hee. “I am the Wife of Bath,” she sayd, “And faine would come to thee.”

“Thou art a sinner,” Adam sayd, “And here no place shalt have;” “And so art thou, I trowe,” quoth shee “And eke a doting knave.”

“I will come in in spight,” she sayd, “Of all such churles as thee; Thou wert the causer of our woe, Our paine and misery;

“And first broke God’s commandiments, In pleasure of thy wife:” When Adam heard her tell this tale, He ranne away for life.

Then downe came Jacob at the gate, And bids her packe to hell: “Thou false deceiving knave,” quoth she, “Thou mayst be there as well.

“For thou deceiv’dst thy father deare, And thine own brother too:” Away slunk Jacob presently, And made no more adoo.

She knockes again with might and maine, And Lot he chides her straite: “How now,” quoth she, “thou drunken ass, Who bade thee here to prate?

“With thy two daughters thou didst lye, On them two bastardes got:” And thus most tauntingly she chaft Against poor silly Lot.

“Who calleth there,” quoth Judith then, “With such shrill sounding notes?” “This fine minkes surely came not here,” Quoth she, “for cutting throats!”

Good Lord, how Judith blush’d for shame, When she heard her say soe! King David hearing of the same, He to the gate would goe.

Quoth David, “Who knockes there so loud, And maketh all this strife?” “You were more kinde, good sir,” she sayd, “Unto Uriah’s wife.

“And when thy servant thou didst cause In battle to be slaine, Thou causedst far more strife than I, Who would come here so faine.”

“The woman’s mad,” quoth Solomon, “That thus doth taunt a king;” “Not half so mad as you,” she sayd, “I trowe, in manye a thing.

“Thou hadst seven hundred wives at once, For whom thou didst provide, And yet, God wot, three hundred whores Thou must maintain beside.

“And they made thee forsake thy God, And worship stockes and stones; Besides the charge they put thee to In breeding of young bones.

“Hadst thou not bin beside thy wits, Thou wouldst not thus have ventur’d; And therefore I do marvel much How thou this place hast enter’d.”

“I never heard,” quoth Jonas then, “So vile a scold as this;” “Thou whore-son, run-away,” quoth she, “Thou diddest more amiss.”

“They say,” quoth Thomas, “womens tongues Of aspen-leaves are made; “Thou unbelieving wretch,” quoth she, “All is not true that’s sayd.”

When Mary Magdalen heard her then, She came unto the gate; Quoth she, “Good woman, you must think Upon your former state.

“No sinner enters in this place,” Quoth Mary Magdalene. “Then ‘Twere ill for you, fair mistress mine,” She answered her agen.

“You for your honestye,” quoth she, “Had once been ston’d to death, Had not our Saviour Christ come by, And written on the earth,

“It was not by your occupation You are become divine; I hope my soul, in Christ his passion, Shall be as safe as thine.”

Uprose the good apostle Paul; And to this wife he cried. “Except thou shake thy sins away, Thou here shalt be denyed.”

“Remember, Paul, what thou hast done All through a lewd desire, How thou didst persecute God’s church With wrath as hot as fire.”

Then up starts Peter at the last, And to the gate he hies; “Fond fool,” quoth he, “knock not so fast, Thou weariest Christ with cries.”

“Peter,” said she, “content thyselfe, For mercye may be won; I never did deny my Christ As thou thyselfe hast done.”

When as our Saviour Christ heard this, With heavenly angels bright, He comes unto this sinful soul, Who trembled at his sight.

Of him for mercye she did crave; Quoth he, “Thou hast refus’d My profferd grace and mercy both, And much my name abus’d.”

“Sore have I sinned, Lord,” she sayd, “And spent my time in vaine; But bring me, like a wandring sheepe, Into thy flocke againe.

“O Lord my God, I will amend My former wicked vice ; The thief for one poor silly word, Past into Paradise.”

“My lawes and my commandiments,” Saith Christ, “were knowne to thee; But of the same, in any wise, Not yet one word did yee.”

“I grant the same, O Lord,” quoth she; “Most lewdly did I live; But yet the loving father did His prodigal son forgive.”

“So I forgive thy soul,” he sayd, “Through thy repenting crye ; Come enter then into my joy, I will not thee denye.”

NOTES

1 This ballad was admitted by Percy into the earlier editions of the Reliques, though excluded from the revised edition of 1794.— Editor. V. 77, I think. P.

XIII. The Bride’s Burial

From two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the Pepys Collection; the other in the British Museum. To the tune of The Lady’s Fall.

COME mourne, come mourne with mee, You loyall lovers all; Lament my loss in weeds of woe, Whom griping grief doth thrall.

Like to the drooping vine, Cut by the gardener’s knife, Even so my heart with sorrow slaine, Doth bleede for my sweet wife.

By death, that grislye ghost, My turtle dove is slaine, And I am left, unhappy man, To spend my dayes in paine.

Her beauty late so bright, Like roses in their prime, Is wasted like the mountain snowe, Before warme Phoebus’ shine.

Her faire red colour’d cheeks Now pale and wan; her eyes, That late did shine like crystal stars, Alas! their light it dies:

Her prettye lilly hands, With fingers long and small, In colour like the earthly claye, Yea, cold and stiff withal!.

When as the morning-star Her golden gates hath spred, And that the glittering sun arose Forth from fair Thetis’ bed;

Then did my love awake, Most like a lilly-flower, And as the lovely queene of heaven, So shone shee in her bower.

Attired was shee then Like Flora in her pride, Like one of bright Diana’s nymphs, So look’d my loving bride.

And as fair Helens face Did Grecian dames besmirche, So did my dear exceed in sight All virgins in the church.

When we had knitt the knott Of holy wedlock-band, Like alabaster joyn’d to jett, So stood we hand in hand:

Then lo! a chilling cold Strucke every vital part, And griping grief, like pangs of death, Seiz’d on my true love’s heart.

Down in a swoon she fell, As cold as any stone; Like Venus picture lacking life, So was my love brought home.

At length her rosye red, Throughout her comely face, As Phoebus beames with watry cloudes Was cover’d for a space.

When with a grievous groane, And voice both hoarse and drye, “Farewell,” quoth she, “my loving friend, For I this daye must dye:

“The messenger of God With golden trumpe I see, With manye other angels more, Which sound and call for mee.

“Instead of musicke sweet, Go toll my passing-bell; And with sweet flowers strew my grave, That in my chamber smell.

“Strip off my bride’s arraye, My corke shoes from my feet; And, gentle mother, be not coye To bring my winding-sheet.

“My wedding dinner drest, Bestowe upon the poor, And on the hungry, needy, maimde, Now craving at the door.

“Instead of virgins yong, My bride-bed for to see, Go cause some cunning carpenter, To make a chest for mee.

“My bride laces of silk Bestowd, for maidens meet, May fitly serve, when I am dead, To tye my hands and feet.

“And thou, my lover true, My husband and my friend, Let me intreat thee here to staye, Until my life doth end.

“Now leave to talk of love, And humblye on your knee, Direct your prayers unto God: But mourne no more for mee.

“In love as we have livde, In love let us depart; And I, in token of my love, Do kiss thee with my heart.

“O staunch those bootless teares, Thy weeping ‘tis in vaine; I am not lost, for wee in heaven Shall one daye meet againe.”

With that shee turn’d aside, As one dispos’d to sleep, And like a lamb departed life Whose friends did sorely weep.

Her true love seeing this, Did fetch a grievous groane, As tho’ his heart would burst in twaine, And thus he made his moane:

“O darke and dismal daye, A daye of grief and care, That hath bereft the sun so bright, Whose beams refresht the air.

“Now woe unto the world, And all that therein dwell, O that I were with thee in heaven, For here I live in hell!”

And now this lover lives A discontented life, Whose bride was brought unto the grave A maiden and a wife.

A garland fresh and faire Of lillies there was made In sign of her virginitye, And on her coffin laid.

Six maidens all in white, Did beare her to the ground: The bells did ring in solemn sort, And made a dolefull sound.

In earth they laid her then, For hungry wormes a preye; So shall the fairest face alive At length be brought to claye.

XIV. Dulcina.

Given from two ancient copies, one in black-print, in the Pepys Collection, the other in the Editor’s folio manuscript. Each of these contained a stanza not found in the other. What seemed the best readings were selected from both. This song is quoted as very popular in Walton’s Compleat Angler, chap. 2. It is more ancient than the ballad of Robin Good-Fellow, printed below, which yet is supposed to have been written by Ben Jonson.

As at noone Dulcina rested In her sweete and shady bower, Came a shepherd, and requested In her lapp to sleepe an hour. But from her looke A wounde he tooke Soe deepe, that for a further boone The nymph he prayes, Wherto shee sayes, “Forgoe me now, come to me soone.”

But in vayne shee did conjure him To depart her presence soe; Having a thousand tongues to allure him And but one to bid him goe: Where lipps invite, And eyes delight, And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June, Persuade delay; What boots she say, “Forgoe me now, come to me soone?”

He demands what time for pleasure Can there be more fit than now: She sayes, “Night gives love that leysure, Which the day can not allow.” He says, “The sight Improves delight.” Which she denies: “Nights mirkie noone In Venus’ playes Makes bold,” shee sayes; “Forgoe me now, come to me soone.”

But what promise or profession From his hands could purchase scope? Who would sell the sweet possession Of such beautye for a hope? Or for the sight Of lingering night Forgoe the present joyes of noone? Though ne’er soe faire Her speeches were, “Forgoe me now, come to me soone.”

How, at last, agreed these lovers? Shee was fayre, and he was young: The tongue may tell what th’ eye discovers; Joyes unseene are never sung. Did shee consent, Or he relent? Accepts he night, or grants shee noone? Left he her a mayd Or not? she sayd “Forgoe me now, come to me soone.”

XV. The Lady Isabella’s Tragedy.

This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263. folio. It is there intitled, “The Lady Isabella’s Tragedy, or the Step-Mother’s Cruelty: being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the Lady Isabella, the only daughter to a noble Duke, &c. To the tune of The Lady’s Fall.” To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, “The Dutchess’s and Cook’s Lamentation.”

THERE was a lord of worthy fame, And a hunting he would ride, Attended by a noble traine Of gentrye by his side.

And while he did in chase remaine, To see both sport and playe; His ladye went, as she did feigne, Unto the church to praye.

This lord he had a daughter deare, Whose beauty shone so bright, She was belov’d, both far and neare, Of many a lord and knight.

Fair Isabella was she call’d, A creature faire was she; She was her fathers only joye, As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel step-mother Did envye her so much, That daye by daye she sought her life, Her malice it was such.

She bargain’d with the master-cook, To take her life awaye: And taking of her daughters book, She thus to her did saye:

“Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, Go hasten presentlie; And tell unto the master-cook These wordes that I tell thee:

“And bid him dresse to dinner straight That faire and milk-white doe, That in the parke doth shine so bright, There’s none so faire to showe.”

This ladye fearing of no harme, Obey’d her mothers will; And presentlye she hasted home, Her pleasure to fulfill.

She streight into the kitchen went, Her message for to tell; And there she spied the master-cook, Who did with malice swell.

“Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe, Do that which I thee tell: You needes must dresse the milk-white doe, Which you do knowe full well.”

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, He on the ladye layd; Who quivering and shaking stands, While thus to her he sayd:

“Thou art the doe that I must dresse, See here, behold my knife; For it is pointed presently To ridd thee of thy life.”

“O then,” cried out the scullion-boye, As loud as loud might bee; “O save her life, good master cook, And make your pyes of mee!

“For pityes sake do not destroye My ladye with your knife; You know shee is her father’s joye, For Christes sake save her life.”

“I will not save her life,” he sayd, Nor make my pyes of thee; Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye, Thy butcher I will bee.”

“Now when this lord he did come home For to sit downe and eat; He called for his daughter deare, To come and carve his meat.

“Now sit you down,” his ladye sayd, “O sit you downe to meat: Into some nunnery she is gone, Your daughter deare forget.”

Then solemnlye he made a vowe, Before the companěe, That he would neither eat nor drinke Until he did her see.

O then bespake the scullion-boye, With a loud voice so hye: “If now you will your daughter see, My lord, cut up that pye:”

“Wherein her fleshe is minced small, And parched with the fire; All caused by her step-mother, Who did her death desire.

“And cursed bee the master-cook, O cursed may he bee I proffered him my own heart’s blood, From death to set her free.”

Then all in blacke this lord did mourne, And for his daughters sake, He judged her cruell step-mother To be burnt at a stake.

Likewise he judg’d the master-cook In boiling lead to stand; And made the simple scullion-boye The heire of all his land.

XVI. The Hue and Cry after Cupid.

This song is a kind of translation of a pretty poem of Tasso’s, called Amore fuggitivo, generally printed with his Aminta, and originally imitated from the first Idyllium of Moschus. It is extracted from Ben Jonson’s Masque at the marriage of Lord Viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday, 1608. One stanza, full of dry mythology, is here omitted, as it had been dropt in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called Le Prince d’Amour. Lond. 1660. 8vo.

BEAUTIES, have yee seen a toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blinde; Cruel now, and then as kinde? If he be amongst yee, say; He is Venus’ run-away.

Shee, that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kisse, How and where herselfe would wish; But who brings him to his mother Shall have that kisse, and another.

Markes he hath about him plentie, You may know him among twentie All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire: Which, being shot, like lightning, in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

Wings he hath, which though yee clip, He will leape from lip to lip, Over liver, lights, and heart; Yet not stay in any part. And, if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himselfe in kisses.

He doth beare a golden bow, And a quiver hanging low, Full of arrowes, which outbrave Dian’s shafts; where, if he have Any head more sharpe than other, With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuell, When his daies are to be cruell; Lovers hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest bloud: Nought but wounds his hands doth season. And he hates none like to Reason.

Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldome with his heart doe meet; All his practice is deceit; Everie gift is but a bait; Not a kisse but poyson beares; And most treason’s in his teares.

Idle minutes are his raigne; Then the straggler makes his gaine, By presenting maids with toyes And would have yee thinke them joyes; ‘Tis the ambition of the elfe To have all childish as himselfe.

If by these yee please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. Though yee had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, yee’le not abide him, Since yee heare this falser’s play, And that he is Venus’ run-away.

XVII. The King of France’s Daughter.

The story of this ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of Charles the Bald, king of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph, king of England: but before the marriage was consummated, Ethelwulph died, and she returned to France, whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forester of Flanders; who, after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king’s consent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A.D. 863.— See Rapin, Henault, and the French Historians. The following copy is given from the Editor’s ancient folio manuscript, collated with another in black-letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled, “An excellent Ballad of a Prince of England’s courtship to the King of France’s Daughter, &c. To the Tune of Crimson Velvet.” Many breaches having been made in this old song by the hand of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhyme, an attempt is here made to repair them.

IN the dayes of old, When faire France did flourish, Storyes plaine have told, Lovers felt annoye. The queene a daughter bare, Whom beautye’s queene did nourish: She was lovelye faire, She was her father’s joye.

A prince of England came, Whose deeds did merit fame, But he was exil’d, and outcast: Love his soul did fire, Shee granted his desire, Their hearts in one were linked fast. Which when her father proved, Sorelye he was moved, And tormented in his minde. He sought for to prevent them And, to discontent them,— Fortune cross’d these lovers kinde.

When these princes twaine Were thus barr’d of pleasure, Through the kinges disdaine, Which their joyes withstoode The lady soone prepar’d Her jewells and her treasure: Having no regard For state and royall bloode; In homelye poore array She went from court away, To meet her joye and hearts delight; Who in a forest great Had taken up his seat, To wayt her coming in the night. But lo! what sudden danger To this princely stranger Chancčd, as he sat alone! By outlawes he was robbed, And with ponyards stabbed, Uttering many a dying grone.

The princesse, arm’d by love, And by chaste desire, All the night did rove Without dread at all: Still unknowne she past In her strange attire; Coming at the last Within echoes call “You faire woods,” quoth shee, “Honoured may you bee, Harbouring my hearts delight; Which encompass here My joye and only deare, My trustye friend, and comelye knight. Sweete, I come unto thee, Sweete, I come to woo thee; That thou mayst not angry bee For my long delaying; For thy curteous staying Soone amends Ile make to thee.”

Passing thus alone Through the silent forest, Many a grievous grone Sounded in her eares; She heard one complayne And lament the sorest, Seeming all in payne, Shedding deadly teares. “Farewell, my deare,” quoth hee, “Whom I must never see; For why my life is att an end, Through villaines crueltye; For thy sweet sake I dye, To show I am a faithfull friend. Here I lye a bleeding, While my thoughts are feeding On the rarest beautye found. O hard happ, that may be! Little knowes my ladye My heartes blood lyes on the ground.”

With that a grone he sends Which did burst asunder All the tender bands Of his gentle heart. She, who knewe his voice, At his wordes did wonder; All her former joyes Did to griefe convert. Strait she ran to see Who this man shold bee, That soe like her love did seeme: Her lovely lord she found Lye slaine upon the ground, Smear’d with gore a ghastlye streame. Which his lady spying, Shrieking, fainting, crying, Her sorrows could not uttered bee: “Fate,” she cryed, “too cruell! For thee — my dearest jewell, Would God! that I had dyed for thee.”

His pale lippes, alas! Twentye times she kissed, And his face did wash With her trickling teares; Every gaping wound Tenderlye she pressed, And did wipe it round With her golden haires.

“Speake, faire love,” quoth shee, “Speake, faire prince, to mee; One sweete word of comfort give; Lift up thy deare eyes, Listen to my cryes, Think in what sad griefe I live.” All in vaine she sued, All in vaine she wooed, The prince’s life was fled and gone; There stood she still mourning, Till the suns retourning, And bright day was coming on.

In this great distresse Weeping, wayling ever, Oft shee cryed, alas! “What will become of mee? To my fathers court I returne will never, But in lowlye sort I will a servant bee. While thus she made her mane, Weeping all alone, In this deepe and deadlye feare: A for’ster all in greene, Most comelye to be seene, Ranging the woods did find her there. Moved with her sorrowe, “Maid,” quoth hee, “good morrowe, What hard happ has brought thee here?” “Harder happ did never Two kinde hearts dissever: Here lyes slaine my brother deare.

“Where may I remaine, Gentle for’ster, shew me, ‘Till I can obtaine A service in my neede? Paines I will not spare: This kinde favour doe mee, It will ease my care; Heaven shall be thy meede.” The for’ster all amazed, On her beautye gazed, Till his heart was set on fire. “If, faire maid,” quoth hee, “You will goe with mee, You shall have your hearts desire.” He brought her to his mother, And above all other He sett forth this maidens praise. Long was his heart inflamed, At length her love he gained, And fortune crown’d his future dayes.

Thus unknowne he wedde With a kings faire daughter: Children seven they had, Ere she told her birth: Which when once he knew, Humblye he besought her, He to the world might shew Her rank and princelye worth. He cloath’d his children then, (Not like other men) In partye-colours strange to see; The right side cloth of gold, The left side to behold, Of woollen cloth still framed hee.[1] Men thereatt did wonder; Golden fame did thunder This strange deede in every place; The king of France came thither, It being pleasant weather, In those woods the hart to chase.

The children then they bring, So their mother will’d it, Where the royall king Must of force come bye. Their mothers riche array, Was of crimson velvet; Their fathers all of gray, Seemelye to the eye. Then this famous king, Noting every thing, Askt how he durst be so bold To let his wife soe weare, And decke his children there In costly robes of pearl and gold. The forester replying, And the cause descrying,[2] To the king these words did say, “Well may they, by their mother, Weare rich clothes with other, Being by birth a princesse gay.”

The king aroused thus, More heedfullye beheld them, Till a crimson blush His remembrance crost. “The more I fix my mind On thy wife and children, The more methinks I find The daughter which I lost.” Falling on her knee, “I am that child”, quoth shee; “Pardon mee, my soveraine liege! The king perceiving this, His daughter deare did kiss, While joyfull teares did stopp his speeche. With his traine he tourned, And with them sojourned. Strait he dubb’d her husband knight; Then made him Erle of Flanders, And chiefe of his commanders;— Thus were their sorrows put to flight.

NOTES

1 This will remind the reader of the livery and device of Charles Brandon, a private gentleman, who married the Queen Dowager of France, sister of Henry VIII. At a tournament, which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half cloth of gold, and half frieze, with the following motto:

Cloth of Gold do not despise, Tho’ thou art matcht with Cloth of Frieze; Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold, Tho’ thou art matcht with Cloth of Gold.”

See Sir W. Temple’s Misc. vol. iii. p. 356. 2. i.e. describing.— See Gloss.

XVIII. The Sweet Neglect.

his little madrigal (extracted from Ben Jonson’s Silent Woman, Act i. Scene 1. first acted in 1609.) is in imitation of a Latin poem printed at the end of the variorum edit. of Petronius, beginning, “Semper munditias, semper Basilissa, decoras”, &c. See Whally’s Ben Jonson. vol. ii. p. 420.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast Still to be poud’red, still perfum’d Lady, it is to be presum’d, Though art’s hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a looke, give me a face That makes simplicitie a grace; Robes loosely flowing, haire as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all th’ adulteries of art, That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

XIX. The Children in the Wood.

The subject of this very popular ballad (which has been set in so favourable a light by the Spectator, No. 85.) seems to be taken from an old play, intitled, “Two lamentable Tragedies; the one of the murder of Maister Beech, a chandler in Thames-streete, &c. The other of a young child murthered in a wood by two ruffians, with the consent of his unkle. By Rob. Yarrington, 1601, 4to.” Our ballad-maker has strictly followed the play in the description of the father and mother’s dying charge; in the uncle’s promise to take care of their issue; his hiring two ruffians to destroy his ward, under pretence of sending him to school; their choosing a wood to perpetrate the murder in; one of the ruffians relenting, and a battle ensuing, &c. In other respects he has departed from the play. In the latter the scene is laid in Padua; there is but one child, which is murdered by a sudden stab of the unrelenting ruffian; he is slain himself by his less bloody companion; but ere he dies gives the other a mortal wound; the latter living just long enough to impeach the uncle, who, in consequence of this impeachment, is arraigned and executed by the hand of justice, &c. Whoever compares the play with the ballad will have no doubt but the former is the original; the language is far more obsolete, and such a vein of simplicity runs through the whole performance, that, had the ballad been written first, there is no doubt but every circumstance of it would have been received into the drama; whereas this was probably built on some Italian novel. Printed from two ancient copies, one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection. Its title at large is,—”The Children in the Wood; or, The Norfolk Gentleman’s Last Will and Testament. To the tune of Rogero, &c.”

Now ponder well, you parents deare, These wordes which I shall write; A doleful story you shall heare, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate.

Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, No helpe his life could save; His wife by him as sicke did lye, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kinde; In love they liv’d, in love they dyed, And left two babes behinde:

The one a fine and prettye boy, Not passing three years olde; The other a girl more young than he, And fram’d in beautyes molde. The father left his little son, As plainlye doth appeare, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred poundes a year.

And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred poundes in gold, To be paid downe on marriage-day, Which might not be controll’d: But if the children chance to dye, Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possesse their wealth; For so the wille did run.

“Now, brother,” said the dying man, “Look to my children deare; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friendes else have they here: To God and you I recommend My children deare this daye; But little while be sure we have Within this world to staye.

“You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knowes what will become of them, When I am dead and gone.” With that bespake their mother deare, “O brother kinde, quoth shee, You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or miserie:

“And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deedes regard.” With lippes as cold as any stone, They kist their children small: “God bless you both, my children deare;” With that the teares did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there, “The keeping of your little ones Sweet sister, do not feare: God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children deare, When you are layd in grave.”

The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straite unto his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a daye, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both awaye.

He bargain’d with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slaye them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale, He would the children send To be brought up in faire London, With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoycing at that tide, Rejoycing with a merry minde, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the waye, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives decaye:

So that the pretty speech they had, Made Murder’s heart relent; And they that undertooke the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart, Did vowe to do his charge, Because the wretch, that hired him, Had paid him very large.

The other won’t agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight About the childrens life: And he that was of mildest mood, Did slaye the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for feare!

He took the children by the hand, Teares standing in their eye, And bad them straitwaye follow him, And looke they did not crye: And two long miles he ledd them on, While they for food complaine: “Staye here,” quoth he, “I’ll bring you bread, When I come back againe.”

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and downe; But never more could see the man Approaching from the town: Their prettye lippes with black-berries, Were all besmear’d and dyed, And when they save the darksome night, They sat them downe and cryed.

Thus wandered these poore innocents, Till deathe did end their grief, In one anothers arms they dyed, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair Of any man receives, Till Robin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrathe of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell His Barnes were fir’d, his goodes consum’d, His landes were barren made, His cattle dyed within the field, And nothing with him stayd.

And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sonnes did dye; And to conclude, himselfe was brought To want and miserye: He pawn’d and mortgaged all his land Ere seven yeares came about. And now at length this wicked act Did by this meanes come out:

The fellowe that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judg’d to dye, Such was God’s blessed will: Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been display’d: Their uncle having dyed in gaol, Where he for debt was layd.

You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like miserye Your wicked minds requite.

XX. A Lover Of Late.

Printed, with a few slight corrections, from the Editor’s folio MS.

A LOVER of late was I, For Cupid would have it soe, The boy that hath never an eye, As every man doth know: I sighed and sobbed, and cryed, alas! For her that laught, and called me ass.

Then knew not I what to doe When I saw itt was in vaine A lady soe coy to wooe, Who gave me the asse so plaine: Yet would I her asse freelye bee, Soe shee would helpe, and beare with mee.

An I were as faire as shee, Or shee were as kind as I, What payre cold have made, as wee, Soe prettye a sympathye? I was as kind as shee was faire, But for all this wee cold not paire.

Paire with her that will for mee, With her I will never paire; That cunningly can be coy, For being a little faire. The asse Ile leave to her disdaine; And now I am myselfe againe.

XXI. The King and the Miller of Mansfield.

It has been a favourite subject with our English ballad-makers to represent our kings conversing, either by accident or design, with the meanest of their subjects. Of the former kind, besides this song of the King and the Miller, we have King Henry and the Soldier; King James I. and the Tinker; King William III. and the Forester, &c. Of the latter sort, are King Alfred and the Shepherd; King Edward IV. and the Tanner; King Henry VIII. and the Cobbler, &c.— A few of the best of these are admitted into this Collection. Both the author of the following ballad, and others who have written on the same plan, seem to have copied a very ancient poem intitled “John the Reeve,” which is built on an adventure of the same kind, that happened between King Edward Longshanks and one of his Reeves or Bailiffs. This is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of Edward IV., and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners, is infinitely superior to all that have been since written in imitation of it. The Editor has a copy in his ancient folio manuscript, but its length rendered it improper for this work, it consisting of more than 900 lines. It contains also some corruptions, and the Editor chuses to defer its publication, in hopes that some time or other he shall be able to remove them. The following is printed, with corrections, from the Editor’s folio manuscript, collated with an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, intitled, “A pleasant Ballad of King Henry II. and the Miller of Mansfield, &c.”

PART THE FIRST

HENRY, our royall king, would ride a hunting To the greene forest so pleasant and faire; To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping: Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire: Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar’d For the game, in the same, with good regard.

All a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye, With all his princes and nobles eche one; Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, Till the dark evening forc’d all to turne home, Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite All his lords in the wood, late in the night.

Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe, With a rude miller he mett at the last: Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham; “Sir,” quoth the miller, “I meane not to jest, Yet I thinke, what I thinke, sooth for to say, You doe not lightlye ride out of your way.”

“Why, what dost thou thinke of me,” quoth our king merrily, “Passing thy judgment upon me so briefe?” “Good faith,” sayd the miller, “I meane not to flatter thee; I guess thee to bee but some gentleman thiefe; Stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne, Lest that I presentlye crack thy knaves crowne.”

“Thou dost abuse me much,” quoth the king, saying thus; “I am a gentleman; lodging I lacke.” “Thou hast not,” quoth th’ miller, “one groat in thy purse; All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.” “I have gold to discharge all that I call; If it be forty pence, I will pay all.”

“If thou beest a true man,” then quoth the miller, “I sweare by my toll-dish, I’ll lodge thee all night. “Here’s my hand,” quoth the king, “that was I ever.” “Nay, soft,” quoth the miller, “thou may’st be a sprite. Better I’ll know thee, ere hands we will shake; With none but honest men hands will I take.”

Thus they went all along unto the millers house: Where they were seething of puddings and souse: The miller first enter’d in, after him went the king; Never came hee in soe smoakye a house. “Now,” quoth hee, “let me see here what you are.” Quoth our king, “looke your fill, and doe not spare.”

“I like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face; With my son Richard this night thou shalt lye.” Quoth his wife, “by my troth, it is a handsome youth, Yet it’s best, husband, to deal warilye. Art thou no run-away, prythee, youth, tell? Shew me thy passport, and all shall be well.”

Then our king presentlye, making lowe courtesye, With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say: “I have no passport, nor never was servitor, But a poor courtyer, rode out of my way: And for your kindness here offered to mee, I will requite you in everye degree.”

Then to the miller his wife whisper’d secretlye, Saying, “It seemeth, this youth’s of good kin, Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners; To turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin.” “Yes,” quoth hee, “you may see, he hath some grace When he doth speake to his betters in place.”

“Well,” quo’ the millers wife, “young man, ye’re welcome here; And, though I say it, well lodged shall be: Fresh straw will I have, laid on thy bed so brave, And good brown hempen sheets likewise,” quoth shee. “Aye,” quoth the goodman; “and when that is done, Thou shalt lye with no worse than our own sonne.”

“Nay, first,” quoth Richard, good-fellowe, “tell me true, Hast thou noe creepers within thy gay hose Or art thou not troubled with the scabbado?” “I pray,” quoth the king, “what creatures are those?” “Art thou not lowsy, nor scabby?” quoth he: “If thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee.”

This caus’d the king, suddenlye, to laugh most heartilye, Till the teares trickled fast downe from his eyes. Then to their supper where they set orderlye, With hot bag-puddings and good apple-pyes; Nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle, Which did about the board merrilye trowle.

“Here,” quoth the miller, “good fellowe, I drinke to thee, And to all cuckholds wherever they bee,” “I pledge thee,” quoth our king, “and thanke thee heartilye For my good welcome in everye degree: And here, in like manner, I drinke to thy sonne,” “Do then,” quoth Richard, “and quicke let it come.”

“Wife,” quoth the miller, “fetch me forth lightfoote, And of his sweetnesse a little we’ll taste.” A fair ven’son pastye brought she out presentlye. “Eate,” quoth the miller, “but, Sir, make no waste. “Here’s dainty lightfoote!” in faith, sayd the king, “I never before eate so dainty a thing.”

“I wis,” quoth Richard, “no daintye at all it is, For we doe eate of it everye day.” “In what place,” sayd our king, “may be bought like to this?” “We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay: From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here; Now and then we make bold with our kings deer.”

“Then I thinke,” sayd our king, “that it is venison.” “Eche foole,” quoth Richard, “full well may know that: Never are wee without two or three in the roof, Very well fleshed, and excellent fat: But, prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe; We would not, for two pence, the king should it knowe.”

“Doubt not,” then sayd the king, “my promist secresye; The king shall never know more on’t for mee.” A cupp of lambs-wool they dranke unto him then, And to their bedds they past presentlie. The nobles, next morning, went all up and down, For to seeke out the king in everye towne.

At last, at the miller’s cott, soon they espy’d him out, As he was mounting upon his faire steede; To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee; Which made the millers heart wofully bleede; Shaking and quaking, before him he stood, Thinking he should have been hang’d, by the rood.

The king perceiving him fearfully trembling, Drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed: The miller downe did fall, crying before them all, Doubting the king would have cut off his head. But he his kind courtesye for to requite, Gave him great living, and dubb’d him a knight.

PART THE SECONDE

WHEN as our royall king came home from Nottingham, And with his nobles at Westminster lay; Recounting the sports and pastimes they had taken, In this late progress along on the way; Of them all, great and small, he did protest, The miller of Mansfield’s sport liked him best.

“And now, my lords,” quoth the king, “I am determined Against St. Georges next sumptuous feast, That this old miller, our new confirm’d knight, With his son Richard, shall here be my guest: For, in this merryment, ‘tis my desire To talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire.”

When as the noble lords saw the kinges pleasantness, They were right joyfull and glad in their hearts: A pursuivant there was sent straighte on the business, The which had often-times been in those parts. When he came to the place, where they did dwell, His message orderlye then ‘gan he tell.

“God save your worshippe,” then said the messenger, “And grant your ladye her own hearts desire; And to your sonne Richard good fortune and happiness; That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire. Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say, You must come to the court on St. Georges day:

“Therefore, in any case, faile not to be in place. “I-wis,” quoth the miller, “this is an odd jest. What should we doe there? faith, I am halfe afraid.” “I doubt,” quoth Richard, “to be hang’d at the least.” “Nay,” quoth the messenger, “you doe mistake; Our king he provides a great feast for.your sake.”

Then sayd the miller, “By my troth, messenger, Thou hast contented my worshippe full well. Hold, here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness, For these happy tydings which thou dost tell. Let me see, hear thou mee; tell to our king, We’ll wayt on his mastershipp in everye thing.”

The pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye, And, making many leggs, tooke their reward; And his leave taking with great humilitye To the king’s court againe he repair’d; Shewing unto his grace, merry and free, The knightes most liberall gift and bountie.

When he was gone away, thus ‘gan the miller say, “Here come expences and charges indeed; Now must we needs be brave, tho’ we spend all we have; For of new garments we have great need: Of horses and serving-men we must have store, With bridles and saddles, and twentye things more.”

“Tushe,” Sir John, quoth his wife, “why should you frett or frowne? You shall ne’er be att no charges for mee; For I will turne and trim up my old russet gowne, With everye thing else as fine as may bee; And on our mill-horses swift we will ride, With pillowes and pannells, as we shall provide.”

In this most statelye sort rode they unto the court, Their jolly sonne Richard rode foremost of all; Who set up, for good hap,[1] a cocks feather in his cap, And so they jetted downe to the kings hall; The merry old miller with hands on his side; His wife, like maid Marian,[2] did mince at that tide.

The king and his nobles that heard of their coming, Meeting this gallant knight with his brave traine; “Welcome, Sir Knight,” quoth he, “with your gay lady; Good Sir John Cockle, once welcome againe: And soe is the squire of courage soe free.” Quoth Dicke, “a bots on you! do you know mee?” Quoth our king gentlye, “how should I forgot thee? Thou wast my owne bed-fellowe, well it I wot.” “Yea, sir,” quoth Richard, “and by the same token, Thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot. “Thou whore-son unhappy knave,” then quoth the knight, “Speak cleanly to our king, or else go sh***!”

The king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, While the king taketh them both by the hand; With the court-dames, and maids, like to the queen of spades, The millers wife did soe orderly stand. A milk-maids courtesye at every word; And downe all the folkes were set to the board.

There the king royally, in princelye majestye, Sat at his dinner with joy and delight; When they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell, And in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight: “Here’s to you both, in wine, ale, and beer; Thanking you heartilye for my good cheer.”

Quoth Sir John Cockle, “I’ll pledge you a pottle, Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire:” But then said our king, “now I think of a thing; Some of your lightfoote I would we had here.” “Ho! ho!” quoth Richard, “full well may I say it, ‘Tis knavery to eate it and then to betray it.”

“Why art thou angry?” quoth our king merrilye; “In faith, I take it now very unkind: I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily.” Quoth Dicke, “you are like to stay till I have din’d: You feed us with twatling dishes soe small; Zounds! a blacke pudding is better than all.”

“Aye, marry,” quoth our king, “that were a daintye thing, Could a man get but one here for to eate.” With that Dicke straite arose, and pluckt one from his hose, Which with heat of his breech ‘gan to sweate. The king made a proffer to snatch it away:— ‘Tis meat for your master: good Sir, you must stay.”

Thus in great merriment was the time wholly spent; And then the ladyes prepared to dance. Old Sir John Cockle, and Richard, incontinent Unto their places the king did advance. Here with the ladyes such sport they did make, The nobles with laughing did make their sides ake.

Manye thankes for their paines did the king give them, Asking young Richard then, if he would wed; Among these ladyes free, tell me which liketh thee? Quoth he, “Jugg Grumball, Sir, with the red head: She’s my love, she’s my life, her will I wed;” She hath sworn I shall have her maidenhead.

Then Sir John Cockle the king call’d unto him, And of merry Sherwood made him o’erseer; And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye: “Take heed now you steale no more of my deer: And once a quarter let’s here have your view; And now, Sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu.”

NOTES

1 “For good hap,” i.e. for good luck: they were going on an hazardous expedition. 2. Maid Marian, in the Morris dance, was represented by a man in woman’s clothes, who was to take short steps in order to sustain the female character.

XXII. The Shepherd’s Resolution.

This beautiful old song was written by a poet whose name would have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved by Swift as a term of contempt. “Dryden and Wither” are coupled by him like the Bavius and Maevius of Virgil. Dryden, however, has had justice done him by posterity; and as for Wither, though of subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius will be judged from the following stanzas. The truth is, Wither was a very voluminous party- writer; and as his political and satirical strokes rendered him extremely popular in his life-time, so afterwards, when these were no longer relished, they totally consigned his writings to oblivion. George Wither was born June 11, 1588, and in his younger years distinguished himself by some pastoral pieces that were not inelegant; but growing afterwards involved in the political and religious disputes in the time of James I. and Charles I. he employed his poetical vein in severe pasquils on the court and clergy, and was occasionally a sufferer for the freedom of his pen. In the civil war that ensued, he exerted himself in the service of the Parliament, and became a considerable sharer in the spoils. He was even one of those provincial tyrants whom Oliver distributed over the kingdom, under the name of Major Generals, and had the fleecing of the county of Surrey; but, surviving the Restoration. he outlived both his power and his affluence; and giving vent to his chagrin in libels on the court, was long a prisoner in Newgate and the Tower. He died at length on the 2nd of May, 1667. During the whole course of his life Wither was a continual publisher, having generally for opponent, Taylor, the Water-poet. The long list of his productions may be seen in Wood’s Athena Oxon. vol. ii. His most popular satire is lntitled, Abuses whipt and stript, 1613. His most poetical pieces were eclogues, intitled, The Shepherd’s Hunting, 1615, 8vo. and others printed at the end of Browne’s Shepherd’s Pipe, 1614, 8vo. The following sonnet is extracted from a long pastoral piece of his, intitled, The Mistresse of Philarete, 1622, 8vo. which is said in the preface to be one of the author’s first poems; and may therefore be dated as early as any of the foregoing.

SHALL I, wasting in dispaire, Dye because a woman’s faire? Or make pale my cheeks with care, ‘Cause another’s rosie are? Be shee fairer than the day, Or the flowry meads in May; If she be not so to me, What care I how faire shee be?

Shall my foolish heart be pin’d ‘Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joyned with a lovely feature? Be shee meeker, kinder, than The turtle-dove or pelican: If shee be not so to me, What care I how kind shee be?

Shall a woman’s virtue move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well deservings knowne, Make me quite forget mine owne? Be shee with that goodnesse blest, Which may merit name of Best; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?

‘Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the foole and dye? Those that beare a noble minde, Where they want of riches find, Thinke what with them they would doe, That without them dare to wooe; And, unlesse that minde I see, What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or faire, I will ne’er the more dispaire If she love me, this beleeve; I will die ere she shall grieve. If she slight me when I wooe, I can scorne and let her goe: If shee be not fit for me, What care I for whom she be?

XXIII. Queen Dido.

Such is the title given in the Editor’s folio manuscript to this excellent old ballad, which, in the common printed copies, is inscribed, Eneas, wandering Prince of Troy. It is here given from that manuscript, collated with two different printed copies, both in black-letter, in the Pepys Collection. The reader will smile to observe with what natural and affecting simplicity our ancient ballad-maker has engrafted a Gothic conclusion on the classic story of Virgil, from whom, however, it is probable he had it not. Nor can it be denied but he has dealt out his poetical justice with a more impartial hand than that celebrated poet.

WHEN Troy towne had for ten yeeres past, Withstood the Greekes in manfull wise, Then did their foes encrease soe fast, That to resist none could suffice: Wast lye those walls, that were soe good, And corne now growes where Troy towne stoode.

Aneas, wandering prince of Troy, When he for land long time had sought, At length arriving with great joy, To mighty Carthage walls was brought; Where Dido queene, with sumptuous feast, Did entertaine that wandering guest.

And, as in hall at meate they sate, The queene, desirous newes to heare, Says, “of thy Troys unhappy fate Declare to me thou Trojan deare The heavy hap and chance soe bad, That thou, poore wandering prince, hast had.”

And then anon this comelye knight, With words demure, as he cold well, Of his unhappy ten year’s fight, Soe true a tale began to tell, With words soe sweete, and sighes soe deep; That oft he made them all to weepe.

And then a thousand sighes he fet, And every sigh brought teares amaine; That where he sate the place was wett, As though he had seene those warrs againe Soe that the queene, with ruth therfore, Said worthy prince, enough, no more.

And then the darksome knight drew on, And twinkling starres the skye bespred; When he his dolefull tale had done, And every one was layd in bedd: Where they full sweetly tooke their rest, Save only Dido’s boyling brest.

This silly woman never slept, But in her chamber, all alone, As one unhappye, always wept, And to the walls shee made her mone; That she shold still desire in vaine The thing, she never must obtaine.

And thus in grieffe she spent the night, Till twinkling starres the skye were fled, And Phoebus, with his glistering light, Through misty cloudes appeared red; Then tidings came to her anon, That all the Trojan shipps were gone.

And then the queene, with bloody knife, Did arme her hart as hard as stone, Yet, something loth to loose her life, In woefull wise she made her mone; And, rowling on her carefull bed, With sighes and sobbs, these words shee sayd:

“O wretched Dido queene!” quoth shee, “I see thy end approacheth neare; For hee is fled away from thee, Whom thou didst love and hold so deare: What! is he gone, and passed by? O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye.

“Though reason says, thou shouldst forbeare, And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke; Yet fancy bids thee not to fear, Which fetter’d thee in Cupids yoke. Come death, quoth shee, resolve my smart!”— And with those words shee pierced her hart.

When death had pierced the tender hart Of Dido, Carthaginian queene; Whose bloudy knife did end the smart, Which shee sustain’d in mournfull teene; Ćneas being shipt and gone, Whose flattery caused all her mone;

Her funerall most costly made, And all things finisht mournfullye; Her body fine in mold was laid, Where itt consumed speedilye: Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde; Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed.

Then was Ćneas in an ile In Grecya, where he stayd long space, Wheras her sister in short while Writt to him to his vile disgrace; In speeches bitter to his mind Shee told him plaine he was unkind.

“False-hearted wretch,” quoth shee, “thou art; And traiterouslye thou hast betraid Unto thy lure a gentle hart, Which unto thee much welcome made; My sister deare, and Carthage’ joy, Whose folly bred her deere annoy.

“Yett on her death-bed when shee lay, Shee prayd for thy prosperitye, Beseeching God, that every day Might breed thy great felicitye: Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend; Heavens send thee such untimely end.”

When he these lines, full fraught with gall, Perused had, and wayed them right, His lofty courage then did fall; And straight appeared in his sight Queene Dido’s ghost, both grim and pale: Which made this valiant souldier quaile.

“Ćneas,” quoth this ghastly ghost, “My whole delight when I did live, Thee of all men I loved most; My fancy and my will did give: For entertainment I thee gave, Unthankefully thou didst me grave.

“Therfore prepare thy flitting soule To wander with me in the aire: Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle, Because of me thou tookst no care: Delay not time, thy glasse is run, Thy date is past, thy life is done.”

“O stay a while, thou lovely sprite, Be not soe hasty to convay My soule into eternall night, Where itt shall ne’re behold bright day. O doe not frowne; thy angry looke Hath all my soule with horror shooke.

“But, woe is me! all is in vaine, And bootless is my dismall crye; Time will not be recalled againe, Nor thou surcease before I dye. O lett me live, and make amends To some of thy most dearest friends.

“But seeing thou obdurate art, And wilt no pittye on me show, Because from thee I did depart, And left unpaid what I did owe I must content myselfe to take What lott to me thou wilt partake.”

And thus, as one being in a trance, A multitude of uglye feinds About this woffull prince did dance; He had no helpe of any friends: His body then they tooke away, And no man knew his dying day.

XXIV. The Witches’ Song.

From Ben Jonson’s Masque of Queens, presented at Whitehall, Feb.

2, 1609.

The Editor thought it incumbent on him to insert some old pieces on the popular superstition concerning witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and ghosts. The last of these make their appearance in most of the tragical ballads; and in the following songs will be found some description of the former. It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classical antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, in compliment to King James I., whose weakness on this head is well known; and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished. By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellow-creatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated.

1 WITCH.

“I HAVE been all day looking after A raven feeding upon a quarter: And, soone as she turn’d her beak to the south, I snatch’d this morsell out of her mouth.”

2 WITCH.

“I have beene gathering wolves haires, The madd dogges foames, and adders eares; The spurging of a dead man’s eyes: And all since the evening starre did rise.”

3 WITCH.

“I last night lay all alone O’ the ground, to heare the mandrake grone; And pluckt him up, though he grew full low: And, as I had done, the cocke did crow.”

4 WITCH.

“And I ha’ beene chusing out this scull From charnell houses that were full; From private grots, and publike pits: And frighted a sexton out of his wits.”

5 WITCH.

“Under a cradle I did crepe By day; and, when the childe was a-sleepe At night, I suck’d the breath; and rose, And pluck’d the nodding nurse by the nose.

6 WITCH.

“I had a dagger: what did I with that? Killed an infant to have his fat. A piper it got at a church-ale. I bade him again blow wind i’ the taile.”

7 WITCH.

“A murderer yonder was hung in chaines; The sunne and the wind had shrunke his veins: I bit off a sinew; I clipp’d his haire; I brought off his ragges, that danc’d i’ the ayre.”

8 WITCH.

“The scrich-owles egges and the feathers blacke, The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his backe I have been getting; and made of his skin A purset, to keepe Sir Cranion in.”

9 WITCH.

“And I ha’ beene plucking (plants among) Hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue, Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards-bane; And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.”

10 WITCH.

“I from the jaw’s of a gardiner’s bitch Did snatch these bones, and then leap’d the ditch: Yet went I back to the house againe, Kill’d the blacke cat, and here is the braine.”

11 WITCH.

“I went to the toad, breedes under the wall, I charmed him out, and he came at my call; I scratch’d out the eyes of the owle before; I tore the batts wing: what would you have more?”

DAME.

“Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows, Horned poppie, cypresse boughes, The fig-tree wild, that grows on tombes, And juice, that from the larch-tree comes, The basiliskes bloud, and the vipers skin:— And now our orgies let’s begin.”

XXV. Robin Good-Fellow.

Alias Pucke, alias Hobgoblin, in the creed of ancient superstition, was a kind of merry sprite, whose character and achievements are recorded in this ballad, and in those well-known lines of Milton’s L’Allegro, which the antiquarian Peck supposes to be owing to it:—

“Tells how the drudging Goblin swet To earn his cream-bowle duly set: When in one night, ere glimpse of morne, His shadowy flail hath thresh’d the corn That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And stretch’d out all the chimneys length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matins rings.”

The reader will observe that our simple ancestors had reduced all these whimsies to a kind of system, as regular, and perhaps more consistent, than many parts of classic mythology; a proof of the extensive influence and vast antiquity of these superstitions. Mankind, and especially the common people, could not every where have been so unanimonsly agreed concerning these arbitrary notions, if they had not prevailed among them for many ages. Indeed, a learned friend in Wales assures the Editor, that the existence of Fairies and Goblins is alluded to by the most ancient British Bards, who mention them under various names, one of the most common of which signifies “the spirits of the mountains.” See also the Preface to Song xxv. This song, which Peck attributes to Ben Jonson (though it is not found among his works), is chiefly printed from an ancient black- letter copy in the British Museum. It seems to have been originally intended for some masque. This ballad is entitled, in the old black-letter copies, “The merry Pranks of Robin Goodfellow. To the tune of Dulcina,” &c. (See No. xiv. above.)

FROM Oberon, in fairye land, The king of ghosts and shadowes there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to viewe the night-sports here. What revell rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o’ersee, And merry bee, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightening can I flye About this aery welkin soone, And, in a minutes space, descrye Each thing that’s done belowe the moone, There’s not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, “ware Goblins!” where I go, But Robin I Their feates will spy, And send them home, with ho, ho, ho!

Whene’er such wanderers I meete, As from their night-sports they trudge home; With counterfeiting voice I greete And call them on, with me to roame Thro’ woods, thro’ lakes, Thro’ bogs, thro’ brakes; Or else, unseene, with them I go, All in the nicke To play some tricke And frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho!

Sometimes I meete them like a man; Sometimes, an ox, sometimes, a hound; And to a horse I turn me can; To trip and trot about them round. But if, to ride, My backe they stride, More swift than wind away I go, Ore hedge and lands, Thro’ pools and ponds I whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho

When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with juncates fine; Unseene of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine; And, to make sport, I fart and snort; And out the candles I do blow; The maids I kiss;. They shrieke,”Who’s this?.” I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho!

Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wooll; And while they sleepe and take their ease, With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still; I dress their hemp, I spin their tow, If any ‘wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When house or harth doth sluttish lye, I pinch the maidens black and blue; The bed-clothes from the bed pull I, And lay them naked all to view. ‘Twixt sleepe and wake, I do them take, And on the key-cold floor them throw: If out they cry, Then forth I fly, And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho!

When any need to borrowe ought, We lend them what they do require: And for the use demand we nought; Our owne is all we do desire. If to repay, They do delay, Abroad amongst them then I go, And, night by night, I them affright With pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho!

When lazie queans have nought to do, But study how to cog and lye; To make debate and mischief too, ‘Twixt one another secretlye I mark their gloze, And it disclose, To them whom they have wronged so: When I have done, I get me gone, And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!

When men do traps and engins set In loop holes, where the vermine creepe, Who from their foldes and houses, get Their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe: I spy the gin, And enter in, And seeme a vermine taken so; But when they there Approach me neare, I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!

By wells and rills, in meadowes greene, We nightly dance our hey-day guise;[1] And to our fairye king and queene We chant our moon-light minstrelsies. When larks ‘gin sing, Away we fling; And babes new borne steal as we go, And elfe in bed We leave instead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin’s time have I Thus nightly revell’d to and fro: And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, Who haunt the nightes, The hags and goblins do me know; And beldames old My feates have told; So Vale, Vale; ho, ho, ho!

NOTES

1. This word is perhaps corruptly given; being apparently the same with HEYDEGUIES, or HEYDEGUIVES, which occurs in Spenser, and means a “wild frolic dance.”— Johnson’s Dictionary.

XXVI. The Fairy Queen.

We have here a short display of the popular belief concerning FAIRIES. It will afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to their origin. Whoever considers how early, how extensively, and how uniformly, they have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those who fetch them from the East so late as the time of the croisades. Whereas it is well known that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed in the existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits, whom they called Duergar, or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed many wonderful performances, far exceeding human art. Vid. Hervarer Saga Olaj Verelj. 1675, Hickes’ Thesaur. &c. This song is given (with some corrections by another copy) from a book intitled “The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, &c.” Lond. 1658, 8vo.

COME, follow, follow me, You, fairy elves that be: Which circle on the greene, Come, follow Mab your queene. Hand in hand let’s dance around, For this place is fairye ground.

When mortals are at rest, And snoring in their nest: Unheard, and unespy’d, Through key-holes we do glide; Over tables, stools, and shelves, We trip it with our fairy elves.

And, if the house be foul With platter, dish, or bowl, Up stairs we nimbly creep, And find the sluts asleep: There we pinch their armes and thighes; None escapes, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept, And from uncleanness kept, We praise the household maid, And duely she is paid: For we use before we goe To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroomes head Our table-cloth we spread; A grain of rye, or wheat, Is manchet; which we eat; Pearly drops of dew we drink In acorn cups fill’d to the brink.

The brains of nightingales, With unctuous fat of snailes, Between two cockles stew’d, Is meat that’s easily chew’d; Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, Do make a dish, that’s wonderous nice.

The grashopper, gnat, and fly, Serve for our. minstrelsie; Grace said, we dance a while, And so the time beguile: And if the moon doth hide her head, The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewie grasse So nimbly do we passe, The young and tender stalk Ne’er bends when we do walk: Yet in the morning may be seen Where we the night before have been.

XXVII. The Fairies Farewell.

This humorous old song fell from the hand of the witty Dr. Corbet (afterwards bishop of Norwich, &c.), and is printed from his Poëtica Stromata, 1648, 12mo. (compared with the third edition of his poems, 1672.) It is there called “A proper new Ballad, intitled, The Fairies Farewell, or God-a-mercy Will, to be sung or whistled to the tune of The Meddow Brow, by the learned: by the unlearned, to the tune of Fortune.” The departure of Fairies is here attributed to the abolition of monkery: Chaucer has, with equal humour, assigned a cause the very reverse in his Wife of Bath’s Tale.

In olde dayes of the king Artour, Of which that Bretons speken great honour, All was this lond fulfilled of faerie; The elf-quene, with hire joly compagnie Danced ful oft in many a grene mede. This was the old opinion as I rede; I speke of many hundred yeres ago; But now can no man see non elves mo, For now the grete charitee and prayers Of limitoures and other holy freres, That serchen every land and every streme, As thikke as motes in the sonne beme, Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures, Citees and burghes, castles high, and toures, Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies, This maketh that ther ben no faeries: For ther as wont to walken was an elf, Ther walketh now the limitour himself, In undermeles and in morweninges, And sayth his Matines and his holy thinges, As he goth in his limitatioun. Women may now go safely up and doun, In every bush, and under every tree, Ther is non other incubus but he, And he ne will don hem no dishonour.” — Tyrwhitt’s Chaucer, i. p. 255.

Dr. Richard Corbet, having been bishop of Oxford about three years, and afterwards as long bishop of Norwich, died in 1635, ćtat

52.

FAREWELL rewards and Fairies! Good housewives now may say; For now foule sluts in dairies Doe fare as well as they; And though they sweepe their hearths no less Than mayds were wont to doe, Yet who of late for cleaneliness Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?

Lament, lament old Abbies, The fairies lost command; They did but change priests babies, But some have chang’d your land; And all your children stoln from thence Are now growne Puritanes, Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your demaines.

At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad, So little care of sleepe and sloth These prettie ladies had. When Tom came home from labour, Or Ciss to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabour, And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelayes Of theirs, which yet remaine; Were footed in queene Maries dayes On many a grassy playne. But since of late Elizabeth And later James came in; They never danc’d on any heath, As when the time hath bin.

By which wee note the fairies Were of the old profession: Their songs were Ave Maries, Their dances were procession. But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas, Or farther for religion fled, Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company They never could endure; And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished sure; It was a just and christian deed To pinch such blacke and blue; O how the common-welth doth need Such justices as you!

Now they have left our quarters; A register they have, Who can preserve their charters; A man both wise and grave. An hundred of their merry pranks By one that I could name Are kept in store; con twenty thanks To William for the same.

To William Churne of Staffordshire Give laud and praises due, Who every meale can mend your cheare With tales both old and true: To William all give audience, And pray yee for his noddle: For all the fairies evidence Were lost, if it were addle.

- After these Songs on the Fairies, the reader may be curious to see the manner in which they were formerly invoked and bound to human service. In Ashmole’s collection of Manuscripts, at Oxford (No. 8259. 1406. 2.), are the papers of some alchymist, which contain a variety of incantations and forms of conjuring both Fairies, Witches, and Demons, principally, as it should seem, to assist him in his great work of transmuting metals. Most of them are too impious to be reprinted; but the two following may be very innocently laughed at.

Whoever looks into Ben Jonson’s Alchymist, will find that these impostors, among their other secrets, affected to have a power over Fairies; and that they were commonly expected to be seen in a crystal glass, appears from that extraordinary book, “The Relation of Dr. John Dee’s Actions with Spirits, 1659,” folio.

“AN EXCELLENT WAY to gett a FAYRIE. (For myself I call MARGARETT BARRANCE; but this will obteine any one that is not allready bownd.)

“First, gett a broad square christall or Venice glasse, in length and breadth 3 inches. Then lay that glasse or christall in the bloud of a white henne, 3 Wednesdayes, or 3 Fridayes. Then take it out, and wash it with holy aq. and fumigate it. Then take 3 hazel sticks, or wands of an yeare groth; pill them fayre and white; and make them soe longe, as you write the SPIRITTS name, or FAYRIES name, which you call, 3 times on every sticke being made flatt on one side. Then bury them under some hill, where, as you suppose, FAYRIES haunt, the Wednesdaye before you call her; and the Fridaye followinge take them uppe, and call her at 8 or 3 or 10 of the clocke, which be good planetts and houres for that turne: but when you call, be in cleane life, and turne thy face towards the east. And when you have her, bind her to that stone or glasse.”

“An UNGUENT to annoynt under the Eyelids, and upon the Eyelids eveninge and morninge; but especially when you call, or find your sight not perfect.

“R. A pint of sallet-oyle, and put it into a viall glasse: but first wash it with rose-water, and marigold-water: the flowers to be gathered towards the east. Wash it till the oyle come white: then put it into the glasse, ut supra: and then put thereto the budds of holyhocke, the flowers of marygold, the flowers or toppes of wild thime, the budds of young hazle: and the thime must be gathered neare the side of a hille where FAYRIES use to be: and take the grasse of a fayrie throne, there. All these put into the oyle, into the glasse: and set it to dissolve 3 dayes in the sunne, and then keep it for thy use, ut supra.” After this receipt for the Unguent follows a form of incantation, wherein the alchymist conjures a Fairy, named Elaby Gathon, to appear to him in that chrystal glass, meekly and mildly; to resolve him truly in all manner of questions; and to be obedient to all his commands, under pain of damnation, &c. One of the vulgar opinions about Fairies is, that they cannot be seen by human eyes, without a particular charm exerted in favour of the person who is to see them; and that they strike with blindness such as, having the gift of seeing them, take notice of them mal-a- propos. As for the hazel sticks mentioned above, they were to be probably of that species called the witch hazel, which received its name from this manner of applying it in incantations.

BOOK IX.

I. The Birth of St. George.

The incidents in this, and the other ballad of St. George and the Dragon, are chiefly taken from the old story-book of The Seven Champions of Christendome; which, though now the play-thing of children, was once in high repute. Bishop Hall, in his Satires, published in 1597, ranks

“St. George’s sorrell, and his cross of blood,”

among the most popular stories of his time; and an ingenious critic thinks that Spencer himself did not disdain to borrow hints from it[1], though I much doubt whether this popular romance were written so early as the Faery Queen.

The author of this book of the Seven Champions was one Richard Johnson, who lived in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, as we collect from his other publications, viz. “The nine worthies of London, 1592,” 4to.—”The pleasant walks of Moor fields, 1607,” 4to.- “A crown garland of Goulden Roses, gathered, &c. 1612,” 8vo.-“The life and death of Rob. Cecill, E. of Salisbury, 1612,”4to.—”The Hist. of Tom of Lincoln,” 4to. is also by R. J. who likewise reprinted “Don Flores of Greece,” 4to. The Seven Champions, though written in a wild inflated style, contains some strong Gothic painting, which seems, for the most part, copied from the metrical romances of former ages. At least the story of St. George and the fair Sabra is taken almost verbatim from the old poetical legend of “Syr Bevis of Hampton.” This very antique poem was in great fame in Chaucer’s time, and so continued till the introduction of printing, when it ran through several editions, two of which are in black-letter, 4to. “imprinted by Wyllyam Copland,” without date, containing great variations. As a specimen of the poetic powers of this very old rhymist, and as a proof how closely the author of the Seven Champions has followed him, take a description of the dragon slain by Sir Bevis.

“—Whan the dragon, that foule is, Had a syght of Syr Bevis, He cast up a loude cry, As it had thondred in the sky; He turned his bely towarde the son; It was greater than any tonne: His scales was bryghter than the glas, And harder they were than any bras: Betwene his shulder and his tayle, Was forty fote withoute fayle. He waltred out of his denne, And Bevis pricked his stede then, And to hym a spere he thraste That all to shyvers he it braste: The dragon then gan Bevis assayle, And smote Syr Bevis with his tayle: Then downe went horse and man, And two rybbes of Bevis brused than.”

After a long fight, at length, as the dragon was preparing to fly, Sir Bevis

“Hit him under the wynge, As he was in his flyenge, There he was tender without scale, And Bevis thought to be his bale. He smote after, as I you say; With his good sword Morglaye. Up to the hiltes Morglay rode Through hart, lyver, bone, and bloude: To the ground fell the dragon, Great joye Syr Bevis begon. Under the scales al on hyght He smote off his head forth right, And put it on a spere:” &c. — Sign. K. iv.

Sir Bevis’s dragon is evidently the parent of that in the Seven Champions, see chap. iii. viz. “The dragon no sooner had a sight of him [St. George] but he gave such a terrible peal, as though it had thundered in the elements . . . Betwixt his shoulders and his tail were fifty feet in distance, his scales glistering as bright as silver, but far more hard than brass; his belly of the colour of gold, but bigger than a tun. Thus weltered he from his den, &c. . . . The champion . . . gave the dragon such a thrust with his spear, that it shivered in a thousand pieces: whereat the furious dragon so fiercely smote him with his venomous tail, that down fell man and horse: in which fall, two of St. George’s ribs were so bruised, &c.— At length . . . St. George smote the dragon under the wing, where it was tender without scale, whereby his good sword Ascalon with an easie passage went to the very hilt through both the dragon’s heart, liver, bone, and blood. Then St. George cut off the dragon’s head, and pitcht it upon the truncheon of a spear,” &c. The History of the Seven Champions, being written just before the decline of books of chivalry, was never, I believe, translated into any foreign language: but “Le Roman de Beuves of Hantonne” was published at Paris in 1502, 4to. Let. Gothique. The learned Selden tells us, that about the time of the Norman invasion was Bevis famous with the title of Earl of Southampton, whose residence was at Duncton in Wiltshire; but he observes, that the monkish enlargements of his story have made his very existence doubted. See Notes on Poly-Olbion, Song iii. This hath also been the case of St. George himself; whose martial history is allowed to be apocryphal. But, to prove that there really existed an orthodox saint of this name (although little or nothing, it seems, is known of his genuine story) is the subject of “An Historical and Critical Inquiry into the Existence and Character of Saint George, &c. By the Rev. J. Milner, F.S.A. 1792, 8vo.” The equestrian figure worn by the Knights of the Garter, has been understood to be an emblem of the Christian warrior, in his spiritual armour, vanquishing the old serpent. But on this subject the inquisitive reader may consult “A Dissertation on the Original of the Equestrian Figure of the George and of the Garter, Ensigns of the most noble Order of that name. Illustrated with copper-plates. By John Pettingal, A M. Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries. London, 1753,” 4to. This learned and curious work the author of the “Historical and Critical Inquiry” would have done well to have seen. It cannot be denied, but that the following ballad is for the most part modern: for which reason it would have been thrown to the end of the volume, had not its subject procured it a place here.

LISTEN, lords, in bower and hall, I sing the wonderous birth Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm Rid monsters from the earth.

Distressed ladies to relieve He travell’d many a day; In honour of the Christian faith, Which shall endure for aye.

In Coventry sometime did dwell A knight of worthy fame, High steward of this noble realme; Lord Albert was his name.

He had to wife a princely dame, Whose beauty did excell: This virtuous lady, being with child, In sudden sadness fell:

For thirty nights no sooner sleep Had clos’d her wakeful eyes, But, lo! a foul and fearful dream Her fancy would surprize:

She dreamt a dragon fierce and fell Conceiv’d within her womb; Whose mortal fangs her body rent Ere he to life could come.

All woe-begone, and sad was she; She nourisht constant woe: Yet strove to hide it from her lord, Lest he should sorrow know.

In vain she strove; her tender lord, Who watch’d her slightest look, Discover’d soon her secret pain, And soon that pain partook.

And when to him the fearful cause She, weeping, did impart, With kindest speech he strove to heal The anguish of her heart.

“Be comforted, my lady dear, Those pearly drops refrain; Betide me weal, betide me woe, I’ll try to ease thy pain.

“And for this foul and fearful dream, That causeth all thy woe, Trust me, I’ll travel far away But I’ll the meaning knowe.”

Then giving many a fond embrace, And shedding many a teare, To the weird lady of the woods, He purpos’d to repaire.

To the weird lady of the woods, Full long and many a day, Thro’ lonely shades and thickets rough He winds his weary way.

At length he reach’d a dreary dell With dismal yews o’erhung; Where cypress spred its mournful boughs, And pois’nous nightshade sprung.

No chearful gleams here pierc’d the gloom, He hears no chearful sound; But shrill night-ravens’ yelling scream, And serpents hissing round.

The shriek of fiends and damned ghosts Ran howling thro’ his ear: A chilling horror froze his heart, Tho’ all unus’d to fear.

Three times he strives to win his way, And pierce those sickly dews: Three times to bear his trembling corse His knocking knees refuse.

At length upon his beating breast He signs the holy crosse; And, routing up his wonted might, He treads th’ unhallow’d mosse.

Beneath a pendant craggy cliff, All vaulted like a grave, And opening in the solid rock, He found the inchanted cave.

An iron gate clos’d up the mouth, All hideous and forlorne; And, fasten’d by a silver chain, Near hung a brazed horne.

Then offering up a secret prayer, Three times he blowes amaine: Three times a deepe and hollow sound Did answer him againe.

“Sir knight, thy lady beares a son, Who, like a dragon bright, Shall prove most dreadful to his foes, And terrible in fight.

“His name advanc’d in future times On banners shall be worn: But, lo! thy lady’s life must passe Before he can be born.”

All sore opprest with fear and doubt Long time Lord Albert stood; At length he winds his doubtful way Back thro’ the dreary wood.

Eager to clasp his lovely dame Then fast he travels back: But when he reach’d his castle-gate, His gate was hung with black.

In every court and hall he found A sullen silence reigne: Save where, amid the lonely towers, He heard her maidens ‘plaine;

And bitterly lament and weep, With many a grievous grone Then sore his bleeding heart misgave, His lady’s life was gone.

With faultering step he enters in, Yet half affraid to goe; With trembling voice asks why they grieve, Yet fears the cause to knowe.

“Three times the sun hath rose and set;” They said, then stopt to weep: “Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare In death’s eternal sleep.

“For, ah! in travel sore she fell, So sore that she must dye; Unless some shrewd and cunning leech Could ease her presentlye.

“But when a cunning leech was fet, Too soon declared he, She, or her babe must lose its life; Both saved could not be.”

“Now take my life,” thy lady said, “My little infant save: And O commend me to my lord, When I am laid in grave.

“O tell him how that precious babe Cost him a tender wife: And teach my son to lisp her name, Who died to save his life.

“Then calling still upon thy name, And praying still for thee; Without repining or complaint, Her gentle soul did flee.”

What tongue can paint Lord Albert’s woe, The bitter tears he shed, The bitter pangs that wrung his heart, To find his lady dead?

He beat his breast: he tore his hair; And shedding many a tear, At length he askt to see his son; The son that cost so dear.

New sorrowe seiz’d the damsels all: At length they faultering say; “Alas! my lord, how shall we tell? Thy son is stoln away.

“Fair as the sweetest flower of spring, Such was his infant mien: And on his little body stampt Three wonderous marks were seen:

“A blood-red crosse was on his arm; A dragon on his breast; A little garter all of gold Was round his leg exprest.

“Three carefull nurses we provide Our little lord to keep: One gave him sucke, one gave him food, And one did lull to sleep.

“But, lo! all in the dead of night, We heard a fearful sound: Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook; And lightning flasht around.

“Dead with affright at first we lay; But rousing up anon, We ran to see our little lord: Our little lord was gone!

“But how or where wecould not tell; For lying on the ground, In deep and magic slumbers laid, The nurses there we found.”

“O grief on grief!” Lord Albert said: No more his tongue cou’d say, When falling in a deadly swoone, Long time he lifeless lay.

At length restor’d to life and sense He nourisht endless woe, No future joy his heart could taste, No future comfort know.

So withers on the mountain top A fair and stately oake, Whose vigorous arms are torne away By some rude thunder-stroke.

At length his castle irksome grew, He loathes his wonted home; His native country he forsakes, In foreign lands to roame.

There up and downe he wandered far, Clad in a palmer’s gown Till his brown locks grew white as wool, His beard as thistle down.

At length, all wearied, down in death He laid his reverend head. Meantime amid the lonely wilds His little son was bred.

There the weird lady of the woods Had borne him far away, And train’d him up in feats of armes, And every martial play.

NOTES

1. Mr. Wharton. Vid. Observations on the Fairy Queen, 2 vols. 1762, 12mo. passim.

II. St. George and the Dragon.

The following ballad is given (with some corrections) from two ancient black-letter copies in the Pepys Collection; one of which is in 12mo. the other in folio.

OF Hector’s deeds did Homer sing; And of the sack of stately Troy, What griefs fair Helena did bring, Which was Sir Paris’ only joy: And by my pen I will recite St. George’s deeds, an English knight.

Against the Sarazens so rude Fought he full long and many a day; Where many gyants he subdu’d, In honour of the Christian way: And after many adventures past To Egypt land he came at last.

Now, as the story plain doth tell, Within that countrey there did rest A dreadful dragon fierce and fell, Whereby they were full sore opprest Who by his poisonous breath each day, Did many of the city slay.

The grief wherof did grow so great Throughout the limits of the land, That they their wise-men did intreat To shew their cunning out of hand; What way they might this fiend destroy, That did the countrey thus annoy.

The wise-men all before the king This answer fram’d incontinent; The dragon none to death might bring By any means they could invent; His skin more hard than brass was found, That sword nor spear could pierce nor wound.

When this the people understood, They cryed out most piteouslye, The dragon’s breath infects their blood, That every day in heaps they dye; Among them such a plague it bred, The living scarce could bury the dead.

No means there were, as they could hear, For to appease the dragon’s rage, But to present some virgin clear, Whose blood his fury might asswage; Each day he would a maiden eat, For to allay his hunger great.

This thing by art the wise-men found, Which truly must observed be; Wherefore throughout the city round A virgin pure of good degree Was by the king’s commission still Taken up to serve the dragon’s will.

Thus did the dragon every day Untimely crop some virgin flowr, Till all the maids were worn away, And none were left him to devour; Saving the king’s fair daughter bright, Her father’s only heart’s delight. Then came the officers to the king

That heavy message to declare, Which did his heart with sorrow sting; “She is,” quoth he, “my kingdom’s heir: O let us all be poisoned here, Ere she should die, that is my dear.”

Then rose the people presentlye, And to the king in rage they went; They said his daughter dear should dye, The dragon’s fury to prevent; “Our daughters all are dead,” quoth they, “And have been made the dragon’s prey:

“And by their blood we rescued were, And thou hast saved thy life thereby; And now in sooth it is but faire, For us thy daughter so should die.” “O save my daughter,” said the king; And let ME feel the dragon’s sting.”

Then fell fair Sabra on her knee, And to her father dear did say, “O father, strive not thus for me, But let me be the dragon’s prey; It may be, for my sake alone This plague upon the land was thrown.

“‘Tis better I should dye, she said, Than all your subjects perish quite; Perhaps the dragon here was laid, For my offence to work his spite: And after he hath suckt my gore, Your land shall feel the grief no more.”

“What hast thou done, my daughter dear, For to deserve this heavy scourge? It is my fault, as may appear, Which makes the gods our state to purge; Then ought I die, to stint the strife, And to preserve thy happy life.”

Like mad-men, all the people cried, “Thy death to us can do no good; Our safety only doth abide In making her the dragon’s food.” “Lo! here I am, I come,” quoth she, “Therefore do what you will with me.”

“Nay stay, dear daughter,” quoth the queen, “And as thou art a virgin bright, That hast for vertue famous been, So let me cloath thee all in white. And crown thy head with flowers sweet, An ornament for virgins meet.”

And when she was attired so, According to her mother’s mind, Unto the stake then did she goe; To which her tender limbs they bind: And being bound to stake a thrall, She bade farewell unto them all.

“Farewell, my father dear,” quoth she, And my sweet mother meek and mild; Take you no thought nor weep for me, For you may have another child: Since for my country’s good I dye, Death I receive most willinglye.”

The king and queen and all their train With weeping eyes went then their way, And let their daughter there remain, To be the hungry dragon’s prey: But as she did there weeping lye, Behold St. George came riding by.

And seeing there a lady bright So rudely tyed unto a stake, As well became a valiant knight, He straight to her his way did take: “Tell me, sweet maiden,” then quoth he, “What caitif thus abuseth thee?

“And lo! by Christ his cross I vow, Which here is figured on my breast, I will revenge it on his brow, And break my lance upon his chest:” And speaking thus whereas he stood, The dragon issued from the wood.

The lady that did first espy The dreadful dragon coming so, Unto St. George aloud did cry, And willed him away to go; “Here comes that cursed fiend,” quoth she, “That soon will make an end of me.”

St. George then looking round about, The fiery dragon soon espy’d, And like a knight of courage stout, Against him did most fiercely ride; And with such blows he did him greet, He fell beneath his horse’s feet.

For with his launce that was so strong, As he came gaping in his face, In at his mouth he thrust along; For he could pierce no other place: And thus within the lady’s view This mighty dragon straight he slew.

The savour of his poisoned breath Could do this holy knight no harm: Thus he the lady sav’d from death, And home he led her by the arm: Which when King Ptolemy did see, There was great mirth and melody.

When as that valiant champion there Had slain the dragon in the field, To court he brought the ladye fair, Which to their hearts much joy did yield. He in the court of Egypt staid Till he most falsely was betray’d.

That lady dearly lov’d the knight He counted her his only joy; But when their love was brought to light, It turn’d unto their great annoy: Th’ Morocco king was in the court, Who to the orchard did resort,

Dayly to take the pleasant ayre, For pleasure sake he us’d to walk, Under a wall he oft did hear St. George with Lady Sabra talk: Their love he shew’d unto the king, Which to St. George great woe did bring.

Those kings together did devise To make the Christian knight away: With letters him in curteous wise They straightway sent to Persia: But wrote to the Sophy him to kill, And treacherously his blood to spill.

Thus they for good did him reward With evil, and most subtilly By such vile meanes they had regard To work his death most cruelly; Who, as through Persia land he rode, With zeal destroy’d each idol god.

For which offence he straight was thrown Into a dungeon dark and deep; Where, when he thought his wrongs upon, He bitterly did wail and weep: Yet like a knight of courage stout, At length his way he digged out.

Three grooms of the King of Persia By night this valiant champion slew, Though he had fasted many a day; And then away from thence he flew On the best steed the Sophy had; Which when he knew he was full mad.

Towards Christendom he made his flight, But met a gyant by the way, With whom in combat he did fight Most valiantly a summer’s day: Who yet, for all his bats of steel, Was forc’d the sting of death to feel.

Back o’er the seas with many bands Of warlike souldiers soon he past, Vowing upon those heathen lands To work revenge; which at the last, Ere thrice three years were gone and spent, He wrought unto his heart’s content.

Save onely Egypt land he spar’d For Sabra bright her only sake, And, ere for her he had regard, He meant a tryal kind to make: Mean while the king, o’ercome in field, Unto Saint George did quickly yield.

Then straight Morocco’s king he slew, And took fair Sabra to his wife, But meant to try if she were true Ere with her he would lead his life: And, tho’ he had her in his train, She did a virgin pure remain.

Toward England then that lovely dame The brave St. George conducted strait, An eunuch also with them came, Who did upon the lady wait. These three from Egypt went alone. Now mark St. George’s valour shown.

When as they in a forest were, The lady did desire to rest; Mean while St. George to kill a deer, For their repast did think it best: Leaving her with the eunuch there, Whilst he did go to kill the deer.

But, lo! all in his absence came Two hungry lyons fierce and fell, And tore the eunuch on the same In pieces small, the truth to tell; Down by the lady then they laid, Whereby they shew’d, she was a maid.

But when he came from hunting back, And did behold this heavy chance, Then for his lovely virgin’s sake His courage strait he did advance, And came into the lions sight, Who ran at him with all their might.

Their rage did him no whit dismay, Who, like a stout and valiant knight, Did both the hungry lyons slay Within the Lady Sabra’s sight: Who all this while sad and demure, There stood most like a virgin pure.

Now when St. George did surely know This lady was a virgin true, His heart was glad, that erst was woe, And all his love did soon renew: He set her on a palfrey steed, And towards England came with speed.

Where being in short space arriv’d Unto his native dwelling place; Therein with his dear love he liv’d, And fortune did his nuptials grace: They many years of joy did see, And led their lives at Coventry.

III. Love will find out the Way.

This excellent song is ancient; but we could only give it from a modern copy.

OVER the mountains And over the waves; Under the fountains, And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest; Which Neptune obey; Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lye; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come, he will enter, And soon find out his way.

You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight: But if she, whom love doth honour, Be conceal’d from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him, By having him confin’d; And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne’er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The Phenix of the east; The lioness, ye may move her To give o’er her prey; But you’ll ne’er stop a lover: He will find out his way.

IV. Lord Thomas and Fair Annet A SCOTTISH BALLAD

This piece seems to be composed (not without improvements) out of two ancient English ones, printed in the former part of this work. See book vii. ballad xv. and book viii. ballad iv. If this had been the original, the authors of those two ballads would hardly have adopted two such different stories: besides, this contains enlargements not to be found in either of the others. It is given, with some corrections, from a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland.

LORD THOMAS and fair Annet Sate a’ day on a hill; Whan night was cum, and sun was sett, They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest, Fair Annet took it ill: “A’! I will nevir wed a wife Against my ain friends will.”

“Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife, A wife wull neir wed yee.” Sae he is hame to tell his mither, And knelt upon his knee::

“O rede, O rede, mither,” he says, “A gude rede gie to mee: O sall I tak the nut-browne bride, And let fair Annet bee?

“The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear, Fair Annet she has gat nane; And the little beauty fair Annet has, O it wull soon be gane!”

And he has till his brother gane “Now, brother, rede ye mee; A’ sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, And let fair Annet bee?

“The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother, The nut-browne bride has kye; I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride, And cast fair Annet bye.”

“Her oxen may dye i’ the house, Billěe, And her kye into the byre; And I sall hae nothing to my-sell, Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.”

And he has till his sister gane: “Now, sister, rede ye mee; O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, And set fair Annet free?”

“Ise rede ye take fair Annet, Thomas, And let the browne bride alane; Lest ye sould sigh and say, Alace! What is this we brought hame?”

“No, I will tak my mithers counsel, And marrie me owt o’ hand; And I will tak the nut-browne bride; Fair Annet may leive the land.”

Up then rose fair Annets father Twa hours or it wer day, And he is gane into the bower, Wherein fair Annet lay.

“Rise up, rise up,” fair Annet, he says, “Put on your silken sheene; “Let us gae to St. Maries kirk; And see that rich weddeen.”

“My maides, gae to my dressing-roome, And dress to me my hair; Whair-eir yee laid a plait before, See yee lay ten times mair.

“My maids, gae to my dressing-room, And dress to me my smock; The one half is o’ the Holland fine, The other o’ needle-work.”

The horse fair Annet rade upon, He amblit like the wind, Wi’ siller he was shod before, Wi’ burning gowd behind.

Four-and-twenty siller bells Wer a’ ty’d till his mane, And yae tift o’ the norland wind, They tinkled ane by ane.

Four-and-twenty gay gude knichts Rade by fair Annets side, And four-and-twenty fair ladies, As gin she had bin a bride.

And whan she cam to Maries kirk, She sat on Maries stean: The cleading that fair Annet had on It skinkled in their een.

And whan she cam into the kirk, She shimmer’d like the sun; The belt that was about her waist, Was a’ wi’ pearles bedone.

She sat her by the nut-browne bride, And her een they wer sae clear, Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride, Whan fair Annet she drew near.

He had a rose into his hand, And he gave it kisses three, And reaching by the nut-browne bride, Laid it on fair Annets knee.

Up then spak the nut-browne bride, She spak wi’ meikle spite; “And whair gat ye that rose-water, That does mak yee sae white?”

“O I did get the rose-water Whair ye wull neir get nane, For I did get that very rose-water Into my mithers wame.”

The bride she drew a long bodkin, Frae out her gay head-gear, And strak fair Annet unto the heart, That word she nevir spak mair.

Lord Thomas he saw fair Annet wax pale, And marvelit what mote bee: But whan he saw her dear hearts blude A’ wood-wroth waxed hee.

He drew his dagger, that was sae sharp, That was sae sharp and meet, And drave into the nut-browne bride, That fell deid at his feit.

“Now stay for me, dear Annet,” he sed, “Now stay, my dear, he cry’d;” Then strake the dagger untill his heart, And fell deid by her side.

Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa’, Fair Annet within the quiere; And o’ the tane thair grew a birk, The other a bonny briere.

And ay they grew, and ay they threw, As they wad faine be neare; And by this ye may ken right weil, They were twa luvers deare.

V. Unfading Beauty.

This beautiful little sonnet is reprinted from a small volume of “Poems, by Thomas Carew, Esq. one of the gentlemen of the privie chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty (Charles I.) Lond. 1640.” This elegant and almost-forgotten writer, whose poems have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of his age, 1639. In the original follows a third stanza; which, not being of general application, nor of equal merit, I have ventured to omit.

HEE, that loves a rosie cheeke, Or a corall lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seeke Fuell to maintaine his fires, As old time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and stedfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calme desires, Hearts with equal love combin’d, Kindle never-dying fires: Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes.

- * * * * * * *

VI. George Barnwell.

The subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. This was written by George Lillo, a jeweller of London, and first acted about 1730. As for the ballad, it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century. It is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of Roman and black-letter. It is also collated with another copy in the Ashmole Collection at Oxford, which is thus intitled, “An excellent ballad of George Barnwell, an apprentice of London, who . . . thrice robbed his master, and murdered his vncle in Ludlow.” The tune is The Merchant. This tragical narrative seems to relate a real fact; but when it happened I have not been able to discover.

THE FIRST PART

ALL youths of fair England That dwell both far and near, Regard my story that I tell, And to my song give ear.

A London lad I was, A merchant’s prentice bound; My name George Barnwell; that did spend My master many a pound.

Take heed of harlots then, And their enticing trains; For by that means I have been brought To hang alive in chains.

As I, upon a day, Was walking through the street About my master’s business, A wanton I did meet.

A gallant dainty dame, And sumptuous in attire; With smiling look she greeted me, And did my name require.

Which when I had declar’d, She gave me then a kiss, And said, if I would come to her, I should have more than this.

“Fair mistress,” then quoth I, “If I the place may know, This evening I will be with you, For I abroad must go

“To gather monies in, That are my master’s due And ere that I do home return, I’ll come and visit you.”

“Good Barnwell,” then quoth she, “Do thou to Shoreditch come, And ask for Mrs. Millwood’s house, Next door unto the Gun.

“And trust me on my truth, If thou keep touch with me, My dearest friend, as my own heart Thou shalt right welcome be.”

Thus parted we in peace, And home I passed right; Then went abroad, and gathered in, By six o’clock at night,

An hundred pound and one: With bag under my arm I went to Mrs. Millwood’s house, And thought on little harm;

And knocking at the door, Straightway herself came down; Rustling in most brave attire, With hood and silken gown.

Who through her beauty bright, So gloriously did shine, That she amaz’d my dazzling eyes, She seemed so divine.

She took me by the hand, And with a modest grace, “Welcome, sweet Barnwell,” then quoth she, “Unto this homely place.

“And since I have thee found As good as thy word to be: A homely supper, ere we part, Thou shalt take here with me.”

“O pardon me,” quoth I, “Fair mistress I you pray; For why, out of my master’s house So long I dare not stay.”

“Alas! good sir,” she said, “Are you so strictly ty’d, You may not with your dearest friend One hour or two abide?

“Faith, then the case is hard: If it be so,” quoth she, “I would I were a prentice bound, To live along with thee:

“Therefore, my dearest George, List well what I shall say, And do not blame a woman much, Her fancy to bewray.

“Let not affection’s force Be counted lewd desire; Nor think it not immodesty I should thy love require.”

With that she turn’d aside, And with a blushing red, A mournful motion she bewray’d By hanging down her head.

A handkerchief she had All wrought with silk and gold: Which she to stay her trickling tears Before her eyes did hold.

This thing unto my sight Was wondrous rare and strange; And in my soul and inward thought It wrought a sudden change:

That I so hardy grew, To take her by the hand: Saying, “Sweet mistress, why do you So dull and pensive stand?”

“Call me no mistress now, But Sarah, thy true friend, Thy servant, Millwood, honouring thee, Until her life hath end.

“If thou wouldst here alledge, Thou art in years a boy; So was Adonis, yet was he Fair Venus’ only joy.”

Thus I, who ne’er before Of woman found such grace, But seeing now so fair a dame Give me a kind embrace,

I supt with her that night, With joys that did abound; And for the same paid presently, In money twice three pound.

An hundred kisses then, For my farewel she gave; Crying, “Sweet Barnwell, when shall I Again thy company have?

“O stay not hence too long, Sweet George, have me in mind:” Her words bewicht my childishness, She uttered them so kind.

So that I made a vow, Next Sunday without fail, With my sweet Sarah once again To tell some pleasant tale.

When she heard me say so, The tears fell from her eye; “O George,” quoth she, “if thou dost fail, Thy Sarah sure will dye.”

Though long, yet loe! at last, The appointed day was come, That I must with my Sarah meet; Having a mighty sum

Of money in my hand,[1] Unto her house went I, Whereas my love upon her bed In saddest sort did lye.

“What ails my heart’s delight, My Sarah dear?” quoth I; “Let not my love lament and grieve, Nor sighing pine, and die.

“But tell me, dearest friend, What may thy woes amend, And thou shalt lack no means of help, Though forty pound I spend.”

With that she turn’d her head, And sickly thus did say, “Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great, Ten pound I have to pay

“Unto a cruel wretch; And God he knows,” quoth she, “I have it not.” “Tush, rise, I said, And take it here of me.

“Ten pounds, nor ten times ten, Shall make my love decay;” Then from my bag into her lap, I cast ten pound straightway.

All blithe and pleasant then, To banqueting we go; She proffered me to lye with her, And said it should be so.

And after that same time, I gave her store of coyn, Yea, sometimes fifty pounds at once; All which I did purloyn.

And thus I did pass on; Until my master then Did call to have his reckoning in Cast up among his men.

The which when as I heard, I knew not what to say: For well I knew that I was out Two hundred pound that day.

Then from my master straight I ran in secret sort; And unto Sarah Millwood there My case I did report.

But how she us’d this youth, In this his care and woe, And all a strumpet’s wiley ways, The SECOND PART may showe.

THE SECOND PART

“YOUNG Barnwell comes to thee, Sweet Sarah, my delight; I am undone unless thou stand My faithful friend this night.

“Our master to accompts Hath just occasion found; And I am caught behind the hand Above two hundred pound:

“And now his wrath to ‘scape, My love, I fly to thee, Hoping some time I may remaine In safety here with thee.”

With that she knit her brows, And looking all aquoy, Quoth she, “What should I have to do With any prentice boy?

“And seeing you have purloyn’d Your master’s goods away, The case is bad, and therefore here You shall no longer stay.”

“Why, dear, thou know’st,” I said, How all which I could get, I gave it, and did spend it all Upon thee every whit.”

Quoth she, “Thou art a knave, To charge me in this sort, Being a woman of credit fair, And known of good report:

“Therefore I tell thee flat, Be packing with good speed; I doe defie thee from my heart, And scorn thy filthy deed.”

“Is this the friendship that You did to me protest? Is this the great affection, which You so to me exprest?

“Now fie on subtle shrews! The best is, I may speed To get a lodging any where For money in my need.

“False woman, now farewell, Whilst twenty pound doth last, My anchor in some other haven With freedom I will cast.”

When she perceiv’d by this, I had store of money there “Stay, George,” quoth she, “thou art too quick: Why, man, I did but jeer.

“Dost think, for all my speech, That I would let thee go? Faith no, said she, my love to thee I wiss is more than so.”

“You scorne a prentice boy, I heard you just now swear, Wherefore I will not trouble you.” —”Nay, George, hark in thine ear;

“Thou shalt not go to-night, What chance soe’re befall: But man we’ll have a bed for thee, Or else the devil take all.”

So I by wiles bewitcht, And snar’d with fancy still, Had then no power to get away, Or to withstand her will.

For wine on wine I call’d, And cheer upon good cheer; And nothing in the world I thought For Sarah’s love too dear.

Whilst in her company, I had such merriment; All, all too little I did think, That I upon her spent.

“A fig for care and thought! When all my gold is gone, In faith, my girl, we will have more, Whoever I light upon.

“My father’s rich; why then Should I want store of gold?” “Nay with a father sure,” quoth she, “A son may well make bold.”

“I’ve a sister richly wed; I’ll rob her ere I’ll want.” “Nay then,” quoth Sarah, “they may well Consider of your scant.”

“Nay, I an uncle have; At Ludlow he doth dwell; He is a grazier, which in wealth Doth all the rest excell.

“Ere I will live in lack, And have no coyn for thee: I’ll rob his house and murder him.” “Why should you not?” quoth she:

“Was I a man, ere I Would live in poor estate; On father, friends, and all my kin, I would my talons grate.

“For without money, George, A man is but a beast: But bringing money thou shalt be Always my welcome guest.

“For shouldst thou be pursued With twenty hues and cryes, And with a warrant searched for With Argus’ hundred eyes,

“Yet here thou shalt be safe; Such privy ways there be, That if they sought an hundred years, They could not find out thee.

And so carousing both Their pleasures to content: George Barnwell had in little space His money wholly spent.

Which done, to Ludlow straight He did provide to go, To rob his wealthy uncle there; His minion would it so.

And once he thought to take His father by the way, But that he fear’d his master had Took order for his stay.[2]

Unto his uncle then He rode with might and main, Who with a welcome and good cheer Did Barnwell entertain.

One fortnight’s space he stayed, Until it chanced so, His uncle with his cattle did Unto a market go.

His kinsman rode with him, Where he did see right plain, Great store of money he had took: When coming home again,

Sudden within a wood, He struck his uncle down, And beat his brains out of his head; So sore he crackt his crown.

Then seizing fourscore pound, To London straight he hyed, And unto Sarah Millwood all The cruell fact descryed.

“Tush, ‘tis no matter, George, So we the money have To have good cheer in jolly sort, And deck us fine and brave.”

Thus lived in filthy sort, Until their store was gone: When means to get them any more, I-wis, poor George had none.

Therefore in railing sort, She thrust him out of door: Which is the just reward of those Who spend upon a whore.

“O do me not disgrace In this my need,” quoth he, She call’d him thief and murderer, With all the spight might be:

To the constable she sent, To have him apprehended; And shewed how far, in each degree, He had the laws offended.

When Barnwell saw her drift, To sea he got straightway; Where fear and sting of conscience Continually on him lay.

Unto the lord mayor then, He did a letter write; In which his own and Sarah’s fault He did at large recite.

Whereby she seized was And then to Ludlow sent; Where she was judg’d, condemn’d, and hang’d, For murder incontinent.

There dyed this gallant quean, Such was her greatest gains; For murder in Polonia, Was Barnwell hang’d in chains.

Lo! here’s the end of youth, That after harlots haunt: Who in the spoil of other men, About the streets do flaunt.

NOTES

1. The having a sum of money with him on Sunday, &c. shews this narrative to have been penned before the civil wars: the strict observance of the Sabbath was owing to the change of manners at that period. 2. i.e. for stopping and apprehending him at his father’s.

VII. The Stedfast Shepherd.

These beautiful stanzas were written by George Wither, of whom some account was given in a previous part of this volume: see the song intitled The Shepherd’s Resolution, book v. song xxi. In the first edition of this work only a small fragment of this sonnet was inserted. It was afterwards rendered more complete and entire by the addition of five stanzas more, extracted from Wither’s pastoral poem, intitled The Mistress of Philarete, of which this song makes a part. It is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of The Shepherd’s Hunting, 1620, 8vo.

HENCE away, thou Syren, leave me! Pish! unclaspe these wanton armes; Sugred words can ne’er deceive me, (Though thou prove a thousand charmes). Fie, fie, forbeare; No common snare Can ever my affection chaine: Thy painted baits, And poor deceits, Are all bestowed on me in vaine.

I’me no slave to such as you be; Neither shall that snowy brest, Rowling eye, and lip of ruby Ever robb me of my rest: Goe, goe, display Thy beautie’s ray To some more-soone enamour’d swaine: Those common wiles Of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vaine.

I have elsewhere vowed a dutie; Turne away thy tempting eye: Shew not me a painted beautie; These impostures I defie: My spirit lothes Where gaudy clothes And fained othes may love obtaine: I love her so, Whose looke sweares No; That all your labours will be vaine.

Can he prize the tainted posies, Which on every brest are worne; That may plucke the virgin roses From their never-touched thorne? I can goe rest On her sweet brest, That is the pride of Cynthia’s traine: Then stay thy tongue; Thy mermaid song Is all bestowed on me in vaine.

Hee’s a foole, that basely dallies, Where each peasant mates with him: Shall I haunt the thronged vallies, Whilst ther’s noble hils to climbe? No, no, though clownes Are scar’d with frownes, I know the best can but disdaine: And those Ile prove So will thy love Be all bestowed on me in vaine.

I do scorne to vow a dutie, Where each lustfull lad may wooe; Give me her, whose sun-like beautie Buzzards dare not soare unto Shee, shee it is Affoords that blisse For which I would refuse no paine. But such as you, Fond fooles, adieu; You seeke to captive me in vaine.

Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me! Seeke no more to worke my harmes: Craftie wiles cannot deceive me, Who am proofe against your charmes: You labour may To lead astray The heart, that constant shall remaine: And I the while Will sit and smile To see you spend your time in vaine.

VIII. The Spanish Virgin, or Effects of Jealousy.

The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, intitled, “The Theatre of God’s Judgments, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor,” 1642, pt. ii. p. 89.— The text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden:

Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell; Depart from hence, and therein dwell.

ALL tender hearts, that ake to hear Of those that suffer wrong; All you that never shed a tear, Give heed unto my song.

Fair Isabella’s tragedy My tale doth far exceed: Alas, that so much cruelty In female hearts should breed!

In Spain a lady liv’d of late, Who was of high degree; Whose wayward temper did create Much woe and misery.

Strange jealousies so fill’d her head With many a vain surmize, She thought her lord had wrong’d her bed, And did her love despise.

A gentlewoman passing fair Did on this lady wait; With bravest dames she might compare; Her beauty was compleat.

Her lady cast a jealous eye Upon this gentle maid, And tax her with disloyaltye, And did her oft upbraid.

In silence still this maiden meek Her bitter taunts would bear, While oft adown her lovely cheek Would steal the falling tear.

In vain in humble sort she strove Her fury to disarm; As well the meekness of the dove The bloody hawke might charm.

Her lord, of humour light and gay, And innocent the while, As oft as she came in his way, Would on the damsell smile.

And oft before his lady’s face, As thinking her her friend, He would the maiden’s modest grace And comeliness commend.

All which incens’d his lady so, She burnt with wrath extreame; At length the fire that long did glow, Burst forth into a flame.

For on a day it so befell, When he was gone from home, The lady all with rage did swell, And to the damsell come.

And charging her with great offence, And many a grievous fault, She bade her servants drag her thence, Into a dismal vault,

That lay beneath the common-shore,— A dungeon dark and deep, Where they were wont, in days of yore, Offenders great to keep.

There never light of chearful day Dispers’d the hideous gloom; But dank and noisome vapours play Around the wretched room.

And adders, snakes, and toads therein, As afterwards was known, Long in this loathsome vault had bin, And were to monsters grown.

Into this foul and fearful place, The fair one innocent Was cast, before her lady’s face; Her malice to content.

This maid no sooner enter’d is, But strait, alas! she hears The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss: Then grievously she fears.

Soon from their holes the vipers creep, And fiercely her assail; Which makes the damsel sorely weep, And her sad fate bewail.

With her fair hands she strives in vain Her body to defend: With shrieks and cries she doth complain, But all is to no end.

A servant listning near the door, Struck with her doleful noise, Strait ran his lady to implore; But she’ll not hear his voice.

With bleeding heart he goes agen To mark the maiden’s groans; And plainly hears within the den, How she herself bemoans.

Again he to his lady hies With all the haste he may; She into furious passion flies, And orders him away.

Still back again does he return To hear her tender cries; The virgin now had ceas’d to mourn, Which fill’d him with surprize.

In grief, and horror, and affright, He listens at the walls; But finding all was silent quite, He to his lady calls.

“Too sure, O lady,” now quoth he, “Your cruelty hath sped; Make hast, for shame, and come and see; I fear the virgin’s dead.”

She starts to hear her sudden fate, And does with torches run; But all her haste was now too late, For death his worst had done.

The door being open’d, strait they found The virgin stretch’d along; Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round, Which her to death had stung.

One round her legs, her thighs, her waist, Had twin’d his fatal wreath; The other close her neck embrac’d, And stopt her gentle breath.

The snakes, being from her body thrust, Their bellies were so filled, That with excess of blood they burst, Thus with their prey were kill’d.

The wicked lady, at this sight, With horror straight ran mad; So raving dy’d, as was most right, ‘Cause she no pity had.

Let me advise you, ladies all, Of jealousy beware: It causeth many a one to fall, And is the devil’s snare.

IX. Jealousy, Tyrant of the Mind.

This song is by Dryden, being inserted in his tragi-comedy of Love Triumphant, &c. On account of the subject it is inserted here.

WHAT state of life can be so blest, As love that warms the gentle brest; Two souls in one; the same desire To grant the bliss, and to require? If in this heaven a hell we find, ‘Tis all from thee, O Jealousie! Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

All other ills, though sharp they prove, Serve to refine and perfect love: In absence or unkind disdaine, Sweet hope relieves the lovers paine: But, oh, no cure but death we find To sett us free From jealousie, Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

False in thy glass all objects are, Some sett too near, and some too far: Thou art the fire of endless night, The fire that burns, and gives no light. All torments of the damn’d we find In only thee, O Jealousie! Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

X. Constant Penelope.

The ladies are indebted for the following notable documents to the Pepys Collection, where the original is preserved in black- letter, and is intitled, “A Looking-glass for Ladies, or a Mirrour for Married Women. Tune, Queen Dido, or Troy Town.”

WHEN Greeks and Trojans fell at strife, And lords in armour bright were seen; When many a gallant lost his life About fair Hellen, beauty’s queen; Ulysses, general so free, Did leave his dear Penelope.

When she this wofull news did hear, That he would to the warrs of Troy; For grief she shed full many a tear, At parting from her only joy: Her ladies all about her came, To comfort up this Grecian dame.

Ulysses, with a heavy heart, Unto her then did mildly say, The time is come that we must part; My honour calls me hence away; “Yet in my absence, dearest, be My constant wife, Penelope.”

“Let me no longer live”, she sayd, “Than to my lord I true remain; My honour shall not be betray’d Until I see my love again; For I will ever constant prove, As is the loyal turtle-dove.”

Thus did they part with heavy chear, And to the ships his way he took; Her tender eyes dropt many a tear; Still casting many a longing look: She saw him on the surges glide, And unto Neptune thus she cry’d:

“Thou god, whose power is in the deep, And rulest in the ocean main, My loving lord in safety keep Till he return to me again; That I his person may behold, To me more precious far than gold.”

Then straight the ships with nimble sails Were all convey’d out of her sight: Her cruel fate she then bewails, Since she had lost her hearts delight. “Now shall my practice be,” quoth she, “True vertue and humility.

“My patience I will put in ure, My charity I will extend; Since for my woe there is no cure, The helpless now I will befriend: The widow and the fatherless I will relieve, when in distress.”

Thus she continued year by year In doing good to every one; Her fame was noised every where, To young and old the same was known, That she no company would mind, Who were to vanity inclin’d.

Mean while Ulysses fought for fame, ‘Mongst Trojans hazarding his life; Young gallants, hearing of her name, Came flocking for to tempt his wife: For she was lovely, young, and fair, No lady might with her compare.

With costly gifts and jewels fine, They did endeavour her to win; With banquets and the choicest wine, For to allure her unto sin: Most persons were of high degree, Who courted fair Penelope.

With modesty and comely grace Their wanton suits she did denye: No tempting charms could e’er deface Her dearest husband’s memorye; But constant she would still remain, Hopeing to see him once again.

Her book her dayly comfort was, And that she often did peruse; She seldom looked in her glass; Powder and paint she ne’er would use. I wish all ladies were as free From pride, as was Penelope!

She in her needle took delight, And likewise in her spinning-wheel; Her maids about her every night Did use the distaff, and the reel; The spiders, that on rafters twine, Scarce spin a thread more soft and fine.

Sometimes she would bewail the loss And absence of her dearest love; Sometimes she thought the seas to cross, Her fortune on the waves to prove. “I fear my lord is slain,” quoth she, “He stays so from Penelope.”

At length the ten years siege of Troy Did end; in flames and city burn’d; And to the Grecians was great joy, To see the towers to ashes turn’d; Then came Ulysses home to see His constant, dear, Penelope.

O blame her not if she was glad, When she her lord again had seen. “Thrice-welcome home, my dear,” she said, “A long time absent thou hast been: The wars shall never more deprive Me of my lord whilst I’m alive.”

Fair ladies all, example take; And hence a worthy lesson learn, All youthful follies to forsake, And vice from virtue to discern: And let all women strive to be As constant as Penelope.

XI. To Lucasta, on going to the Wars.

By Col. Richard Lovelace: from the volume of his poems intitled, Lucasta, Lond. 1649, 12mo. The elegance of this writer’s manner would be more admired if it had somewhat more of simplicity.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, To warre and armes I flie.

True, a new mistresse now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such, As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, deare, so much, Lov’d I not honour more.

XII. Valentine and Ursine.

The old story-book of Valentine and Orson (which suggested the plan of this tale, but it is not strictly followed in it) was originally a translation from the French, being one of their earliest attempts at Romance. See “Le Bibliothčque de Romans,” &c. The circumstance of the bridge of bells is taken from the old metrical legend of Sir Bevis, and has also been copied in the Seven Champions. The original lines are:

“Over the dyke a bridge there lay, That man and beest might passe away: Under the brydge were sixty belles; Right as the Romans telles; That there might no man passe in, But all they rang with a gyn.” — Sign. E. iv.

In the Editor’s folio manuscript was an old poem on this subject, in a wretched corrupt state, unworthy the press: from which were taken such particulars as could be adopted.

PART THE FIRST

WHEN Flora ‘gins to decke the fields With colours fresh and fine, Then holy clerkes their mattins sing To good Saint Valentine!

The King of France that morning fair He would a hunting ride; To Artois forest prancing forth In all his princelye pride.

To grace his sports a courtly train Of gallant peers attend; And with their loud and cheerful cryes The hills and valleys rend.

Through the deep forest swift they pass, Through woods and thickets wild; When down within a lonely dell They found a new-born child;

All in a scarlet kercher lay’d Of silk so fine and thin; A golden mantle wrapt him round, Pinn’d with a silver pin.

The sudden sight surpriz’d them all; The courtiers gather’d round; They look, they call, the mother seek; No mother could be found.

At length the king himself drew near, And as he gazing stands, The pretty babe look’d up and smil’d, And stretch’d his little hands.

“Now, by the rood,” King Pepin says, “This child is passing fair; I wot he is of gentle blood: Perhaps some prince’s heir.

“Goe bear him home unto my court With all the care ye may. Let him be christen’d Valentine, In honour of this day;

“And look me out some cunning nurse; Well nurtur’d let him bee; Nor ought be wanting that becomes A bairn of high degree.”

They look’d him out a cunning nurse; And nurtur’d well was hee; Nor ought was wanting that became A bairn of high degree.

Thus grewe the little Valentine, Belov’d of king and peers, And shew’d in all he spake or did A wit beyond his years.

But chief in gallant feates of arms He did himself advance, That ere he grewe to man’s estate He had no peere in France.

And now the early downe began To shade his youthful chin, When Valentine was dubb’d a knight, That he might glory win.

“A boon, a boon, my gracious liege, I beg a boon of thee! The first adventure that befalls, May be reserv’d for mee.”

“The first adventure shall be thine;” The, king did smiling say: Nor many days, when, lo! there came Three palmers clad in graye.

“Help, gracious lord,” they weeping say’d; And knelt, as it was meet: “From Artoys forest we be come, With weak and wearye feet.

“Within those deep and drearye woods There wends a savage boy; Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield Thy subjects dire annoy.

“Mong ruthless beares he sure was bred; He lurks within their den; With beares he lives; with beares he feeds, And drinks the blood of men.

“To more than savage strength he joins A more than human skill; For arms, ne cunning may suffice His cruel rage to still.”

Up then rose Sir Valentine, And claim’d that arduous deed. “Go forth and conquer, say’d the king, And great shall be thy meed.”

Well mounted on a milk-white steed, His armour white as snow: As well beseem’d a virgin knight, Who ne’er had fought a foe.

To Artoys forest he repairs With all the haste he may; And soon he spies the savage youth A rending of his prey.

His unkempt hair all matted hung His shaggy shoulders round; His eager eye all fiery glow’d; His face with fury frown’d.

Like eagles’ talons grew his nails; His limbs were thick and strong; And dreadful was the knotted oak He bare with him along.

Soon as Sir Valentine approach’d, He starts with sudden spring; And yelling forth a hideous howl, He made the forests ring.

As when a tyger fierce and fell Hath spyed a passing roe, And leaps at once upon his throat; So sprung the savage foe;

So lightly leap’d with furious force The gentle knight to seize, But met his tall uplifted spear, Which sunk him on his knees.

A second stroke so stiff and stern Had laid the savage low; But springing up, he rais’d his club, And aim’d a dreadful blow.

The watchful warrior bent his head, And shun’d the coming stroke; Upon his taper spear it fell, And all to shivers broke.

Then lighting nimbly from his steed, He drew his burnisht brand; The savage quick as lightning flew To wrest it from his hand.

Three times he grasp’d the silver hilt; Three times he felt the blade; Three times it fell with furious force; Three ghastly wounds it made.

Now with redoubled rage he roar’d; His eye-ball flash’d with fire; Each hairy limb with fury shook; And all his heart was ire.

Then closing fast with furious gripe He clasp’d the champion round, And with a strong and sudden twist He laid him on the ground.

But soon the knight, with active spring, O’erturn’d his hairy foe: And now between their sturdy fists Past many a bruising blow.

They roll’d and grappled on the ground, And there they struggled long; Skilful and active was the knight; The savage he was strong.

But brutal force and savage strength To art and skill must yield: Sir Valentine at length prevail’d, And won the well-fought field.

Then binding strait his conquer’d foe Fast with an iron chain, He tyes him to his horse’s tail, And leads him o’er the plain.

To court his hairy captive soon Sir Valentine doth bring; And kneeling down upon his knee, Presents him to the king.

With loss of blood and loss of strength The savage tamer grew; And to Sir Valentine became A servant try’d and true.

And ‘cause with beares he erst was bred, Ursine they call his name; A name which unto future times The Muses shall proclame.

PART THE SECOND.

IN high renown with prince and peere Now liv’d Sir Valentine; His high renown with prince and peere Made envious hearts repine.

It chanc’d the king upon a day Prepar’d a sumptuous feast, And there came lords, and dainty dames, And many a noble guest.

Amid their cups, that freely flow’d, Their revelry, and mirth, A youthful knight tax’d Valentine Of base and doubtful birth.

The foul reproach, so grossly urg’d, His generous heart did wound; And strait he vow’d he ne’er would rest Till he his parents found.

Then bidding king and peers adieu, Early one summer’s day, With faithful Ursine by his side, From court he took his way.

O’er hill and valley, moss and moor, For many a day they pass; At length, upon a moated lake,[1] They found a bridge of brass.

Beyond it rose a castle fair, Y-built of marble-stone; The battlements were gilt with gold, And glittred in the sun.

Beneath the bridge, with strange device, A hundred bells were hung; That man, nor beast, might pass thereon, But straight their larum rung.

This quickly found the youthful pair, Who boldly crossing o’er, The jangling sound bedeaft their ears, And rung from shore to shore.

Quick at the sound the castle gates Unlock’d and opened wide, And strait a gyant huge and grim Stalk’d forth with stately pride.

“Now yield you, caytiffs, to my will;” He cried with hideous roar; “Or else the wolves shall eat your flesh, And ravens drink your gore.”

“Vain boaster,” said the youthful knight, “I scorn thy threats and thee; I trust to force thy brazen gates, And set thy captives free.”

Then putting spurs unto his steed, He aim’d a dreadful thrust; The spear against the gyant glanc’d, And caus’d the blood to burst.

Mad and outrageous with the pain, He whirl’d his mace of steel; The very wind of such a blow Had made the champion reel.

It haply mist; and now the knight His glittering sword display’d, And riding round with whirlwind speed Oft made him feel the blade.

As when a large and monstrous oak Unceasing axes hew, So fast around the gyant’s limbs The blows quick-darting flew.

As when the boughs with hideous fall Some hapless woodman crush, With such a force the enormous foe Did on the champion rush.

A fearful blow, alas! there came; Both horse and knight it took, And laid them senseless in the dust; So fatal was the stroke.

Then smiling forth a hideous grin, The gyant strides in haste, And, stooping, aims a second stroke: “Now caytiff breathe thy last!”

But ere it fell, two thundering blows Upon his scull descend; From Ursine’s knotty club they came, Who ran to save his friend.

Down sunk the gyant gaping wide, And rolling his grim eyes; The hairy youth repeats his blows; He gasps, he groans, he dies.

Quickly Sir Valentine reviv’d With Ursine’s timely care; And now to search the castle walls The venturous youths repair.

The blood and bones of murder’d knights They found where’er they came; At length within a lonely cell They saw a mournful dame.

Her gentle eyes were dim’d with tears; Her cheeks were pale with woe; And long Sir Valentine besought Her doleful tale to know.

“Alas! young knight,” she weeping said, “Condole my wretched fate; A childless mother here you see; A wife without a mate.

“These twenty winters here forlorn I’ve drawn my hated breath; Sole witness of a monster’s crimes, And wishing aye for death.

“Know, I am sister of a king, And in my early years Was married to a mighty prince, The fairest of his peers.

“With him I sweetly liv’d in love A twelvemonth and a day; When, lo! a foul and treacherous priest Y-wrought our loves’ decay.

“His seeming goodness wan him pow’r, He had his master’s ear: And long to me and all the world, He did a saint appear.

“One day, when we were all alone; He proffer’d odious love: The wretch with horrour I repuls’d, And from my presence drove.

“He feign’d remorse, and piteous beg’d His crime I’d not reveal; Which, for his seeming penitence, I promis’d to conceal.

“With treason, villainy, and wrong, My goodness he repay’d; With jealous doubts he fill’d my lord, And me to woe betray’d.

“He hid a slave within my bed, Then rais’d a bitter cry. My lord, possest with rage, condemn’d Me, all unheard, to dye.

“But ‘cause I then was great with child, At length my life he spar’d; But bade me instant quit the realme, One trusty knight my guard.

“Forth on my journey I depart, Opprest with grief and woe, And tow’rds my brother’s distant court, With breaking heart, I goe.

“Long time thro’ sundry foreign lands We slowly pace along; At length, within a forest wild, I fell in labour strong;

“And while the knight for succour sought, And left me there forlorn, My childbed pains so fast increast Two lovely boys were born.

“The eldest fair, and smooth, as snow That tips the mountain hoar: The younger’s little body rough With hairs was cover’d o’er.

“But here afresh begin my woes: While tender care I took To shield my eldest from the cold, And wrap him in my cloak,

“A prowling bear burst from the wood, And seiz’d my younger son; Affection lent my weakness wings, And after them I run.

“But all forewearied, weak and spent, I quickly swoon’d away; And there beneath the greenwood shade Long time I lifeless lay.

“At length the knight brought me relief, And rais’d me from the ground; But neither of my pretty babes Could ever more be found.

“And, while in search we wander’d far, We met that gyant grim, Who ruthless slew my trusty knight, And bare me off with him.

“But charm’d by heav’n, or else my griefs, He offer’d me no wrong; Save that within these lonely walls I’ve been immur’d so long.”

“Now, surely,” said the youthful knight, “You are Lady Bellisance, Wife to the Grecian Emperor; Your brother’s King of France.

“For in your royal brother’s court Myself my breeding had; Where oft the story of your woes Hath made my bosom sad.

If so, know your accuser’s dead, And dying own’d his crime; And long your lord hath sought you out Thro’ every foreign clime.

“And when no tidings he could learn Of his much-wronged wife, He vow’d thenceforth within his court To lead a hermit’s life.”

“Now heaven is kind!” the lady said; And dropt a joyful tear: “Shall I once more behold my lord? That lord I love so dear?”

“But, Madam,” said Sir Valentine, And knelt upon his knee; “Know you the cloak that wrapt your babe, If you the same should see?”

And pulling forth the cloth of gold, In which himself was found, The lady gave a sudden shriek, And fainted on the ground.

But by his pious care reviv’d, His tale she heard anon; And soon by other tokens found, He was indeed her son.

“But who’s this hairy youth?” she said; “He much resembles thee: The bear devour’d my younger son, Or sure that son were he.”

“Madam, this youth with bears was bred, And rear’d within their den. But recollect ye any mark To know your son agen?”

“Upon his little side,” quoth she, “Was stampt a bloody rose.” “Here, lady, see the crimson mark Upon his body grows!”

Then clasping both her new-found sons She bath’d their cheeks with tears; And soon towards her brother’s court Her joyful course she steers.

What pen can paint King Pepin’s joy, His sister thus restor’d! And soon a messenger was sent To chear her drooping lord,

Who came in haste with all his peers, To fetch her home to Greece; Where many happy years they reign’d In perfect love and peace.

To them Sir Ursine did succeed, And long the scepter bare. Sir Valentine he stay’d in France, And was his uncle’s heir.

NOTES

1. i.e. a lake that served for a moat to a castle.

XIII. The Dragon of Wantley.

This humorous song (as a former Editor[1] has well observed) is to old metrical romances and ballads of chivalry, what Don Quixote is to prose narratives of that kind — a lively satire on their extravagant fictions. But although the satire is thus general, the subject of this ballad is local and peculiar; so that many of the finest strokes of humour are lost for want of our knowing the minute circumstances to which they allude. Many of them can hardly now be recovered, although we have been fortunate enough to learn the general subject to which the satire referred, and shall detail the information with which we have been favoured, in a separate memoir at the end of the poem. In handling his subject, the author has brought in most of the common incidents which occur in romance. The description of the dragon — his outrages — the people flying to the knight for succour — his care in choosing his armour — his being dressed for fight by a young damsel — and most of the circumstances of the battle and victory (allowing for the burlesque turn given to them) are what occur in every book of chivalry, whether in prose or verse. If any one piece, more than another, is more particularly levelled at, it seems to be the old rhyming legend of Sir Bevis. There a dragon is attacked from a well in a manner not very remote from this of the ballad:

There was a well, so have I wynne, And Bevis stumbled ryght therein.

- * * * * * *

Than was he glad without fayle, And rested a whyle for his avayle; And drank of that water his fyll; And than he lepte out, with good wyll, And with Morglay his brande He assayled the dragon, I understande: On the dragon he smote so faste, Where that he hit the scales braste: The dragon then faynted sore, And cast a galon and more Out of his mouthe of venim strong, And on Syr Bevis he it flong: It was venymous y-wis.”

This seems to be meant by the Dragon of Wantley’s stink, ver. 110; as the politic knight’s creeping out, and attacking the dragon, &c. seems evidently to allude to the following:

“Bevis blessed himselfe, and forth yode, And lepte out with haste full good; And Bevis unto the dragon gone is; And the dragon also to Bevis. Longe and harde was that fight Betwene the dragon and that knight: But ever whan Syr Bevis was hurt sore, He went to the well, and washed him thore; He was as hole as any man, Ever freshe as whan he began. The dragon sawe it might not avayle Besyde the well to hold batayle; He thought he would, with some wyle, Out of that place Bevis begyle; He woulde have flowen then awaye, But Bevis lepte after with good Morglaye, And hyt him under the wynge, As he was in his flyenge,” &c. Sign. M. jv. L. j. &c.

After all, perhaps the writer of this ballad was acquainted with the above incidents only through the medium of Spenser, who has assumed most of them in his Faerie Queen. At least some particulars in the description of the dragon, &c. seem evidently borrowed from the latter. See Book i. Canto ii. where the dragon’s “two wynges like sayls — huge long tayl — with stings — his cruel rending clawes — and yron teeth — his breath of smothering smoke and sulphur “— and the duration of the fight for upwards of two days, bear a great resemblance to passages in the following ballad; though it must be confessed that these particulars are common to all old writers of romance. Although this ballad must have been written early in the last century, we have met with none but such as were comparatively modern copies. It is here printed from one in Roman letter, in the Pepys Collection, collated with such others as could be procured.

OLD stories tell, how Hercules A dragon slew at Lerna, With seven heads, and fourteen eyes, To see and well discern-a: But he had a club, this dragon to drub, Or he had ne’er done it, I warrant ye: But More of More-hall, with nothing at all, He slew the dragon of Wantley.

This dragon had two furious wings, Each one upon each shoulder; With a sting in his tayl, as long as a flayl, Which made him bolder and bolder. He had long claws, and in his jaws Four and forty teeth of iron; With a hide as tough as any buff, Which did him round environ.

Have you not heard how the Trojan horse Held seventy men in his belly? This dragon was not quite so big, But very near, I’lI tell ye. Devoured he poor children three, That could not with him grapple; And at one sup he eat them up, As one would eat an apple.

All sorts of cattle this dragon did eat; Some say he ate up trees, And that the forests sure he would Devour up by degrees; For houses and churches were to him geese and turkies; He ate all, and left none behind, But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack, Which on the hills you will find.

In Yorkshire, near fair Rotherham, The place I know it well, Some two or three miles, or thereabouts, I vow I cannot tell; But there is a hedge, just on the hill edge, And Matthew’s house hard by it; O there and then was this dragon’s den, You could not chuse but spy it.

Some say, this dragon was a witch; Some say, he was a devil, For from his nose a smoke arose, And with it burning snivel; Which he cast off, when he did cough, In a well that he did stand by; Which made it look just like a brook Running with burning brandy.

Hard by a furious knight there dwelt, Of whom all towns did ring, For he could wrestle, play at quarter-staff, kick, cuff and huff, Call son of a whore, do any kind of thing. By the tail and the main, with his hands twain He swung a horse till he was dead; And that which is stranger, he for very anger Eat him all up but his head.

These children, as I told, being eat; Men, women, girls, and boys, Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, And made a hideous noise: “O save us all, More of More-hall, Thou peerless knight of these woods; Do but slay this dragon, who won’t leave us a rag on, We’ll give thee all our goods.”

“Tut, tut,” quoth he, “no goods I want; But I want, I want, in sooth, A fair maid of sixteen, that’s brisk, and keen, With smiles about the mouth; Hair black as sloe, skin white as snow, With blushes her cheeks adorning; To anoynt me o’er night, ere I go to fight, And to dress me in the morning.”

This being done, he did engage To hew the dragon down; But first he went, new armour to Bespeak at Sheffield town; With spikes all about, not within but without, Of steel so sharp and strong, Both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o’er, Some five or six inches long.

Had you but seen him in this dress, How fierce he look’d and how big, You would have thought him for to be Some Egyptian porcupig. He frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, Each cow, each horse, and each hog: For fear they did flee, for they took him to be Some strange, outlandish hedge-hog.

To see this fight, all people then Got up on trees and houses; On churches some, and chimneys too; But these put on their trowses, Not to spoil their hose. As soon as he rose, To make him strong and mighty, He drank by the tale, six pots of ale, And a quart of aqua-vitae.

It is not strength that always wins, For wit doth strength excell; Which made our cunning champion Creep down into a well, Where he did think, this dragon would drink, And so he did in truth; And as he stoop’d low, he rose up and cry’d, “Boh!” And hit him in the mouth.

“Oh,” quoth the dragon, “pox take thee, come out! Thou disturb’st me in my drink:” And then he turn’d, and s * * * at him: Good lack! how he did stink: “Beshrew thy soul, thy body’s foul, Thy dung smells not like balsam; Thou son of a whore, thou stink’st so sore, Sure thy diet is unwholsome.”

Our politic knight, on the other side, Crept out upon the brink, And gave the dragon such a douse, He knew not what to think: “By cock,” quoth he, “say you so, do you see?” And then at him he let fly With hand and with foot, and so they went to ‘t; And the word it was, Hey boys, hey!

“Your words,” quoth the dragon, “I don’t understand;” Then to it they fell at all, Like two wild boars so fierce, if I may Compare great things with small. Two days and a night, with this dragon did fight Our champion on the ground; Tho’ their strength it was great, their skill it was neat, They never had one wound.

At length the hard earth began to quake, The dragon gave him a knock, Which made him to reel, and straightway he thought, To lift him as high as a rock, And thence let him fall. But More of More-hall, Like a valiant son of Mars, As he came like a lout, so he turn’d him about, And hit him a kick on the a * * *.

“Oh,” quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh, And turn’d six times together, Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing Out of his throat of leather; “More of More-hall; O thou rascŕl Would I had seen thee never; With the thing at thy foot, thou hast prick’d my a * * *-gut, And I’m quite undone for-ever.

“Murder, murder,” the dragon cry’d, “Alack, alack for grief; Had you but mist that place, you could Have done me no mischief.” Then his head he shak’d, trembled and quaked, And down he laid and cry’d; First on one knee, then on back tumbled he, So groan’d, kickt, s * * *, and dy’d.

- A description of the supposed scene of the foregoing ballad, which was communicated to the Editor in 1767, is here given in the words of the relater:

“In Yorkshire, six miles from Rotherham, is a village called Wortley, the seat of the late Wortley Montague, Esq. About a mile from this village is a lodge, named Warncliff lodge, but vulgarly called Wantley: here lies the scene of the song. I was there above forty years ago; and it being a woody rocky place, my friend made me clamber over rocks and stones, not telling me to what end, till I came to a sort of a cave; then asked my opinion of the place, and pointing to one end says, Here lay the dragon killed by Moor of Moor- hall; here lay his head; here lay his tail; and the stones we came over on the hill, are those he could not crack; and yon white house you see half a mile off, is Moor-hall. I had dined at the lodge, and knew the man’s name was Matthew, who was a keeper to Mr. Wortley, and, as he endeavoured to persuade me, was the same Matthew mentioned in the song: in the house is the picture of the dragon and Moor of Moor-hall; and near it a well, which, says he, is the well described in the ballad.”

- Since the former editions of this humorous old song were printed, the following key to the satire hath been communicated by Godfrey Bosville, Esq. of Thorp, near Malton, in Yorkshire; who, in the most obliging manner, gave full permission to subjoin it to the poem.

Warncliffe-lodge, and Warncliff-wood (vulgarly pronounced Wantley), are in the parish of Penniston, in Yorkshire. The rectory of Penniston was part of the dissolved monastery of St. Stephen’s, Westminster; and was granted to the Duke of Norfolk’s family: who therewith endowed an hospital, which he built at Sheffield, for women. The trustees let the impropriation of the great tithes of Penniston to the Wortley family, who got a great deal by it, and wanted to get still more: for Mr. Nicholas Wortley attempted to take the tithes in kind, but Mr. Francis Bosville opposed him, and there was a decree in favour of the modus in 37th Eliz. The vicarage of Penniston did not go along with the rectory, but with the copyhold rents, and was part of a large purchase made by Ralph Bosville, Esq. from Queen Elizabeth, in the 2d year of her reign: and that part he sold in 12th Eliz. to his elder brother Godfrey, the father of Francis: who left it, with the rest of his estate, to his wife, for her life, and then to Ralph, third son of his uncle Ralph. The widow married Lyonel Rowlestone, lived eighteen years, and survived Ralph. This premised, the ballad apparently relates to the lawsuit carried on concerning this claim of tithes made by the Wortley, family. “Houses and Churches were to him Geese and Turkeys:” which are titheable things the Dragon chose to live on. Sir Francis Wortley, the son of Nicholas, attempted again to take the tithes in kind: but the parishioners subscribed an agreement to defend their modus. And at the head of the agreement was Lyonel Rowlestone, who is supposed to be one of “the Stones, dear Jack, which the Dragon could not crack.” The agreement is still preserved in a large sheet of parchment, dated 1st of James I., and is full of names and seals, which might be meant by the coat of armour, “with spikes all about, both within and without.” More of More-hall was either the attorney, or counsellor, who conducted the suit. He is not distinctly remembered, but More-hall is still extant at the very bottom of Wantley [Warncliff] wood, and lies so low, that it might be said to be in a well: as the Dragon’s den [Warncliff-lodge] was at the top of the wood, “with Matthew’s house hard by it.” The keepers belonging to the Wortley family were named, for many generations, Matthew Northall: the last of them left this lodge, within memory, to be keeper to the Duke of Norfolk. The present owner of More-hall still attends Mr. Bosville’s Manor-court, at Ox-spring, and pays a rose a- year. “More of More-hall, with nothing at all, slew the Dragon of Wantley.” He gave him, instead of tithes, so small a modus, that it was in effect nothing at all, and was slaying him with a vengeance. “The poor children three,” &c. cannot surely mean the three sisters of Francis Bosville, who would have been co-heiresses had he made no will? The late Mr. Bosville had a contest with the descendants of two of them, the late Sir Geo. Saville’s father, and Mr. Copley, about the presentation to Penniston, they supposing Francis had not the power to give this part of the estate from the heirs at law; but it was decided against them. The Dragon (Sir Francis Wortley) succeeded better with his cousin Wordesworth, the freehold lord of the manor (for it is the copyhold manor that belongs to Mr. Bosville) having persuaded him not tooin the refractory parishioners, under a promise that he should have his tithes cheap: and now the estates of Wortley and Wordesworth are the only lands that pay tithes in the parish. N.B. The “two days and a night,” mentioned in ver. 125, as the duration of the combat, was probably that of the trial at law.

NOTES

1. Collection of Historical Ballads, in 3 vols. 1727.

XIV. St. George for England. THE FIRST PART

As the former song is in ridicule of the extravagant incidents in old ballads and metrical romances; so this is a burlesque of their style; particularly of the rambling transitions and wild accumulation of unconnected parts, so frequent in many of them. This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, “imprinted at London, 1612.” It is more ancient than many of the preceding; but we place it here for the sake of connecting it with the SECOND PART.

WHY doe ye boast of Arthur and his knightes, Knowing well how many men have endured fightes? For besides King Arthur, and Lancelot du Lake, Or Sir Tristram de Lionel, that fought for ladies sake; Read in old histories, and there you shall see How St. George, St. George the dragon made to flee. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Mark our father Abraham, when first he resckued Lot Onely with his household, what conquest there he got. David was elected a prophet and a king, He slew the great Goliah, with a stone within a sling. Yet these were not knightes of the table round; Nor St. George, St. George who the dragon did confound. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Jephthah and Gideon did lead their men to fight, They conquered the Amorites and put them all to flight. Hercules his labours were on the plaines of Basse. And Sampson slew a thousand with the jawbone of an asse, And eke he threw a temple downe, and did a mighty spoyle. But St. George, St. George he did the dragon foyle. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

The warres of ancient monarchs it were too long to tell, And likewise of the Romans, how farre they did excel. Hannyball and Scipio in many a fielde did fighte Orlando Furioso he was a worthy knighte. Remus and Romulus, were they that Rome did builde, But St. George, St. George the dragon made to yielde. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

The noble Alphonso that was the Spanish king, The order of the red scarffes and bandrolles in did bring;[1] He had a troope of mighty knightes, when first he did begin, Which sought adventures farre and neare that conquest they might win; The ranks of the Pagans he often put to flight. But St. George, St. George did with the dragon fight. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Many knights have fought with proud Tamberlaine; Cutlax the Dane, great warres he did maintaine; Rowland of Beame, and good Sir Olivere In the forest of Acon slew both woolfe and beare, Besides that noble Hollander, Sir Goward with the bill. But St. George, St. George the dragon’s blood did spill. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Valentine and Orson were of King Pepin’s blood; Alfride and Henry they were brave knightes and good; The four sons of Aymon, that follow’d Charlemaine, Sir Hughon of Burdeaux, and Godfrey of Bullaine, These were all French knightes that lived in that age. But St. George, St. George the dragon did assuage. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soil qui mal y yense.

Bevis conquered Ascapart, and after slew the boare, And then he crost beyond the seas to combat with the Moore; Sir Isenbras and Eglamore, they were knightes most bold; And good Sir John Mandeville of travel much hath told; There were many English knights that Pagans did convert. But St. George, St. George pluckt out the dragon’s heart. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

The noble Earl of Warwick, that was call’d Sir Guy, The infidels and pagans stoutlie did defie; He slew the giant Brandimore, and after was the death Of that most ghastly dun cowe, the divell of Dunsmore heath; Besides his noble deeds all done beyond the seas. But St. George, St. George the dragon did appease. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Richard Coeur-de-lion, erst king of this land, He the lion gored with his naked hand;[2] The false Duke of Austria nothing did he feare; But his son he killed with a boxe on the eare; Besides his famous actes done in the Holy Lande: But St. George, St. George the dragon did withstande. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Henry the fifth he conquered all France, And quartered their armes, his honour to advance; He their cities razed, and threw their castles downe, And his head he honoured with a double crowne; He thumped the Frenchmen, and after home he came. But St. George, St. George he did the dragon tame. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

St. David of Wales the Welsh-men much advance; St. Jaques of Spaine, that never yet broke lance; St. Patricke of Ireland, which was St. Georges boy, Seven yeares he kept his horse, and then stole him away: For which knavish act, as slaves they doe remaine. But St. George, St. George the dragon he hath slaine. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

NOTES

1. This probably alludes to “an ancient order of knighthood, called the Order of the Band, instituted by Don Alphonsus, King of Spain . . . to wear a red riband of three fingers breadth,” &c. See Ames, Typog. p. 327. 2. Alluding to the fabulous exploits attributed to this King in the old romances. See the dissertation prefixed to Book vii.

XV. St. George for England THE SECOND PART.

This was written by John Grubb, M.A. of Christ Church, Oxford. The occasion of its being composed is said to have been as follows. A set of gentlemen of the university had formed themselves into a club, all the members of which were to be of the name of George: their anniversary feast was to be held on St. George’s day. Our author solicited strongly to be admitted; but his name being unfortunately John, this disqualification was dispensed with only upon this condition,— that he would compose a song in honour of their patron saint, and would every year produce one or more new stanzas, to be sung on their annual festival. This gave birth to the following humorous performance, the several stanzas of which were the produce of many successive anniversaries.[1] This diverting poem was long handed about in manuscript; at length a friend of Grubb’s undertook to get it printed, who, not keeping pace with the impatience of his friends, was addressed in the following whimsical macaronic lines, which, in such a collection as this, may not improperly accompany the poem itself.

EXPOSTULATIUNCULA, sive QUERIMONIUNCULA ad ANTONIUM [ATHERTON] ob Poema JOHANNIS GRUBB, Viri ??? ???? [Greek: tou panu] ingeniosissimi in lucem nondum editi.

Toni! Tune sines divina poemata Grubb! Intomb’d in secret thus still to remain any longer ?????ľ? ??? [Greek: Tounoma sou] shall last, ? ?????? ????????? ???, [Greek: O Grubbe diamperes aei] Grubbe tuum nomen vivet duet nobilis ale-a Efficit heroas, dignamque heroe puellam. Est genus heroum, quos nobilis efficit ale-a Qui pro niperkin clamant, quaternque liquoris Quem vocitant Homines Brandy, Superi Cherry-brandy, Sćpe illi long-cut, vel small-cut flare Tobacco Sunt soliti pipos. Ast si generosior herba (Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum) Mundungus desit, tum non funcare recusant Brown-paper tostâ, vel quod fit arundine bed-mat. Hic labor, hoc opus est heroum ascendere sedes! Ast ego quo rapiar? quo me feret entheus ardor, Grubbe, tui memorem? Divinum expande poema. Quae mora? quć ratio est, quin Grubbe protinus anser Virgilii, Flaccique simul canat inter olores?

At length the importunity of his friends prevailed; and Mr. Grubb’s song was published at Oxford, under the following title:

THE BRITISH HEROES

A New Poem in honour of St. George

By MR. JOHN GRUBB

School-master of Christ-church

Oxon. 1688.

Favete linguis: carmina non prius Audita, musarum sacerdos Canto. — HOR.

Sold by Henry Clements. Oxon.

THE story of King Arthur old Is very memorable, The number of his valiant knights, And roundness of his table. The knights around his table in A circle sate, d’ye see. And altogether made up one Large hoop of chivalry. He had a sword, both broad and sharp, Y-cleped Caliburn, Would cut a flint more easily Than pen-knife cuts a corn; As case-knife does a capon carve, So would it carve a rock, And split a man at single slash, From noddle down to nock. As Roman Augur’s steel of yore Dissected Tarquin’s riddle, So this would cut both conjurer And whetstone thro’ the middle. He was the cream of Brecknock, And flower of all the Welsh: But George he did the dragon fell, And gave him a plaguy squelsh. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Pendragon, like his father Jove, Was fed with milk of goat; And like him made a noble shield Of she-goat’s shaggy coat; On top of burnisht helmet he Did wear a crest of leeks And onions’ heads, whose dreadful nod Drew tears down hostile cheeks. Itch and Welsh blood did make him hot, And very prone to ire; H’ was ting’d with brimstone, like a match, And would as soon take fire. As brimstone he took inwardly When scurf gave him occasion, His postern puff of wind was a Sulphureous exhalation. The Briton never tergivers’d, But was for adverse drubbing, And never turn’d his back to aught, But to a post for scrubbing. His sword would serve for battle, or For dinner, if you please; When it had slain a Cheshire man, ‘Twould toast a Cheshire cheese. He wounded, and, in their own blood, Did anabaptize Pagans: But George he made the dragon an Example to all dragons. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Brave Warwick Guy, at dinner time, Challeng’d a gyant savage; And streight came out the unweildy lout Brim-full of wrath and cabbage. He had a phiz of latitude, And was full thick i’ th’ middle; The cheek of puffed trumpeter, And paunch of squire Beadle.[2] But the knight fell’d him, like an oak, And did upon his back tread; The valiant knight his weazon cut, And Atropos his packthread. Besides he fought with a dun cow, As say the poets witty, A dreadful dun, and horned too, Like dun of Oxford city: The fervent dog-days made her mad, By causing heat of weather, Syrius and Procyon baited her, As bull-dogs did her father; Grasiers, nor butchers this fell beast, E’er of her frolick hindred; John Dosset[3] she’d knock down as flat, As John knocks down her kindred: Her heels would lay ye all along, And kick into a swoon; Frewin’s[4] cow-heels keep up your corpse, But hers would beat you down. She vanquisht many a sturdy wight, And proud was of the honour; Was pufft by mauling butchers so, As if themselves had blown her. At once she kickt, and pusht at Guy, But all that would not fright him, Who wav’d his winyard o’er sir-loyn, As if he’d gone to knight him. He let her blood, frenzy to cure, And eke he did her gall rip; His trenchant blade, like cook’s long spit, Ran thro’ the monster’s bald-rib; He rear’d up the vast crooked rib, Instead of arch triumphal: But George hit th’ dragon such a pelt, As made him on his bum fall. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Tamerlain, with Tartarian bow, The Turkish squadrons slew, And fetch’d the pagan crescent down, With half-moon made of yew. His trusty bow proud Turks did gall With showers of arrows thick, And bow-strings, without strangling, sent Grand Visiers to old Nick; Much turbants, and much Pagan pates He made to humble in dust; And heads of Saracens he fixt On spear, as on a sign-post; He coop’d in cage Bajazet, the prop Of Mahomet’s religion, As if ‘t had been the whispering bird That prompted him, the pigeon. In Turkey-leather scabbard, he Did sheath his blade so trenchant: But George he swing’d the dragon’s tail, And cut off every inch on’t. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

The amazon Thalestris was Both beautiful and bold; She sear’d her breasts with iron hot, And bang’d her foes with cold. Her hand was like the tool, wherewith Jove keeps proud mortals under: It shone just like his lightning, And batter’d like his thunder. Her eye darts lightning that would blast The proudest he that swagger’d, And melt the rapier of his soul, In its corporeal scabbard. Her beauty, and her drum to foes Did cause amazement double; As timorous larks amazed are With light, and with a low-bell: With beauty, and that Lapland charm,[5] Poor men she did bewitch all; Still a blind whining lover had, As Pallas had her scrich-owl. She kept the chastness of a nun In armour, as in cloyster: But George undid the dragon just As you’d undo an oister. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Stout Hercules was offspring of Great Jove and fair Alcmene; One part of him celestial was, One part of him terrene. To scale the hero’s cradle walls Two fiery snakes combin’d, And, curling into swaddling cloaths, About the infant twin’d; But he put out these dragons’ fires, And did their hissing stop; As red-hot iron with hissing noise Is quencht in blacksmith’s shop. He cleans’d a stable, and rubb’d down The horses of new-comers; And out of horse-dung he rais’d fame, As Tom Wrench[6] does cucumbers. He made a river help him through, Alpheus was under-groom, The stream, disgust at office mean, Ran murmuring thro’ the room: This liquid ostler to prevent Being tired with that long work, His father Neptune’s trident took, Instead of three-tooth’d dung-fork. This Hercules, as soldier, and As spinster, could take pains; His club would sometimes spin ye flax, And sometimes knock out brains; H’ was forc’d to spin his miss a shift By Juno’s wrath and hér-spite; Fair Omphale whipt him to his wheel, As cook whips barking turn-spit. From man, or churn, he well knew how To get him lasting fame: He’d pound a giant, till the blood, And milk till butter came. Often he fought with huge battoon, And oftentimes he boxed; Tapt a fresh monster once a month, As Hervey[7] doth fresh hogshead. He gave Anteus such a hug, As wrestlers give in Cornwall: But George he did the dragon kill, As dead as any door-nail. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

The Gemini, sprung from an egg, Were put into a cradle; Their brains with knocks and bottled-ale, Were often-times full addle; And, scarcely hatch’d, these sons of him, That hurls the bolt trisulcate, With helmet-shell on tender head, Did tustle with red-ey’d pole-cat. Castor a horseman, Pollux tho’ A boxer was, I wist: The one was fam’d for iron heel; Th’ other for leaden fist. Pollux, to shew he was a god, When he was in a passion With fist made noses fall down flat By way of adoration: This fist, as sure as French disease, Demolish’d noses’ ridges; He like a certain lord[8] was fam’d For breaking down of bridges. Castor the flame of fiery steed, With well-spur’d boots took down; As men, with leathern buckets, quench A fire in country town. His famous horse, that liv’d on oats, Is sung on oaten quill; By bards’ immortal provender The nag surviveth still. This shelly brood on none but knaves Employ’d their brisk artillery: And flew as naturally at rogues, As eggs at thief in pillory.[9] Much sweat they spent in furious fight, Much blood they did effund; Their whites they vented thro’ the pores; Their yolks thro’ gaping wound. Then both were cleans’d from blood and dust To make a heavenly sign; The lads were, like their armour, scowr’d, And then hung up to shine; Such were the heavenly double-Dicks, The sons of Jove and Tyndar; But George he cut the dragon up, As he had bin duck or windar. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Gorgon a twisted adder wore For knot upon her shoulder; She kemb’d her hissing periwig, And curling snakes did powder. These snakes they made stiff changelings Of all the folks they hist on; They turned barbars into hones, And masons into free-stone. Sworded magnetic Amazon Her shield to load-stone changes; Then amorous sword by magic belt Clung fast unto her haunches. This shield long village did protect, And kept the army from-town, And chang’d the bullies into rocks, That came t’ invade Long-Compton.[10] She post-diluvian stores unmans, And Pyrrha’s work unravels; And stares Deucalion’s hardy boys Into their primitive pebbles. Red noses she to rubies turns, And noddles into bricks: But George made dragon laxative; And gave him a bloody flix. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

By boar-spear Meleager got An everlasting name, And out of haunch of basted swine, He hew’d eternal fame. This beast each hero’s trouzers ript, And rudely shew’d his bare-breech, Prickt but the wem, and out there came Heroic guts and garbadge. Legs were secur’d by iron boots No more than peas by peascods; Brass helmets, with inclosed sculls, Wou’d crackle in’s mouth like chestnuts. His tawny hairs erected were By rage, that was resistless; And wrath, instead of cobler’s wax, Did stiffen his rising bristles. His tusk lay’d dogs so dead asleep, Nor horn, nor whip cou’d wake ‘urn; It made them vent both their last blood, And their last album-grecum. But the knight gor’d him with his spear, To make of him a tame one, And arrows thick, instead of cloves, He stuck in monster’s gammon. For monumental pillar, that His victory might be known, He rais’d up, in cylindric form, A collar of the brawn. He sent his shade to shades below, In Stygian mud to wallow; And eke the stout St. George eftsoon, He made the dragon follow. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Achilles of old Chiron learnt The great horse for to ride; H’ was taught by th’ Centaur’s rational part, The hinnible to bestride. Bright silver feet, and shining face Had that stout hero’s mother; As rapier’s silver’d at one end, And wounds you at the other. Her feet were bright, his feet were swift, As hawk pursuing sparrow; Her’s had the metal, his the speed Of Braburn’s[11] silver arrow. Thetis to double pedagogue Commits her dearest boy; Who bred him from a slender twig To be the scourge of Troy; But ere he lasht the Trojans, h’ was In Stygian waters steept, As birch is soaked first in piss, When boys are to be whipt. With skin exceeding hard, he rose From lake, so black and muddy, As lobsters from the ocean rise, With shell about their body, And, as from lobster’s broken claw, Pick out the fish you might; So might you from one unshell’d heel Dig pieces of the knight. His myrmidons robb’d Priam’s barns And hen-roosts, says the song; Carried away both corn and eggs, Like ants from whence they sprung. Himself tore Hector’s pantaloons, And sent him down bare-breech’d To pedant Radamanthus, in A posture to be switch’d. But George he made the dragon look, As if he had been bewitch’d. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense

Full fatal to the Romans was The Carthaginian Hanni- bal; him I mean, who gave them such A devilish thump at Cannć; Moors, thick as goats on Penmenmure, Stood on the Alpes’s front; Their one-eyed guide,[12] like blinking mole, Bor’d thro’ the hind’ring mount: Who, baffled by the massy rock, Took vinegar for relief; Like plowmen, when they hew their way Thro’ stubborn rump of beef. As dancing louts from humid toes Cast atoms of ill savour To blinking Hyatt,[13] when on vile crowd He merriment does endeavour, And saws from suffering timber out Some wretched tune to quiver; So Romans stunk and squeak’d at sight Of Affrican carnivor. The tawny surface of his phiz Did serve instead of vizzard; But George he made the dragon have A grumbling in his gizzard. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

The valour of Domitian, It must not be forgotten; Who from the jaws of worm-blowing flies, Protected veal and mutton. A squadron of flies errant, Against the foe appears; With regiments of buzzing knights, And swarms of volunteers. The warlike wasp encourag’d ‘em With animating hum; And the loud brazen hornet next, He was their kettle-drum; The Spanish Don Cantharido Did him most sorely pester, And rais’d on skin of vent’rous knight Full many a plaguy blister. A bee whipt thro’ his button-hole, As thro’ key-hole a witch, And stabb’d him with her little tuck Drawn out of scabbard breech; But the undaunted knight lifts up An arm both big and brawny, And slasht her so, that here lay head, And there lay bag and honey; Then ‘mongst the rout he flew as swift, As weapon made by Cyclops, And bravely quell’d seditious buz, By dint of massy fly-flops. Surviving flies do curses breathe, And maggots too, at Caesar; But George he shav’d the dragon’s beard, And Askelon[14] was his razor. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

John Grubb, the facetious writer of the foregoing song, makes a distinguished figure among the Oxford wits so humorously enumerated in the following distich;

Alma novem genuit celebres Rhedycina poetas Bub, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trap, Young, Carey, Tickell, Evans.

These were Bub Dodington (the late Lord Melcombe), Dr. Stubbs, our poet Grubb, Mr. Crabb, Dr. Trapp the poetry professor, Dr. Edw. Young the author of Night Thoughts, Walter Carey, Thomas Tickell, Esq. and Dr. Evans the epigrammatist. As for our poet Grubb, all that we can learn further of him, is contained in a few extracts from the University Register, and from his Epitaph. It appears from the former that he was matriculated in 1667, being the son of John Grubb, “de Acton Burnel in comitatu Salop. pauperis.” He took his degree of Bachelor of Arts, June 28, 1671; and became Master of Arts, June 28, 1675. He was appointed Head Master of the Grammar School at Christ Church; and afterwards chosen into the same employment at Gloucester, where he died in 1697, as appears from his monument in the church of St. Mary de Crypt in Gloucester, which is inscribed with the following epitaph:—

H. S. E.

JOHANNES GRUBB, A.M.

Natus apud Acton Burnel in agro Salopiens Anno Dom. 1645. Cujus variam in linguis notitiam, et felicem erudiendis pueris industriam, gratâ adhuc memoriâ testatur Oxonium. Ibi enim Ćdi Christi initiatus, artes excoluit; Pueros ad easdem mox excolendas accuratč formavit; Hunc demum unanimi omnium consensu accitus, eandem suscepit provinciam, quam feliciter adeo absolvit, ut nihil optandum sit nisi ut diutius nobis interfuisset. Fuit enim propter festivam ingenii suavitatem, simplicem morum candorem, et prćcipuam erga cognatos benevolentiam, omnibus desideratissimus. Obiit 2do die Aprilis, Anno D’ni. 1697, Ćtatis suć 51.

NOTES

1. To this circumstance it is owing that the Editor has never met with two copies in which the stanzas are arranged alike: he has therefore thrown them into what appeared the most natural order. The verses are properly long Alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it necessary to subdivide them: they are here printed with many improvements. 2. Men of bulk answerable to their places, as is well known at Oxford. 3. A butcher that then served the college. 4. A cook, who on fast-nights was famous for selling cow-heel and tripe. 5. The drum. 6. Who kept Paradise gardens at Oxford. 7. A noted drawer at the Mermaid tavern in Oxford. 8. Lord Lovelace broke down the bridges about Oxford, at the beginning of the Revolution. See on this subject a ballad in Smith’s Poems, p. 102. Lond. 1713. 9. It has been suggested by an ingenious correspondent that this was a popular subject at that time Not carted bawd, or Dan de Foe, In wooden ruff ere bluster’d so. — Smith’s Poems, p. 117. 10. See the account of Rolricht Stones, in Dr. Plott’s Hist. of Oxfordshire. 11. Braburn, a gentleman commoner of Lincoln college, gave a silver arrow to be shot for by the archers of the university of Oxford. 12. Hannibal had but one eye. 13. A one-eyed fellow, who pretended to make fiddles, as well as play on them; well known at that time in Oxford. 14. The name of St. George’s sword.

XVI. Margaret’s Ghost.

This ballad, which appeared in some of the public newspapers in or before the year 1724, came from the pen of David Mallet, Esq. who, in the edition of his poems, 3 vols. 1759, informs us that the plan was suggested by the four verses quoted above in book viii. no. iv., which he supposed to be the beginning of some ballad now lost. “These lines,” says he, “naked of ornament and simple as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago.” The two introductory lines (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz.

When all was wrapt in dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, &c.

‘Twas at the silent solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost, And stood at William’s feet.

Her face was like an April morn, Clad in a wintry cloud; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shrowd.

So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown; Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm, Consum’d her early prime; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; She dy’d before her time.

“Awake!” she cry’d, “thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refus’d to save.

“This is the dark and dreary hour When injur’d ghosts complain; Now yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain.

“Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath; And give me back my maiden vow, And give me back my troth.

“Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

“How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break?

“Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid, Believe the flattering tale?

“That face, alas! no more is fair; These lips no longer red; Dark are my eyes, now clos’d in death, And every charm is fled.

“The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear; And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear.

“But, hark! the cock has warn’d me hence! A long and last adieu! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who dy’d for love of you.”

The lark sang loud; the morning smil’d With beams of rosy red; Pale William shook in ev’ry limb, And raving left his bed.

He hyed him to the fatal place Where Margaret’s body lay; And stretch’d him on the grass-green turf, That wrapt her breathless clay;

And thrice he call’d on Margaret’s name, And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more.

- In a late publication, intitled The Friends, &c. Lond. 1773, 2 vols. 12mo (in the first volume) is inserted a copy of the foregoing ballad, with very great variations, which the Editor of that work contends was the original; and that Mallet adopted it for his own, and altered it as here given. But the superior beauty and simplicity of the present copy gives it so much more the air of an original, that it will rather be believed that some transcriber altered it from Mallet’s, and adapted the lines to his own taste; than which nothing is more common in popular songs and ballads.

XVII. Lucy and Colin.

This ballad was written by Thomas Tickell, Esq. the celebrated friend of Mr. Addison, and Editor of his works. He was son of a clergyman in the north of England; had his education at Queen’s College, Oxon; was under-secretary to Mr. Addison and Mr. Craggs, when successively secretaries of state; and was lastly (in June 1724) appointed secretary to the Lords Justices in Ireland, which place he held till his death in 1740. He acquired Mr. Addison’s patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond, written while he was at the university. It is a tradition in Ireland that this song was written at Castletown, in the county of Kildare, at the request of the then Mrs. Conolly; probably on some event recent in that neighbourhood.

OF Leinster, fam’d for maidens fair, Bright Lucy was the grace; Nor e’er did Liffy’s limpid stream Reflect so fair a face.

Till luckless love and pining care Impair’d her rosy hue, Her coral lip and damask cheek, And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh have you seen a lily pale, When beating rains descend? So droop’d the slow-consuming maid; Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn’d, of flattering swains Take heed, ye easy fair; Of vengeance due to broken vows, Ye perjur’d swains, beware.

Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring; And at her window, shrieking thrice, The raven flap’d his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew That solemn boding sound; And thus, in dying words, bespoke The virgins weeping round;

“I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says, I must not stay; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away.

“By a false heart, and broken vows, In early youth I die. Am I to blame, because his bride Is thrice as rich as I?

“Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows; Vows due to me alone; Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, Nor think him all thy own.

“To-morrow in the church to wed, Impatient, both prepare; But know, fond maid, and know, false man, That Lucy will be there.

“Then, bear my corse, ye comrades, bear, The bridegroom blithe to meet; He in his wedding-trim so gay, I in my winding-sheet.”

She spoke, she died: her corse was borne, The bridegroom blithe to meet; He in his wedding-trim so gay, She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur’d Colin’s thoughts? How were those nuptials kept? The bride-men flock’d round Lucy dead, And all the village wept.

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, At once his bosom swell; The damps of death bedew’d his brow, He shook, he groan’d, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah! bride no more), The varying crimson fled, When stretch’d before her rival’s corse, She saw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy’s new-made grave, Convey’d by trembling swains, One mould with her, beneath one sod, For ever now remains.

Oft at their grave the constant hind And plighted maid are seen; With garlands gay, and true-love knots, They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn, whoe’er thou art, This hallow’d spot forbear; Remember Colin’s dreadful fate, And fear to meet him there.

XVIII. The Boy and the Mantle. AS REVISED AND ALTERED BY A MODERN HAND[1]

Mr. Warton, in his ingenious Observations on Spenser, has given his opinion that the fiction of the Boy and the Mantle is taken from an old French piece intitled Le Court Mantel, quoted by M. de St. Palaye, in his curious “Memoires sur l’ancienne Chevalerie,” Paris, 1759, 2 tom. 12mo; who tells us the story resembles that of Ariosto’s enchanted cup. It is possible our English poet may have taken the hint of this subject from that old French Romance; but he does not appear to have copied it in the manner of execution; to which (if one may judge from the specimen given in the Memoires) that of the ballad does not bear the least resemblance. After all, it is most likely that all the old stories concerning King Arthur are originally of British growth, and that what the French and other southern nations have of this kind were at first exported from this island, See Memoires de l’Acad. des Inscrip. tom. xx. p. 352. In the Fabliaux ou Contes, 1781, 5 tom. 12mo of M. Le Grand (tom. i. p. 54), is printed a modern version of the old tale Le Court Mantel, under a new title, Le Manteau maltaillé, which contains the story of this ballad much enlarged, so far as regards the Mantle, but without any mention of the knife or the horn.

IN Carleile dwelt King Arthur, A prince of passing might; And there maintain’d his Table Round, Beset with many a knight.

And there he kept his Christmas With mirth and princely cheare, When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy Before him did appeare.

A kirtle and a mantle This boy had him upon, With brooches, rings, and owches, Full daintily bedone.

He had a sarke of silk About his middle meet; And thus, with seemely curtesy, He did King Arthur greet.

“God speed thee, brave King Arthur, Thus feasting in thy bowre; And Guenever thy goodly queen, That fair and peerlesse flowre.

“Ye gallant lords, and lordings, I wish you all take heed, Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose, Should prove a cankred weed.”

Then straitway from his bosome A little wand he drew; And with it eke a mantle Of wondrous shape and hew.

“Now have thou here, King Arthur, Have this here of mee, And give unto thy comely queen, All-shapen as you see.

“No wife it shall become, That once hath been to blame.” Then every knight in Arthur’s court Slye glaunced at his dame.

And first came Lady Guenever, The mantle she must trye. This dame, she was new-fangled, And of a roving eye.

When she had tane the mantle, And all was with it cladde, From top to toe it shiver’d down, As tho’ with sheers beshradde.

One while it was too long, Another while too short, And wrinkled on her shoulders In most unseemly sort.

Now green, now red it seemed, Then all of sable hue. “Beshrew me,” quoth King Arthur, “I think thou beest not true.”

Down she threw the mantle, Ne longer would not stay; But, storming like a fury, To her chamber flung away.

She curst the whoreson weaver, That had the mantle wrought; And doubly curst the froward impe, Who thither had it brought.

“I had rather live in desarts Beneath the green-wood tree; Than here, base king, among thy groomes, The sport of them and thee.”

Sir Kay call’d forth his lady, And bade her to come near; “Yet, dame, if thou be guilty, I pray thee now forbear.”

This lady, pertly gigling, With forward step came on, And boldly to the little boy With fearless face is gone.

When she had tane the mantle, With purpose for to wear; It shrunk up to her shoulder, And left her b*** side bare.

Then every merry knight, That was in Arthur’s court, Gib’d, and laught, and flouted, To see that pleasant sport.

Downe she threw the mantle, No longer bold or gay, But with a face all pale and wan, To her chamber slunk away.

Then forth came an old knight, A pattering o’er his creed; And proffer’d to the little boy Five nobles to his meed;

“And all the time of Christmass Plumb-porridge shall be thine, If thou wilt let my lady fair Within the mantle shine.”

A saint his lady seemed, With step demure and slow, And gravely to the mantle With mincing pace doth goe.

When she the same had taken, That was so fine and thin, It shrivell’d all about her, And show’d her dainty skin.

Ah! little did HER mincing, Or HIS long prayers bestead; She had no more hung on her, Than a tassel and a thread.

Down she threwe the mantle, With terror and dismay, And, with a face of scarlet, To her chamber hyed away.

Sir Cradock call’d his lady, And bade her to come neare: “Come, win this mantle, lady, And do me credit here.

“Come, win this mantle, lady, For now it shall be thine, If thou hast never done amiss, Sith first I made thee mine.”

The lady, gently blushing, With modest grace came on, And now to trye the wondrous charm Courageously is gone.

When she had tane the mantle, And put it on her backe, About the hem it seemed To wrinkle and to cracke

“Lye still,” shee cryed, “O mantle! And shame me not for nought, I’ll freely own whate’er amiss, Or blameful I have wrought.

“Once I kist Sir Cradocke Beneathe the green-wood tree: Once I kist Sir Cradocke’s mouth Before he married mee.”

When thus she had her shriven, And her worst fault had told, The mantle soon became her Right comely as it shold.

Most rich and fair of colour. Like gold it glittering shone; And much the knights in Arthur’s court Admir’d her every one.

Then towards King Arthur’s table The boy he tum’d his eye; Where stood a boar’s head garnished With bayes and rosemarye.

When thrice he o’er the boar’s head His little wand had drawne; Quoth he, “There’s never a cuckold’s knife Can carve this head of brawne.”

Then some their whittles rubbed On whetstone, and on hone; Some threwe them under the table, And swore that they had none.

Sir Cradock had a little knife, Of steel and iron made; And in an instant thro’ the skull He thrust the shining blade.

He thrust the shining blade Full easily and fast; And every knight in Arthur’s court A morsel had to taste.

The boy brought forth a horne, All golden was the rim; Saith he, “No cuckolde ever can Set mouth unto the brim.

“No cuckold can this little horne Lift fairly to his head; But or on this, or that side, He shall the liquor shed.”

Some shed it on their shoulder, Some shed it on their thigh; And hee that could not hit his mouth, Was sure to hit his eye.

Thus he, that was a cuckold, Was known of every man: But Cradock lifted easily, And wan the golden can.

Thus boar’s head, horn and mantle, Were this fair couple’s meed: And all such constant lovers, God send them well to speed.

Then down in rage came Guenever, And thus could spightful say, “Sir Cradock’s wife most wrongfully Hath borne the prize away.

“See yonder shameless woman, That makes herselfe so clean: Yet from her pillow taken Thrice five gallants have been.

“Priests, clarkes, and wedded men; Have her lewd pillow prest; Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth Must beare from all the rest.”

Then bespake the little boy, Who had the same in hold; “Chastize thy wife, King Arthur, Of speech she is too bold;

“Of speech she is too bold, Of carriage all too free; Sir King, she hath within thy hall A cuckold made of thee.

“All frolick light and wanton She hath her carriage borne; And given thee for a kingly crown To wear a cuckold’s horne.”

- The Rev. Evan Evans, Editor of the Specimens of Welsh Poetry, 4to. affirmed that the story of The Boy and the Mantle is taken from what is related in some of the old Welsh MSS. of Tegan Earfron, one of King Arthur’s mistresses. She is said to have possessed a mantle that would not fit any immodest or incontinent woman; this (which, the old writers say, was reckoned among the curiosities of Britain) is frequently alluded to by the old Welsh bards.

Carleile, so often mentioned in the ballads of King Arthur, the Editor once thought might probably be a corruption of Caer-leon, an ancient British city on the river Uske, in Monmouthshire, which was one of the places of King Arthur’s chief residence; but he is now convinced that it is no other than Carlisle, in Cumberland; the old English minstrels, being most of them northern men, naturally represented the hero of romance as residing in the north; and many of the places mentioned in the old ballads are still to be found there, as Tearne-Wadling, &c. Near Penrith is still seen a large circle, surrounded by a mound of earth, which retains the name of Arthur’s Round Table.

NOTES

1. The “modern hand” was Percy’s.— Editor.

XIX. The Ancient Fragment of The Marriage of Sir Gawaine.

The second Poem of Book vii. intitled The Marriage of Sir Gawaine, having been offered to the reader with large conjectural supplements and corrections, the old Fragment itself is here literally and exactly printed from the Editor’s folio MS., with all its defects, inaccuracies, and errata[1]; that such austere antiquaries as complain that the ancient copies have not been always rigidly adhered to, may see how unfit for publication many of the pieces would have been, if all the blunders, corruptions, and nonsense of illiterate reciters and transcribers had been superstitiously retained, without some attempt to correct and amend them. This ballad had most unfortunately suffered by having half of every leaf in this part of the manuscript torn away; and as about nine stanzas generally occur in the half page now remaining, it is concluded that the other half contained nearly the same number of stanzas.

KINGČ Arthur liues in merry Carleile, & seemely is to see & there he hath wth him Queene Genevr that bride so bright of blee.

And there he hath wth him Queene Genever that bride soe bright in bower & all his barons about him stoode that were both stiffe and stowre

The K. kept a royall Christmasse of mirth & great honor . & . when…

[About nine stanzas wanting.]

And bring me word what thing it is that a woman most desire this shalbe thy ransome Arthur he sayes, for Ile haue noe other híer.

K. Arthur then held vp his hand according thene as was the law he took his leaue of the baron there and homword can he draw.

And when he came to Merry Carlile to his chamber he is gone & ther came to him his Cozen Sr Gawaine as he did make his mone.

And there came to him his Cozen Sr Gawaine that was a curteous knight why sigh you soe sore, vnckle Arthur, he said or who hath done thee vnright?

O peace O peace thou gentle Gawaine that faire may thee be ffall for if thou knew my sighing soe deepe thou wold not meruaile att all;

ffor when I came to tearne wadling a bold barron there I fand wth a great club vpon his backe standing stiffe and strong

And he asked me wether I wold fight or from him I shold be gone o[2] else I must him a ransome pay & soe depart him from

To fight wth him I saw noe cause, me thought it was not meet for he was stiffe & strong wth all his strokes were nothing sweete;

Therfor this is my ransome, Gawaine I ought to him to pay, I must come againe as I am sworne, vpon the Newyeers day

And I must bring him word what thing it is

[About nine stanzas wanting.]

Then king Arthur drest him for to ryde in one soe rich array toward the foresaid Tearne waddling that he might keepe his day.

And as he rode over a more hee see a lady where shee sate

betwixt an oke & a greene hollen: she was cladd in red scarlett

Then there as shold have stood her mouth then there was sett her eye the other was in her forhead fast the way that she might see.

Her nose was crooked & turnd outward her mouth stood foule a-wry a worse formed lady than shee was neuer man saw wth his eye.

To halch vpon him K. Arthur this lady was full faine but K. Arthur had forgott his lesson, what he shold say againe

What knight art thou, the lady sayd that wilt not speake tome Of me thou nothing dismayd tho I be vgly to see;

for I haue halched you curteouslye & you will not me againe yett I may happen Sr knight shee said, to ease thee of thy paine

Giue thou ease me lady he said or helpe me any thing, thou shalt haue gentle Gawaine, my cozen, & marry him wth a ring.

Why if I helpe thee not thou noble K. Arthur of thy owne hearts desiringe of gentle Gawaine . . . .

[About nine stanzas wanting.]

And when he came to the tearne waddling the baron there cold he fimde wth a great weapon on his backe standing stiffe & stronge.

And then he tooke K. Arthurs letters in his hands & away he cold them fling & then he puld out a good browne sword & cryd himselfe a K.

And he sayd I haue thee & thy land Arthur to doe as it pleaseth me for this is not thy ransome sure therfore yeeld thee to me

And then bespoke him noble Arthur & bad him hold his hand, & give me leaue to speake my mind in defence of all my land.

He said as I came over a More, I see a lady where shee sate betweene an oke & a green hollen; shee was clad in red scarlette;

And she says a woman will haue her will & this is all her cheef desire: doe me right, as thou art a baron of sckill this is thy ransome & all thy hyer.

He sayes an early vengeance light on her! she walkes on yonder more; it was my sister that told thee this; she is a misshappen hore

But heer Ile make mine avow to god to do her an euill turne for an euer I maye thate fowle theefe get in a fyer I will her burne.

[About nine stanzas wanting.]

THE SECOND PART

SIR Lancelott & Sr Steven bold they rode wth them that day and the formost of the company there rode the steward Kay

Soe did Sr Banier & Sr Bore Sr Garret wth them soe gay soe did Sr Tristeram that gentle k to the forrest fresh & gay.

And when he came to the greene forrest vnderneath a greene holly tree their sate that lady in red scarlet that vnseemly was to see

Sr Kay beheld this Ladys face & looked vppon her smire[3] whosoeuer kisses this lady he sayes of his kisse he stands in feare.

Sr Kay beheld the lady againe & looked vpon her snout whosoeuer kisses this lady he saies of his kisse he stands in doubt

Peace coz. Kay then said Sr Gawaine amend thee of thy life for there is a knight amongst us all that must marry her to his wife.

What! wedd her to wiffe! then said Sr Kay in the diuells name anon gett me a wife where ere I may for I had rather be shaine[4]

Then soome tooke vp their hawkes in hast, & some took vp their hounds, & some sware they wold not marry her for Citty nor for towne.

And then be spake him Noble k. Arthur & sware there by this day for a litle foule sight & misliking

[About nine stanzas wanting.]

Then shee said, choose thee, gentle Gawaine truth as I doe say, wether thou wilt haue me in this liknesse in the night or else in the day

And then bespake him Gentle Gawaine, wth one soe mild of Moode sayes well I know what I wold say god grant it may be good!

To haue thee fowle in the night when I wth thee shold play; yet I had rather if I might, haue thee fowle in the day,

What when Lords goe wth ther seires[5] shee said; both to the Ale & wine alas then I must hyde my selfe I must not goe withinne.

And then bespake him gentle gawaine Said, Lady thats but a skill; [6] And because thou art my owne lady, thou shalt haue all thy will.

Then she said blesed be thou gentle Gawaine this day that I thee see for as thou see me att this time from hencforth I wilbe:

My father was an old knight & yett it chanced soe that he marryed a younge lady that brought me to this woe

Shee witched me being a faire young Lady, to the greene forrest to dwell & there I must walke in womans liknesse, most like a feeind of hell.

She witched my brother to a Carlist B . . .

[About nine stanzas wanting.]

that looked soe foule & that was wont on the wild more to goe

Come kisse her, Brother Kay, then said Sr Gawaine & amend thé of thy liffe I sweare this is the same lady that I marryed to my wiffe.

Sr Kay kissed that lady bright, standing vpon his ffeete; he swore as he was trew knight, the spice was neuer soe sweete.

Well Coz. Gawaine sayes Sr Kay Thy chance is fallen arright for thou hast gotten one of the fairest maids I euer saw wth my sight

It is my fortune said Sr Gawaine; for my unckle Arthurs sake I am glad as grasse wold be of raine great Joy that I may take

Sr Gawaine tooke the lady by the one arme Sr Kay tooke her by the tother they led her straight to K. Arthur as they were brother & brother

K. Arthur welcomed them there all & soe did lady Geneuer his queene wth all the knights of the round table most seemly to be seene.

K. Arthur beheld that lady faire that was soe faire & bright, he thanked christ in trinity for Sr Gawaine that gentle knight

So did the knights both more & lesse reioyced all that day for the good chance that hapened was to Sr Gawaine & his lady gay. ffins.

NOTES

1. The text of this poem has been carefully revised by comparison with Percy’s Folio Manuscript, as edited by Messrs. Hales and Furnivall.— Editor. 2. Sic. 3. ? Swire is neck. 4. ? For shent, slaine or shamed. 5. Sic in MS. pro feires, i.e. mates. 6. ? reason, feint, pretence.

GLOSSARY

A

A’, au: all. A deid of nicht: in dead of night. A Twyde: of Tweed. Abacke: back. Abone, aboon: above. Aboven ous: above us. Abowght: about. Abraide: abroad. Abye: suffer, to pay for. Acton: a kind of armour made of taffaty, or leather quilted. Fr. ‘Hacqueton.’ Advoutry, advouterous: adultery,adulterous. Aff: off. Afore: before. Aft: oft. Agayne: against. Agoe: gone. Ahte: ought. Aik: oak. Ain, awin, awne: own. Aith: oath. Al: albeit, although Alate: of late. Alemaigne: Germany. Alyes: probable corruption of algates, always. Al gife: although. An: and. Ancient, ancyent: flag, standard. Ane, one: an, a. Angel: gold coin worth 10s. Ann, if: even, if. Ant: and. Aplyght, aplyht, al aplyht: quite complete. Aquoy: coy, shy. Aras, arros: arrows. Arcir: archer. Argabushe: harquebusse, musket. Ase: as. Assinde: assigned. Assoyl’d, assoyled: absolved. Astate: estate; a great portion. Astonied: astonished, stunned Astound: confounded, stunned. Ath, athe, o’th’: of the. Attowre: out over, over and above. Auld: old. Aureat: golden. Austerne: stern, austere. Avoyd: void, vacate. Avowe: vow. Awa’: away. Axed: asked. Ayance: against. Aye: ever; also, ah! alas! Azein, agein: against. Azont: beyond; azont the ingle: beyond the fire.[1]

B

Ba’: ball. Bacheleere: knight. Bairn, bairne child. Baith: bathe, both. Baile, bale: evil, hurt, mischief, misery. Bairded: bearded. Bairn, bearn: child Balow: hush! lullaby! Balys bete: better our bales, i.e. remedy our evils. Ban: curse, banning, cursing. Band: bond, covenant. Banderolls: streamers, little flags. Bane: bone. Bar: bare. Bar hed: bare-head, or perhaps bared. Barn, (A-Sax. Beorn): chief, man. Barrow-hog: Gelded hog. Base court: the lower court of a castle. Basnete, basnite, basnyte, basso-net, bassonette: helmet. Battes: heavy sticks, clubs. Baud: bold. Bauzen’s skinne: dressed sheep or badger leather. Bauzon mittens. Bayard: a noted blind horse in the old romances. Be, by; be that, by that time. Bearn: see Bairn. Bearing arow: an arrow that carries well. Perhaps bearing, or birring, i, e. whizzing. Bed: bade. Bede: offer, engage. Bedeene: immediately, continuously? Bedone: wrought, made up. Bedight: bedecked. Bedyls: beadles. Beere: bier. Beette: did beat. Befall: befallen. Befoir: before. Beforn: before. Begylde: beguiled, deceived. Beheard: heard. Behests: commands, injunctions. Behove: behoof. Belive: immediately, presently Belyfe: See belive. Ben: bene: been; be, are; Ben: within doors, the inner room. Bende-bow: bent bow. Bene, bean: an expression of contempt. Benison: blessing. Bent: long grass, wild fields. Benyngne, benigne: benign, kind. Beoth: be, are. Bereth: beareth. Ber the prys: bear the prize. Berys: beareth. Berne: See Barne Bernes: barns. Beseeme: become. Beshradde: cut into shreds. Beshrewe me! a weak imprecation. Besmirche: to soil, discolour. Besprent: besprinkled. Beste: beest: art. Bested: abode. Bestis: beasts. Bet: better. Bett: did beat. Beth: be, are. Bewray: to discover, betray. Bi mi leautč: by my loyalty. Bickarte, bicker’d: skirmished.[2] Bille: promise in writing, confirmed by an oath. Birk: birch-tree. Blan, blanne, did blin: linger, stop. Blaw: blow. Blaze: emblazon, display. Blee: complexion, colour. Bleid, blede: bleed. Blent: ceased; blended. Blink: glimpse of light. Blinkan, blinkand: twinkling. Blinking: squinting. Blinks: twinkles, sparkles. Blinne: cease, give over. Blist: blessed. Blive: belive, immediately. Bloomed: beset with bloom. Blude: blood. Bluid, bluidy: blood, bloody. Blyth, blithe: sprightly, joyous. Blyth: joy, sprightliness. Blyve: See Belive. Boare: bare. Bode: abode, stayed. Boist: boisteris: boast, boasters. Boke: book. Bollys: bowls. Boltes: shafts, arrows. Bomen: bowmen. Bonnie, bonny: bonnye, comely. Bookesman: clerk, secretary. Boon, boone: favour, request, petition. Boot, boote: gain, advantage, help. Bore: born. Borowe: to redeem by a pledge. Borowed: warranted, pledged. Borrowe, borowe: pledge, surety. Bot, but: both, besides,moreover. Bot: without; Bot dreid: i.e. certainly. Bote: See Boote. Bougil, bougill: bugle, horn. Bounde, bowynd, bowned: prepared, got ready. also: went. Bowndes: bounds. Bower, bowre: arched room, dwelling. Bowre woman: chamber maid. Bowre window: chamber window. Bowys: bows. Brade: braid: broad. Brae: the brow or side of a hill. Braes of Yarrow: hilly banks of the Yarrow. Braid: broad. Braifly: bravely. Brakes: tufts of fern. Brand: sword. Brast: burst. Braw: brave. Brayd: arose, hastened. Brayd attowre the bent: hastened over the field. Brayde: drew out, unsheathed. Bred, brede: broad. Breech: breeches. Breeden bale: breed mischief. Breere, brere: briar. Breng, bryng: bring. Brenn: to burn. Brenand drake: the fire-drake, burning embers. Brether: brethren. Bridal, bride-ale: nuptial feast. Brigue, brigg: bridge. Brimme: public, universally known. Britled: carved. Broad arrow: a broad-headed arrow. Brocht: brought. Brodinge: pricking. Brooche: a spit, bodkin, ornamental trinket, clasp. Brook: enjoy Brooke: bear, endure. Brouche: See Brooche. Brouke her with winne: enjoy her with pleasure. Browd: broad. Brozt: brought. Bryttlynge, brytlyng: cutting up, quartering, carving. Buen, bueth: been, be, are. Bugle: hunting horn. Buik: book. Burgens: buds, young shoots. Burn: bourne, brook. Bushment: ambush, snare. Busk: dress, deck. Busk and bown: make yourselves ready and go. Buske: Idem. Busket, buskt: dressed. But: without. Butt.[3] But if: unless. But let: without hindrance. Buttes: buts to shoot at. By thre: of three. Bydys, bides: abides. Bye: buy, pay for; also, abye: suffer for. Byears: biers. Byll, bill: ancient battle-axe, halbert. Byn, bine, bin: been, be, are. Byrcke: birch-tree, or wood. Byre: a cow-house. Byste, beest: art.

C

Ca’: call Cadgilly: merrily, cheerfully. Cale: callyd, called. Caliver: a kind of musket. Caitiff: a slave. Camscho: stern, grim. Can, ‘gan, began: began to cry. Can curtesye: understand good manners. Canna: cannot. Cannes: wooden cups, bowls. Cantabanqui: ballad-singers. Cantles: pieces, corners. Canty: cheerful, chatty. Capul, capull: a poor horse. Care-bed: bed of care. Carle: a churl, clown. Also: old man. Carline: the feminine of Carle. Carlish: churlish, discourteous. Carpe: to speak, recite, censure. Carpe off care: complain thro’ care. Carping: reciting. Cast: mean, intend. Cau: call. Cauld: cold. Cawte and kene: cautious and active. Caytiffe: caitif, slave, wretch Certes: certainly. Cetiwall: the herb valerian. Chanteclere: the cock. Chap: knock. Chayme: Cain. Chays: chase. Che (Somerset): I. Check: to rate at. Check: to stop. Cheis: choose. Chevaliers: knights Cheveran: upper part of the scutcheon in heraldry. Chield: fellow. Child: knight. Chill (Som.): I will. Chould (Som.), I would. Christentie, Christentye, Christiantč: Christendom. Church-ale: a wake; feast in commemoration of the dedication of a Church. Churl: clown, villain, vassal. Chyf, chyfe: chief. Chylded: was delivered. Chylder: children. Claiths: clothes. Clattered: beat so as to rattle. Clawde: clawed, tore, scratched. Clead: clothed. Cleading: clothing. Cleaped: called, named. Cled: clad. Clepe: call. Clerke: scholar, clergymen. Cliding: clothing. Clim: contraction of Clement. Clough: a broken cliff. Clowch: clutch, grasp. Coate: cot, cottage. Cockers: short boots worn by shepherds. Cog: to lye, to cheat. Cokeney: cook, Lat. coquinator, Cold: could, knew. Cold be: was. Cold rost: nothing to the purpose. Coleyne, Collayne: Cologne steel. Com: came. Comen, commyn: come. Con: can, ‘gan, began. Con fare: went, passed. Con thanks: with thanks. Con springe: sprung. Confetered: confederated. Coote: coat. Cop: head, the top of anything. Cordiwin, cordwayne: Cordovan leather. Corsiare: courser, steed. Cost: coast, side. Cote: cot, cottage; coat. Cotydyallye: daily, every day. Coulde, could, cold: could. Could bare: bare. Could creep: crept. Could his good: knew what was good for him; could live upon his own. Could say: said. Could weip: wept. Counsail: secret. Countie: count, earl. Coupe, coup: pen for poultry. Courtnalls: courtiers. Couth: could. Couthen: knew. Covetise: covetousness. Coyntrie: Coventry. Cramasie: crimson. Crancky: merry, exulting. Cranion: skull. Crech: crutches. Credence: belief. Crevis: crevice, chink. Crinkle: run in and out, wrinkle; Cristes corse: Christ’s curse. Croft: inclosure near a house. Croiz: cross. Crompling: twisted, knotty. Crook: twist, distort; make lame. Crouneth: crown ye. Crowch: crutch. Crowt: pucker up. Cryance: belief; fear. Cule: cool. Cure: care, heed, regard.

D

Dale: deal. Bot give I deal: unless I deal. Dampned: damned, condemned. Dan: ancient title of respect. Dank: moist, damp. Danske: Denmark. Darh: there. Darr’d: hit. Dart: hit. Daukin: diminutive of David. Daunger hault: coyness holdeth. Dawes: days. Dealan, deland: dealing. Deare day: pleasant day. Deas, deis: the high table in a hall De, dy, dey, die. Dede is do: deed is done. Dee: die. Deed: dead. Deemed: doomed, judged. Deepe-fette: deep fetched. Deere: hurt, mischief. Deerly: preciously, richly. Deerly dight: richly dressed. Deid: dead. Deid-bell: passing-bell. Deill: dally? Deimpt: deemed, esteemed. Deip, depe: deep. Deir, dear: hurt, trouble, disturb. Dele: deal. Dell: narrow valley. Dell: part, deal. Delt: dealt. Demains, demesnes: estates. Deme: judge. Denay: deny. Dent: a dint, blow. Deol, dole: grief. Depured: purified, run clear. Deray: ruin, confusion. Dere, dear: hurt. Derked: darkened. Dern: secret. I’ dern: in secret. Descreeve, descrive, descrye: describe. Devyz: devise, bequeathment by will. Deze, deye: die. Dight, dicht: decked, dressed out, done. Dill: still, calm, mitigate. Dill, dole: grief, pain. Dill I drye: pain I suffer. Dill was dight: grief was upon him. Din, dinne: noise, bustle. Dine: dinner. Ding: knock, beat. Dint: stroke, blow. Dis: this. Discust: discussed. Disna: does not. Distrere: horse rode by a knight in the turnament. Dites: ditties. Dochter: daughter. Dois, doys: does. Dol, dole: grief. Dolefulle dumps: heaviness of heart. Dolorus: dolorous. Don: down. Dosend: dosing, drowsy. Doth, dothe: doeth, do. Doublet: inner garment. Doubt: fear. Doubteous: doubtful. Doughte, dougheti, doughetie, dowghtye: doughty, formidable. Doughtiness of dent: sturdiness of blows. Dounae: am not able; cannot take the trouble. Doute: doubt; fear. Doutted: doubted; feared. Douzty: doughty. Dozter: daughter. Doz-trogh: dough-trough. Drake: See Brenand Drake. Drap, drapping: drop, dropping. Dre: suffer. Dreid, dreede, drede: dread. Dreips: drips, drops. Dreiry: dreary. Drovyers: drovers, cattle-drivers. Drowe: drew. Drye: suffer. Dryghnes: dryness. Dryng: drink. Dryvars: See Drovyers. Duble dyse: double (false) dice. Dude, dudest: did, didst. Dughtie: doughty. Dule, duel, dol, dole: grief, sorrow. Dwellan, dwelland: dwelling. Dyan, dyand: dying. Dyce, dice: chequer-work. Dyd, dyde: did. Dyght, diht, dreesed: put on, put. Dyht: to dispose, order. Dyne: dinner. Dynte: dint, blow, stroke. Dysgysynge: disguising, masking. Dystrayne: distress. Dyzt: See Dight.

E

Eame: uncle. Eard: earth. Earn: to curdle, make cheese. Eathe: easy. Eather: either. Ech, eche, eiche, elke: each. Ee, eie: eye. Een: eyes. Een: evening. Effund: pour forth. Eftsoon: in a short time. Egge: to urge on. Eike: each. Eiked: added, enlarged. Ein: even. Eir, evir: e’er, ever. Eke: also. Eldern: elder. Ellumynynge: embellishing. Eldridge: wild, hideous, ghostly; lonesome, inhabited by spectres.[4] Elvish: peevish, fantastical. Elke: each. Eme: kinsman, uncle. Endyed: dyed. Enharpid: hooked, or edged with mortal dread. Enkankered: cankered. Enouch: enough. Ensue: follow. Entendement: understanding. Ententifly: to the intent, purposely. Envye: malice, ill-will, injury. Er, ere: before; are. Ere: ear. Erst: heretofore. Etermynable: interminable, unlimited. Ettled: aimed. Evanished: vanished. Everiche: every, each. Everych-one: every one. Evir-alake: ever alack!. Ew-bughts: pens for milch-ewes. Eyn, eyne: eye, eyes. Ezar: azure.

F

Fa’: fall. Fach: feche, fetch. Fader, fatheris: father, father’s. Fadge: a thick loaf of bread; a coarse heap of stuf; a clumsy woman. Fae: foe. Fain: glad, pleased, fond. Faine of feir: of a fair and healthy look; perhaps, free from fear. Falds: thou foldest. Fallan, falland: falling. Fals: false; falleth. Falser: deceiver, hypocrite. Falsing: dealing in falsehood. Fang: seize, carry off. Fannes: instruments for winnowing corn. Farden: fared, flashed. Fare: pass, go, travel. Fare: the price of a passage; shot, reckoning. Farley: wonder. Fa’s: thou fallest. Faulcone, fawkon: falcon. Fauzt, faucht: fought. Faw’n: fallen. Fay, faye: faith. Fayere: fair. Faytors: deceivers, cheats. Fe: reward, bribe, property. Feare, fere, feire: mate. Feat: nice, neat. Featously: neatly, dextrously. Feere, fere: mate, companion. Feil, fele: many. Feir, fere: fear; also demeanour. Feiztyng: fighting. Feire: mate. See Feare. Felay, felawe, feloy: fellow. Fell: hide. Fell, fele: furious. Fend: defend. Fendys pray: from being the prey of the fiends. Fere, fear: companion, wife. Ferliet: wondered, marvelled. Ferly: wonder, wondrously. Fersly: fiercely. Fesante, fesaunt: pheasant. Fet, fette: fetched. Fetteled: prepared, addressed. Fey: predestined to some fatality. Fie: beasts, cattle. Filde: field. Fillan’, filland: filling. Find frost: find mischance, or disaster. Firth, frith: a wood, an arm of the sea. Fit: foot, feet. Fit, fitt, fyt, fytte: a part or division of a song.[5] Flayne: flayed. Fles: fleece. Fleyke: a large kind of hurdle: a hovel made of fleyks where cows are milked. Flindars: pieces, splinters. Flowan: flowing. Flyte: contend with words, scold. Fond, fonde: contrive, endeavour. Fonde: found Foo: foes. For: on account of. Forbode: commandment. Force: No force, no matter. Forced: regarded, heeded. Forefend: prevent, defend, avert. For-foght: over-fought. Foregoe: quit, give up. For-wearied: over wearied. Formare: former. Fors. I do not fors: I don’t care. Forsede: regarded, heeded. Forst: heeded, regarded. Forst: forced, compelled. Forthy: therefore. Forthynketh: repenteth, vexeth, troubleth. Forwatcht: over-watched, kept awake. Fosters of the fe: foresters of the king’s demesnes. Fou, fow: full, drunk. Fowarde, vawarde: the van. Fowkin: cant word for a fart. Fox’t: drunk. Frae: from. Fro Frae thay begin: from the beginning. Freake, freke, freeke, freyke: man, human being; also: whim, maggot. Fre-bore: free-born. Freckys: persons. Freers, fryars: friars, monks. Freits: ill omens, ill luck. Terror. Freyke, humour, freak, caprice. Freyned: asked. Frie, fre, free: noble. Fruward: forward. Furth: forth. Fuyson, foyson: plenty; substance. Fyers: fierce. Fykill: fickle. Fyled, fyling: defiled, defiling. Fyll: fell. Fyr: fire. Fyzt: fight.

G

Ga, gais: go, goes. Gae, gaes: go, goes. Gaed, gade: went. Gaberlunzie, gaberlunze: wallet. Gaberlunzie-man: a wallet-man, beggar. Gadlings, gadelyngs: idlers. Gadryng: gathering. Gae: gave. Gair, geer: dress. Gair: grass. Galliard: a sprightly dance. Gane, gan: began. Gane: gone. Gang: go. Ganyde: gained. Gap: entrance to the lists. Gar: to make, cause, &c. Garde, gart, garred: made; also Garde. Garre, garr: See Gar. Gargeyld: the spout of a gutter. Garland: the ring within which the mark was set to be shot at. Gayed: made gay their clothes. Gear, geere, gair, geir, geire: See Gair. Gederede ys host: gathered his host. Geere will sway: this matter will turn out; affair will terminate. Gef, gere: give. Geid: gave. Gerte: pierced. Gest: act, feat, story, history. Getinge, getting: plunder, booty. Geve, gevend: give, given. Gi, gie, gien: give, given. Gibed: jeered. Gie: give. Giff, Gife: if. Gillore: plenty. Gimp, jimp: neat, slender. Gin, an: if. Gin, gyn: engine, contrivance. Gins: begins. Gip: an interjection of contempt. Girt: pierced. Give: See Giff. Give owre: surrender. Glave, glaive: sword. Glede: a red-hot coal. Glen: narrow valley. Glent: glanced, slipped. Glie, glee: joy. Glist: glistered. Glose: set a false gloss. Glowr: stare, or frown. Gloze: canting, dissimulation. God before: God be thy guide[6]. Goddes: goddess. Gode, godness: good, goodness. Gone: go. Good: a good deal. Good-e’ens: good evenings. Gorget: the dress of the neck. Gowd, gould: gold. Gorreled-bellyed: pot-bellied. Gowan: the yellow crowfoot. Graine: scarlet. Graithed, (gowden): was caparisoned with gold. Gramercye: I thank you. Fr. Grand mercie. Graunge: granary, a lone house. Graythed: decked, put on. Grea-hondes: grey-hounds. Grece: a step, flight of steps. Gree, gre: prize, victory. Greece: fat. Fr. graisse. Greened: grew green. Greet: weep. Grennyng: grinning. Gresse: grass. Gret, grat: great; grieved, swoln. Greves: groves, bushes. Grippel: griping, miserly. Groundwa: groundwall. Growende, growynd: ground. Grownes: grounds. Growte: small beer, or ale.[7] Grype: griffin. Grysely groned: dreadfully groaned. Gude, guid, geud: good. Guerdon: reward. Gule: red. Gybe: jest, joke. Gyle: guile. Gyn: engine, contrivance. Gyrd: girded, lashed; gyrdyl: girdle. Gyse, guise: form, fashion.

H

Ha, hae: have. Ha’: hall. Habbe ase he brew: have as he brews. Habergeon: lesser coat of mail. Hable: able. Haggis: sheep’s stomach stuffed. Hail, hale: whole, altogether. Halched, halsed: saluted, embraced. Halesome: wholesome, healthy. Halt: holdeth. Halyde, Haylde: hauled. Hame, hamward: home, homeward. Handbow: the long bow. Hare . . . swerdes: their swords. Haried, harried, haryed, harowed: robbed, pillaged, plundered. Harlocke, charlocke: wild rape. Harnisine: harness, armour. Hartly lust: hearty desire. Harwos: harrows. Hastarddis: rash fellows, upstarts. Hauld: to hold. Hauss-bane: the neck-bone. Hav: have. Haves: effects, substance, riches. Haviour: behaviour. Hawberk: coat of mail. Hawkin: diminutive of Harry. Haylle: advantage, profit. He, hee, hye: high. He, hye: to hye, hasten. Heal: hail. Hear, heare: here. Heare, heares: hair, hairs. Heathenness: the heathen part of the world. Hech, hach, hatch: small door; also, Hach-borde: side of a ship. Hecht to lay thee law: promised, engaged to lay thee low. Hed, hede: head. Hede: he would; heed. Hee’s: he shall; he has. Heere: hear. Heicht: height. Heiding-hill: place of execution. Heil, hele: health. Heir, here: hear. Helen: heal. Helpeth: help ye. Hem: them. Hend: kind, gentle. Henne: hence. Hent, hente: held, pulled, received. Heo: they. Hepps and Haws: fruits of the briar, and the hawthorn. Her, hare: their. Here: their; hear; hair. Herkneth: hearken ye. Hert, hertis: heart, hearts. Hes: has. Hest: hast. Hest: command, injunction. Het: hot. Hether: hither. Hett, hight: bid, call, command. Hench: rock, or steep hill. Hevede, hevedest: had, hadst. Heveriche, hevenriche: heavenly. Hewkes: heralds’ coats. Hewyne in two: hewn in two. Hewyng, hewynge: hewing, hacking. Hey-day guise: frolic; sportive. Heynd, hend: gentle, obliging. Heyze: high. Heyd: hied. Hi, hie: he. Hicht, a-hicht: on height. Hie, hye, he, hee: high. Hie dames to wail: hasten ladies to wail. Hight: promised, engaged; named. Hillys: hills. Hilt: taken off, flayed. Hinch-boys: pages of honour. Hinde, hend: gentle. Hinde, hind: behind. Hings: hangs. Hinney: honey. Hip, hep: berries of the dog-rose. Hir: her. Hirsel: herself. Hit: it; Hit be write: it be written. Hode: hood, cap. Holden: hold. Hole, holl whole. Hollen: holly. Holtes: woods, groves. Holtis hair: hoar hills. Holy: wholly. Holy-roode: holy cross. Hom, hem: them. Honde: hand. Honden wrynge: hands wring. Hondridth, hondred: hundred. Honge: hang, hung. Hontyng: hunting. Hoo, ho: interjection of stopping. Hooly: slowly. Hop-halt: limping; halting. Hose: stockings. Hount: hunt. Houzle: give the sacrament. Hoved: heaved, hovered, tarried. Howeres, howers: hours. Huerte: heart. Huggle: hug, clasp. Hye, hyest: high, highest. Hyghte: on high, aloud. Hynd attowre: behind, over, about. Hip-halt: lame in the hip. Hys: his; is. Hyt, hytt: it. Hyznes: highness.

I

I-fere: together. I-feth: in faith. I-lore: lost. I-strike: stricken. I-trowe: verily. I ween: verily. I wisse: verily. I wot: verily. I-wys, I-wis: verily. I clipped: called. Ich: I. Ich biqueth: I bequeath. Iff: if Ild: I would. Ile: I will. Ilfardly: ill-favouredly, uglily. Ilk, this ilk: this same. Ilka: each, every one. Ilke, every ilke: every one. Ilk one: each one. Im: him. Impe: a demon. In fere, I fere: together. Ingle: fire. Inogh: enough. Into: in. Intres: entrance, admittance. Io forth: halloo! Ireful: angry, furious. Is: his. Ise: I shall. Its ne’er: it shall never. I-tuned: tuned. Iye: eye.

J

Janglers: telltales; wranglers. Jenkin: diminutive of John. Jimp: slender. Jo: sweetheart, friend. Jogelers: jugglers. Jow, joll: jowl. Juncates: a sweet-meat. Jupe: upper garment; petticoat.

K

Kall: call. Kame: comb. Kameing: combing. Kan: can. Kantle: piece, corner. Karls: churls; karlis of kynde: churls by nature. Kauk: chalk. Kauld: called. Keel: saddle. Keepe: care, heed. Keipand: keeping. Kempe: soldier, warrior. Kemperye man: fighting-man.[8] Kempt: combed. Kems: combs. Ken: know. Kenst, kend: know, knew. Kene: keen. Kepers: those that watch by the corpse. Kever-cheves: handkerchiefs. Kexis: dried stalks of hemlocks. Kid, kyd, kithed: made known. Kilted: tucked up. Kind: nature. Kynde. Kirk: church. Kirk-wa: church-wall. Kirm, kirn: churn. Kirtle: a petticoat, woman’s gown.[9] Kists: chests. Kit: cut. Kith (kithe) and kin: acquaintance and kindred. Knave: servant. Knellan, knelland: kneeling. Knicht: knight. Knight’s fee: such a portion of land as required the possessor to serve with man and horse. Knowles: little hills. Knyled: knelt. Kowarde: coward. Kowe: cow. Kuntrey: country. Kurteis: courteous. Kyne, kine: cows. Kyrtel, kyrtill, kyrtell: See kirtle. Kythe: appear, make appear, show. Kythed: appeared.

L

Lacke: want. Laide unto her: imputed to her. Laith: loth. Laithly: loathsome, hideous. Lamb’s wool: cant phrase for ale and roasted apples. Lane, lain: lone; her lane: by herself. Lang: long. Langsome: tedious. Lap: leaped. Largesse: gift, liberality. Lasse: less. Latte: let, hinder. Lauch: laugh. Launde: lawn. Layden: laid. Laye: low. Lay-land: land not ploughed. Lay-lands: lands in general. Layne: lien; laid. Layne: lain. See Leane. Leal, leel, leil: loyal, honest, true. Leane: conceal, hide; lye?. Leanyde: leaned. Learnd: learned, taught. Lease: lying, falsehood. Wythouten lease: verily. Leasynge: lying, falsehood. Leaute: loyalty. Lee, lea: the field, pasture. Lee: lie. Leech, leeche, physician. Leechinge: doctoring, medicinal care. Leeke: phrase of contempt. Leer: look. Leese: lose. Leeve London: dear London. Leeveth: believeth. Lefe, leve, leeve, leffe: dear. Leid: lyed. Leir, lere: learn. Leive: leave. Leman, lemman, leiman, leaman: lover, mistress. Lenger: longer. Lengeth in: resideth in. Lere: face, complexion. Lerned: learned. Lesynge: lying, falsehood. Let, lett, latte, hinder: slacken. Lettest: hinderest, detainest. Lettyng: hindrance, without delay. Leuch, leugh: laughed. Lugh. Lever: rather. Leves and bowes: leaves and boughs. Lewd: ignorant, scandalous. Leyke: like, play. Leyre, lere: learning, lore. Libbard: leopard. Libbard’s bane: an herb. Lichtly: lightly, easily, nimbly; also: to undervalue. Lie, lee: field. Liege-men: vassals, subjects. Lig, ligge: lie. Lightly: easily. Lightsome: cheerful, sprightly. Liked: pleased. Limitacioune: a certain precinct allowed to a limitour. Limitours: friars licensed to beg within certain limits. Linde: lime tree; trees in general. Lingell: hempen thread rubbed with rosin, for mending shoes. Lire: flesh, complexion. Lith, lithe, lythe: attend, listen. Lither: idle, worthless, wicked. Liver: deliver. Liverance: deliverance (money, or a pledge for delivering you up). Lodlye: loathsome. Lo’e, Loed: love, loved. Logeying: lodging. Loke: lock of wool. Longes: belongs. Loo: halloo! Looset, losed: loosed. Lope: leaped. Lore: lesson, doctrine, learning. Lore: lost. Lorrel: a sorry, worthless person. Losel: idem. Lothly: See Lodlye.[10] Loud and still: at all times. Lought, lowe, lugh: laughed. Loun, loon: rascal. Lounge: lung. Lourd, lour: See Lever. Louted, lowtede: bowed. Lowe: little hill. Lowns: blazes. Lowte, lout: bow, do obeisance. Lude, luid, luivt: loved. Luef: love. Lues, luve: loves, love. Luiks: looks. Lurden, lurdeyne: sluggard, drone. Lyan, lyand: lying. Lyard: grey; a grey horse. Lynde: See Linde. Lys: lies. Lystenyth: listen. Lyth, lythe: easy, gentle, pliant. Lyven na more: live no more. Lyzt, lizt: light.

M

Maden: made. Mahound, Mahowne: Mahomet. Mair: more, most. Mait: might. Majeste, maist, mayeste: may’st. Making: verses, versifying. Makys, maks: mates.[11] Manchet: fine bread. Male: coat of mail. Mane: man. Mane, maining: moan, moaning. Mangonel: an engine used for discharging great stones, arrows, &c. March-perti: in the parts lying upon the Marches. March-pine, march-pane: a kind of biscuit. Margarite: a pearl, Mark: a coin, in value 13s. 4d. Mark him to the Trinité, commit himself to God, by making the sign of the cross. Marrow: equal, mate, husband. Mart: marred, hurt, damaged. Mast, maste: may’st. Masterye, mayestry: trial of skill. Mauger, maugre: spite of; ill-will. Maun, mun: must. Mavis: a thrush. Mawt: malt. Mayd, mayde: maid. Maye, may: idem. Mayne: force, strength; mane. Maze: a labyrinth.[12] Me: men. Me con: men began. Me-thunch, thuncketh: methinks. Mean: moderate, middle-sized. Meany: retinue, train, company. Mease: soften, reduce, mitigate. Meaten, mete: measured. Meed, meede: reward, mood. Meit, meet: fit, proper. Mell: honey; also: meddle, mingle. Menivere: a species of fur. Mense the faugh: measure the battle. Menzie, meaney: See Meaney. Merches: marches. Messager: messenger. Met, meit: See Mete. Meynč: See Meany. Micht: might. Mickle: much, great. Mykel. Midge: a small insect. Minged: mentioned. Minny: mother. Minstral: minstrel. Minstrelsie: music. Mirke, mirkie: dark, black. Mirry, meri: merry. Miscreants: unbelievers. Misdoubt: suspect, doubt. Miskaryed: miscarried. Misken: mistake; let a thing alone. Mister: to need. Mither: mother. Mo, moe: more. Mode: mood. Moiening: by means of. Mold: mould, ground. Mome: a dull, stupid fellow. Monand: moaning, bemoaning. Mone: moon. Mounyn day: Monday. More, mure: moor, heath, also, wild hill; Morne: to mourn; to-morrow, in the morning. Mornyng: mourning. Morrownynges: mornings. Mort: death of the deer. Mosses: swampy grounds. Most: must. Mote, mought: might. Mote I thee: might I thrive. Mou: mouth. Mought, mot: See Mote. Mowe: may; mouth. Muchele bost: great boast. Mude: mood. Mulne: mill. Mun, maun: must. Mure: See Muir Murne, murnt, murning: mourn, etc. Muse: amuse; wonder. Musis: muses. Myghtte: mighty. Mycull, mekyl: See Mickle. Myne-ye-ple: many plies, or folds. Myrry: merry. Mysuryd: misused, applied badly.

N

Na, nae: no, none. Naithing: nothing. Nams: names. Nane: none. Nappy: strong (of ale). Nar, nare: nor, than. Natheless: nevertheless. Nat: not. Ne, nee: nigh. Near, ner, nere: never. Neat: oxen, cows, large cattle. Neatherd: keeper of cattle. Neatresse: female ditto. Neigh him neare: approach him near. Neir, nere: never. Neir, nere: near. Nere: we were; were it not for. Nest, nyest: next, nearest. Newfangle: fond of novelty. Nicht: night. Nicked him of naye: refused him. Nipt: pinched. Noble: a coin, in value 6s. 8d. Noblčs, nobless: nobleness. Nollys, noddles: heads. Nom: took. Nome: name. Non: none. None: noon. Nonce: purpose; Nonys. For the nonce: for the occasion. Norland: northern. Norse: Norway. North-Gales, North Wales. Nou: now. Nourice: nurse. Nout, nocht: nought; not. Nowght: nought. Nowls: noddles, heads. Noye: annoy? Nozt, nought. Nurtured: educated, bred up. Nye, ny: nigh. Nyzt: night.

O

O gin: O if. Obraid: upbraid. Ocht: ought. Oferlyng: superior, paramount. On: one, an. One: on. Onloft: aloft. Ony: any. Onys: once. Onfowghten, unfoughten: un-fought. Or, ere: before, even. Or, eir: before, ever. Orisons: prayers. Ost, aste, oast: host. Ou, oure: you, your; our. Out alas!: exclamation of grief. Out-brayde: drew out, unsheathed. Out-horn: summoning to arms. Out ower: quite over; over. Outowre: out over. Outrake: an out ride, or expedition. Oware off none: hour of noon. Owches: bosses, or buttons of gold. Owene, awen, oune, ain: own. Owre, owr: over. Owre-word: last word; burden of a song. Owt, owte: out.

P

Pa: the river Po. Packing: false-dealing. Pall, Palle: kind of rich cloth; robe of state. Palmer: a pilgrim. Paramour: lover, mistress. Pardč, perde, perdie: verily; Par Dieu. Paregall: equal. Partake: participate, assign to. Parti: party, a part. Pattering: murmuring, mumbling. Pauky: shrewd, cunning; insolent. Paves, pavice: a large shield. Pavilliane: tent, pavillion. Pay: liking, satisfaction. Paynim: pagan. Pearlins: coarse sort of bone-lace. Pece: piece, sc. of cannon. Peere, pere: peer, equal. Peering: peeping, looking narrowly. Peerless: without equal. Pees, pese, peysse: peace. Pele: a baker’s peel. Penon: lance-banner. Pentarchye of tenses: five tenses. Perchmine: parchment. Perelous, parlous: perilous. Perfay: verily. Perfight: perfect. Perill: danger. Perkin: diminutive of Peter. Perlese: peerless. Persit, pearced: pierced. Perte: part. Pertyd: parted. Petye: pity. Peyn: pain. Philomene: the nightingale. Pibrocks: Highland war-tunes. Piece: a little. Plaine: complain. Plaining: complaining. Play-feres: play fellows. Playand: playing. Pleasance: pleasure. Plein, playn: complain. Plett: platted. Plowmell: wooden hammer fixed to the plough. Plyzt: plight. Poll-cat: cant word for whore. Pollys, powlls, polls: head. Pompal: pompous. Popingay: parrot. Porcupig: porcupine. Portres: porteress. Posset: drink. Poterner: pocket, pouch. Poudered: sprinkled over (heraldic). Pow, pou, pow’d: pull, pulled. Powlls: See Pollys. Pownes: pounds. Preas, prese: press. Prece: idem. Preced, presed: pressed. Prest: ready. Prestly, prestlye: readily, quickly. Pricked: spurred on, hasted. Prickes: the mark to shoot at. Pricke-wand: wand to shoot at. Priefe: prove. Priving: proving, testing. Prove: proof. Prowčs: prowess, valour. Prude: pride; proud. Prycke: the mark. Pryme: day-break. Puing: pulling. Puissant: strong, powerful. Pulde: pulled. Purchased: procured. Purfel: ornament of embroidery. Purfelled: embroidered Purvayed: provided. Pyght, pight: pitched.

Q

Quadrant: four-square. Quail: shrink. Quat: quitted. Quaint: cunning; fantastical. Quarry: slaughtered game. Quay, quhey: young heifer. Quean: sorry, base woman. Quel: cruel, murderous. Quelch: a blow. Quell: subdue; kill. Quere, quire: choir. Quirister: chorister. Quest: inquest. Quha: who. Quhair: where Quhan, whan: when. Quhaneer: whenever. Quahar: where. Quhat: what. Quhatten: what. Quhen: when. Quhy: why. Quick: alive, living. Quillets: quibbles. Quitt: requite. Quyle: while. Quyt: quite. Quyte: requited. Qwyknit: quickened, restored to life.

R

Rade: rode. Rae: roe. Raik: to go apace. Raik on raw: go fast in a row. Raine: reign. Raise: rose. Ranted: were merry. Rashing: the stroke made by a wild boar with his fangs. Raught: reached, gained, obtained. Rayne, reane: rain. Raysse: race. Razt, raught, bereft. Reachles: careless. Reade, rede: advise; guess. Rea’me, reame: realm. Reas: raise. Reave: bereave. Reckt: regarded. Rede, redde: read. Rede: advise, advice; guess. Redresse: care, labour. Reke, smoke. Refe, reve, reeve: bailiff. Reft: bereft. Register: officer of the public register. Reid: See Rede. Reid, rede: reed, red. Reid-roan: red-roan. Reius: deprive of. Rekeles, recklesse: regardless, rash. Remeid: remedy. Renisht: shining? Renn: to run. Renyed: refused. Rescous: rescues. Reve: See Reeve. Revers: robbers, pirates, rovers. Rew, rewe: take pity, regret. Rue. Rewth: ruth. Riall, ryall: royal. Richt: right. Ride: make an inroad. Riddle: to advise? Rin, renn: run. Rise: shoot, bush, shrub. Rive: rife, abounding. Roche: rock. Roke, reek: steam. Ronne: ran. Roone: run. Roo: roe. Rood, Roode: cross, crucifix. Rood-loft: place in the church where the images are set up. Roast: roost. Roufe: roof. Route: go about, travel. Routhe, ruth: pity. Row, rowd: roll, rolled. Rowght, rout: strife. Rowned, rownyd: whispered. Rowyndd: round. Rudd: red, ruddy; complexion. Rude, rood: cross. Ruell-bones: coloured rings of bone. Rues, ruethe: pitieth; regretteth. Rugged: pulled with violence. Rushy: covered with rushes. Ruthe, ruth: pity, woe. Ruthfull: rueful, woeful. Ryde: See Ride. Rydere: ranger. Rynde: rent. Ryschys: rushes. Rywe: rue. Ryzt: right.

S

Sa, sae: so. Safer: sapphire. Saft: soft. Saif: safe; save. Savely: safely. Saim: same. Sair: sore. Saisede: seized. Sall: shall. Sap: essay, attempt. Sair: sore. Sar: See Sair. Sark, sarke: shirt. Sat, sete: set. Saut: salt. Savyde: saved. Saw, say: speech, discourse. Say: essay, attempt. Say us no harme: say no ill of us. Sayne: say. Scant: scarce; scantiness. Scath, scathe: hurt, injury. Schall: shall. Schapped: swapped? Schatered: shattered. Schaw: show. Schene: sheen, shining; brightness. Schip: ship. Schiples: shiftless. Scho, sche: she. Schone: shone. Schoote: shot, let go. Schowte, schowtte: shout. Schrill: shrill. Schuke: shook. Sclab: table-book of slates to write on. Scomfit: discomfit. Scot: tax, revenue; shot, reckoning. Se: sea. Se, sene, seying: see, seen, seeing. Sed: said. Seely: silly, simple. Seething: boiling. Seik, seke: seek. Sek: sack. Sel, sell: self. Selven: self. Selver, siller: silver. Sely: silly. Sen: since. Sene: seen. Seneschall: steward. Senvy: mustard-seed. Sertayne, sertenlye: certain, certainly. Setywall: See Cetywall. Seve: seven. Sey: a kind of woollen stuff. Sey yow: say to, tell you. Seyd: saw. Shaw: show. Shaws: little woods. Shave: been shaven. Shear: entirely. Shee’s: she shall. Sheeld-bone: the blade-bone. Sheele: she’ll, she will. Sheene, shene: shining. Sheeve, shive: a great slice of bread. Sheip: sheep. Sheits, shetes: sheets. Shent: shamed, disgraced, abused. Shepenes, shipens: cow or sheep pens. Shimmered: glittered. Sho, scho: she. Shoen, shone: shoes. Shoke: shookest. Shold, sholde: should. Shope: shaped; betook. Shorte: shorten. Shote: shot. Shread: cut into small pieces. Shreeven, shriven: confessed her sins. Shreward: a male shrew. Shrift: confession. Shrive: confess; hear confession. Shroggs: shrubs, thorns, briars. Shulde: should. Shullen: shall. Shunted: shunned. Shurtyng: recreation, diversion. Shyars: shires. Shynand: shining. Sib, kin; akin, related. Sic, sich, sick: such. Sich: sigh. Sick-like: such-like. Side: long. Sied: saw. Sigh-clout: a clout to strain milk through. Sighan, sighand: sighing. Sik, sike: such. Siker: surely, certainly. Siller: silver. Sindle: seldom. Sith, sithe: since. Sitteth: sit ye. Skaith, scath: harm, mischief. Skalk: malicious? squinting?. Skinker: one that serves drink. Skinkled: glittered. Skomfit: discomfit. Skott: shot, reckoning. Slade: a breadth of greensward between plow-lands or woods. Slaited: whetted; wiped. Slattered: slit, broke into splinters. Slaw: slew. Sle, slea, slee: slay. Slean, slone: slain. Sleip, slepe: sleep. Slo, sloe: slay. Slode, slit: split. Slone: slain. Sloughe: slew. Smithers: smothers. Sna’, snaw: snow. Soldain, soldan, sowdan: sultan. Soll, soulle, sowle: soul. Sond: a present, a sending. Sone, soan: soon. Sonn: son, sun. Sooth: truth, true. Soothly: truly. Sort: company. Soth, soth, south, soothe: See sooth. Soth-Ynglonde: South England. Sould, schuld: should. Souling: victualling. Sowdan: See Soldain. Sowden, sowdain: idem. Sowne: sound. Sowre, soare: sour, sore. Sowter: shoemaker. Soy: silk. Spack, spak, spaik: spake. Spec: idem. Speered, sparred, i.e. fastened, shut.[13] Speik: speak. Speir: spear. Speer Speir, speer, speere, spere, speare, spire: ask, inquire.[14] Spence, spens: expense. Spendyd: grasped. Spere, speere: spear. Spill, spille: spoil, destroy, harm. Spillan, spilland: spilling. Spilt: spoilt. Spindles and whorles: instrument used for spinning in Scotland.[15] Spole: shoulder; armpit. Sporeles: spurless, without spurs. Sprent, sprente: spurted, sprung out. Spurging: froth that purges out. Spurn, spurne: a kick. Spyde: spied. Spylt: spoiled, destroyed. Spyt, spyte: spite. Squelsh: a blow or bang. Stabille: establish? Stalwart, stalworth: stout. Stalworthlye: stoutly. Stane, stean: stone. Stark: stiff; entirely. Startopes: buskins, or half-boots. Stead, stede: place. Stean: stone. Steedye: steady. Steid, stede: steed. Steir: stir. Stel, stele, steill: steel. Sterne: stern; stars. Sterris: stars. Stert, sterte: start. Steven: time, voice. Still: quiet, silent. Stint: stop, stopped. Stonders, stonderes: standers-by. Stonde, stound, stounde, stownde: time, space, hour, moment; while. Stoup of weir: a pillar of war. Stour, stower, stowre: fight, stir, disturbance. Stown: stolen. Stowre: strong, robust, fierce. Stra, strae: straw. Streight: straight. Strekene: stricken, struck. Stret: street. Strick: strict. Strife: strain, or measure. Strike: stricken. Stroke: struck. Stude, stuid: stood. Styntyde, stinted: stayed, stopped. Styrande stagge: many a stirring, travelling journey. Styrt: start. Suar: sure. Sum: some. Summere: a sumpter horse. Sumpters: horses that carry burdens. Sune: soon. Suore bi ys chin: swore by his chin. Surcease: cease. Suthe, swith: soon, quickly. Swa, sa: so. Swaird: greensward. Swapte, swapped, swopede: struck violently; exchanged blows. Swarvde, swarved: climbed, Swat, swatte, swotte: did sweat. Swear, sware, sweare: swear; oath. Sweard, swearde, swerd: sword. Sweare, swearing, oath. Sweaven: a dream. Sweere, swire: neck. Sweit, swete: sweet. Swepyl: the swinging part of a flail. Sweven: See Sweaven. Swith: quickly, instantly. Swyke: sigh. Swynkers: labourers. Swyppyng: striking fast. Swyving: whoring. Sych: such. Syd: side. Syde shear, sydis shear: on all sides. Syn, Syne: then, afterwards. Syns: since. Syshemell: Ishmael. Syth: since. Syzt: sight. xxxxxxxxxxxx T

Taiken: token, sign. Taine, tane: taken. Take: taken. Talents: golden head ornaments? Tane: one. Tarbox: liniment box carried by shepherds. Targe: target, shield. Te: to; te make: to make. Te he!: interjection of laughing. Teene, tene: sorrow, grief, wrath. Teir, tere: tear. Teenefu’: indignant, wrathful, furious. Tent: heed. Termagaunt: the god of Sarazens.[16] Terry: diminutive of Thierry, Theodoricus, Didericus, Terence. Tester: a coin. Tha: them. Thah: though. Thair: their. Thame: them. Than: then. Thare, thair, theire, ther, thore: there. The: thee. The: they. The wear: they were. The, thee: thrive; So mote I thee: so may I thrive. See Chaucer, ‘Canterb. Tales,’ i. 308. The God: i.e. The high God. Thend: the end. Ther: their. Ther-for: therefore. Therto: thereto. Thes: these. Thewes: manners; limbs. Theyther-ward: thitherward. Thie: thy. Thowe: thou. Thi sone: thy son. Thii: they. Thilke: this. Thir: this, these. Thir towmonds: these twelve months. Thirtti thousant: thirty thousand. Tho: then, those, the. Thocht: thought. Thole, tholed: suffer, suffered. Thouse: thou art. Thoust: thou shalt, or shouldest. Thrall: captive; captivity. Thrang: throng, close. Thrawis: throes. Thre, thrie: three. Threape: to argue, assert positively. Thrie, thre: three. Thrif, threven: thrive. Thrilled: twirled, turned round. Thrittč: thirty. Thronge: hastened. Thropes: villages. Thruch, throuch: through. Thud: noise of a fall. Tibbe: diminutive of Isabel (Scottish) Tift: puff of wind. Tild down: pitched. Till: to; when. Till: unto, entice. Timkin: diminutive of Timothy. Tine: lose. Tint: lost. Tirl: twirl, turn around. Tirl at the pin: unlatch the door. To: too; two. Ton, tone: the one. Too-fall: twilight.[17] Tor: a tower; pointed rock on hill. Toun, toune: town. Tow: to let down with a rope. Tow, towe, twa: two. Towmoond: twelve-month, year. Towyn: town. Traiterye: treason: treachery. Trenchant: cutting. Tres hardie: thrice-hardy. Treytory, traitory: treachery. Trichard: treacherous. Tricthen, trick, deceive. Tride: tried. Trie, tre: tree. Triest furth: draw forth to an assignation. Trifulcate: three forked, three-pointed. Trim: exact. Trichard: treacherousr. Troth: truth, faith, fidelity. Trough, trouth: troth. Trow: think, believe, trust, conceive, also: verily. Trowthe: troth. Tru: true. Trumped: boasted, told lies. Trumps: wooden trumpets. Tuik, tuke: took. Tuke gude keip: kept a close eye upon her. Tul: till, to. Turn: an occasion. Turnes a crab, at the fire: roasts a crab. Tush: interjection of contempt, or impatience. Twa: two. Twatling: small, piddling. Twayne: two. Twin’d: parted, separated. Twirtle twist: thoroughly twisted.

U

Uch: each. Ugsome: shocking, horrible. Unbethought: for bethought. Unctuous: fat, clammy, oily. Undermeles: afternoons. Undight: undecked, undressed. Unkempt: uncombed. Unmacklye: mis-shapen. Unmufit: undisturbed, unconfounded Unseeled: opened; a term in falconry. Unsett steven: unappointed time, unexpectedly. Unsonsie: unlucky, unfortutnate. Untyll: unto, against. Ure: use. Uthers: others. V

Vair, (Somerset): fair. Valzient: valiant. Vaporing: hectoring. Vazen, (Somerset): faiths. Venu: approach, coming. Vices: devices; screws; turning pins; swivels; spindle of a press? Vilane: rascally. Vive, (Somerset): five. Voyded: quitted, left. Vriers, (Somerset): friars; “Vicars”.

W

Wa’: way, wall. Wad, walde, wold: would. Wadded: of a light blue colour?[18] Wae, waefu’: woe, woeful. Wae worth: woe betide. Waine: waggon. Walker: a fuller of cloth. Wallowit: faded, withered. Walter: roll along; wallow. Walter: welter. Waly: interjection of grief. Wame, wem: womb. Wan: gone; came; deficient; black, gloomy. Wan neir: drew near. Wane: one. Wanrufe: uneasy. War, wae: aware. War ant wys: wary and wise. Ward: watch, sentinel. Warde: advise, forewarn. Warke: work. Warld, warldis: world, worlds. Waryd: accursed. Waryson: reward. Wassel: drinking, good cheer. Wat: wet; knew. Wat, wot: know, am aware. Wate, weete, wete, witte, wot, wote, wotte: know. Wate: blamed. Wax: to grow, become. Wayde: waved. Wayward: froward, perverse. Weal: wail. Wea1e: welfare. Weale, weel, weil, wele: well. Weare-in: drive in gently. Wearifu’: wearisome, tiresome. Weazon: the throat Wedous: widows. Weede: clothing, dress. Weel: well; we will. Weene: think. Weet: wet. Weet: See Wate. Weid, wede, weed, See Weede. Weil, wepe: weep. Weinde, wende, went, weende, weened: thought. Weďrd: wizard, witch. Wel-away: interjection of grief. Wel of pitč: source of pity. Weldynge: ruling. Welkin: the sky. Well-away: exclamation of pity. Wem: hurt. Weme: womb, belly; hollow. Wend, wende, wenden: go. Wende: thought. Wene, ween: think. Wer: were. Wereth: defendeth. Werke: work. Werre, weir, warris: war, wars. Werryed: worried. Wes: was. Westlin, westlings, western: whistling. Wha: who. Whair: where. Whan: when. Whang: a large slice. Wheder: whither. Wheelyng: wheeling. Whig: sour whey, butter-milk. While: until. Whilk: which. Whit: jot. Whittles: knives. Whoard: hoard. Whorles: See Spindles. Whos: whose. Whyllys: whilst. Wi’: with. Wight: human being, man or woman. Wight: strong, lusty. Wightlye: vigorously. Wightye, wighty: strong, active. Wield-worm: serpent. Wildings: wild apples. Wilfulle: wandering, erring. Will: shall. Win: get, gain. Windar: a kind of hawk. Windling: winding. Winnae: will not. Winsome: agreeable, engaging. Wiss, wis: know; wist: knew. Wit, weet: know, understand. Withouten, withoughten: without. Wo, woo: woe. Wobster, webster: weaver. Wode, wod: mad, furious. Wode-ward: towards the wood. Woe: woeful, sorrowful. Woe-begone: lost in grief. Woe-man: a sorrowful man. Woe-worth: woe be to thee. Wolde: would. Woll: wool. Won: wont, usage. Won’d, wonn’d: dwelt. Wonde, wound: winded. Wonders: wonderous. Wondersly, wonderly: wondrously. Wone: one. Wonne: dwell. Wood, wode: mad, furious. Woodweele, wodewale: the golden ouzle, a bird of the thrush-kind. Wood-wroth: furiously enraged. Worshipfully friended: of worshipful friends. Worthe: worthy. Wot, wote: know, think. Wouche: mischief, evil. Wow: vow; woe! Wracke: ruin, destruction. Wrang: wrung. Wreake: pursue revengefully. Wreke: wreak, revenge. Wrench: wretchedness. Wright: write. Wringe: contended with violence. Writhe: writhed, twisted. Wroken: revenged. Wronge: wrong. Wrouzt: wrought. Wull: will. Wyld: wild deer. Wyght: strong, lusty. Wyghtye, ditto. Wynde, wende: go. Wynne, win: joy. Wynnen: win, gain. Wyste: knew. Wyt, wit, weet: know. Wyte: blame.

Y

Y: I. Y singe: I sing. Y-beare: bear. Y-boren: borne. Y-built: built. Y-cleped: named, called. Y-con’d: taught, instructed. Y-core: chosen. Y-fere: together. Y-founde: found. Y-mad, made. Y-picking, picking, culling. Y-slaw, slain. Y-wonne: won. Y-were: were. Y-wis: verily. Y-wrought, wrought. Y-wys: truly, verily. Y-zote: molten, melted. Yae: each. Yalping: yelping. Yaned: yawned. Yate: gate. Yave: gave. Ych, ycha: yche: ilka: each. Ycholde, yef: I should, if. Ychon, ychone: each one. Ychulle: I shall. Ychyseled: cut with the chisel. Ydle: idle. Ye feth, y-feth: in faith. Yearded: buried. Yebent, y-bent: bent. Yede, yode: went. Yee: eye. Yeldyde: yielded. Yenoughe, ynoughe: enough. Yerrarchy: hierarchy. Yere, yeere: year, years. Yerle, yerlle: earl. Yerly: early. Yese: ye shall. Yestreen: yester-evening. Yf: if. Yfere: together. Ygnoraunce: ignorance. Ylke, ilk: same. Yll: ill. Ylythe: listen. Yn: in; Yn-house, at home. Yngglishe, Ynglysshe: English. Ynglonde: England. Yode: went. Youe: you. Ys: is; his; in his. Ystonge: stung. Yt: it. Yth: in the.

Z

Z: y, g, and s. Zacring bell, (Somerset): Sacring bell, a little bell rung to give notice of the elevation of the host. ze: you, ye, thee; zee’re: ye are. zede: yede: went. Zee, zeene: see, seen. zees: ye shall. zef: yef: if. zeir: year. zellow: yellow. zeme: take care of. zent: through. zestrene: yester-e’en. zit, zet: yet. zonder: yonder. zang: young. Zonne: son. zou: you; zour: your. zoud: you would. zour-lane, your-lane: alone, by yoursef. zouth: youth. zule, yule: Christmas. zung, zonge: young.

- The printers have usually substituted the letter z to express the character yogh which occurs in old MSS.: but we are not to suppose that this was ever pronounced as our modern z; it had rather the force of y (and perhaps of gh) being no other than the Saxon letter yogh, which both the Scots and English have in many instances changed into y, as yard, year, young, &c.

NOTES

1. In the west of Scotland, at this present time, in many cottages, they pile their peats and turfs upon stones in the middle of the room. 2. Mr. Lambe also interprets “BICKERING,” by rattling, e.g. “And on that slee Ulysses head Sad curses down does BICKER.” — Transl. of Ovid. 3. “BUT o’ house” means the outer part of the house, outer room, viz. that part of the house into which you first enter, suppose from the street. “BEN o’ house” is the inner room, or more retired part of the house. The daughter did not lie out of doors. The cottagers often desire their landlords to build them a BUT and a BEN.—Mr. LAMBE. 4. In the ballad of SIR CAWLINE, we have ‘Eldridge hill,’ ‘Eldridge knight,’ ‘Eldridge Sworde,’— So Gawin Douglas calls the Cyclops, the ‘ELRICHE BRETHIR,’ i.e. brethren . (b.ii. p. 91, l. 16.), and in his Prologue to b. vii. (p. 202, l. 3.), he thus describes the night-owl: “Laithely of forme, with crukit camscho beik, Ugsome to here was his wyld ELRISCHE shriek.”

In Bannatyne’s MS. Poems, (fol. 35, in the Advocates’ Library at Edinburgh) is a whimsical rhapsody of a deceased old woman, travelling in the other world; in which “Scho wanderit, and zeid by, to an ELRICHE well.” In the Glossary to G. Douglas, ELRICHE, &c. is explained by “wild, hideous: Lat. truximmanis;” but it seems to imply somewhat more, as in Allan Ramsay Glossaries. 5. FITTS, i.e. “divisions or parts in music,” are alluded to in Troilus and Cressida, act 3, sc.1. See Mr. Steevens’s note. 6. So in Shakspeare’s King Henry V. act 3, sc. Viii., the King says; “My army’s but a weak and sickly guard; Yet GOD BEFORE, tell him we will come on.” 7. GROWTE is a kind of fare much used by Danish sailors, being boiled groats (i.e. hulled oats), or else shelled barley, boiled up very thick, and butter added to it. (Mr. Lambe.) 8. “Germanis Camp., Exercitum, aut Locum ubi Exercitus castrametatur, significant: inde ipsis Vir Castrensis et Militaris kemffer, et kempher, et kemper, et kimber, et kamper, pro varietate dialectorum, vocatur; Vocabulum hoc nostro sermone nondum penitus exolevit; Norfolcienses enim plebeio et proletario sermone dicunt, ‘He is a kemper old man,’ i.e. ‘Senex vegetus est;’ hic Cimbris suum nomen; ‘kimber enim homo bellicosus, pugil, robustus miles &c. significat.’” Sheringham de Anglor. gentis orig. p. 57. Rectius autem lazius (apud eundem, p. 49.) “Cimbros a bello quod kamff, et Saxonice kamp nuncupatos crediderim; ende bellatores viri Die Kempffer, Die Kemper.” 9. Bale, in his Actes of English Votaries, (2d Part, fol. 53) uses the word Kyrtle, to signify a monk’s frock. He says Roger, Earl of Shrewsbury, when he was dying, sent “to Clunyake, in France, for the KYRTLE of holy Hugh, the abbot there,” &c. 10. The adverbial terminations -SOME and LY, were applied indifferently by our old writers: thus, as we have lothly for loathsome above; so we have ugsome, in a sense not very remote from ugly, in Lord SURREY’s version of Ćneid II. viz. “In every place the ugsome sightes I saw.” P. 29. 11. As the words MAKE and MATE were, in some cases, used promiscuously by ancient writers, so the words CAKE and CATE seem to have been applied with the same indiferency: this will illustrate that common English proverb, “To turn cat (i.e. CATE) in pan.” A PAN CAKE is in Northamptonshire still called a PAN-CATE. 12. On the top of Catharine-hill, Winchester (the usual play-place of the school), was a very perplexed and winding path, running in a very small space over a great deal of ground, called a miz-maze. The senior boys obliged the juniors to tread it, to prevent the figure from being lost, as I am informed by an ingenious correspondent. 13. So in an old “Treatyse agaynst Pestilence,” &c. 4to. Empryntedby Wynkyn de Worde:” we are exhorted to “SPERE [i.e. shut or bar] the wyndowes ayenst the south.” fol. 5. 14. So CHAUCER, in his Rhyme of Sir Thopas: —”He soughte north and south, And oft he SPIRED with his mouth.” i.e. ‘inquired.’ Not SPIED, as in the Canterbury Tales, vol. ii. p.

234.

15. The ROCK, SPINDLES, and WHORLES, are very much used in Scotland and the northern parts of Northumberland at this time. The thread for shoe-makers, and even some linen-webs, and all the twine of which the Tweed salmon-nets are made, are spun upon SPINDLES. They are said to make a more even and smooth thread than spinning-wheels. 16. The old French Romancers, who had corrupted TERMAGANT into TERVAGANT, couple it with the name of MAHOMET as constantly as ours; thus in the old ‘Roman de Blanchardin, “Cy guerpison tuit Apolin, Et Mahomet et TERVAGANT.”

Hence Fontaine, with great humour, in his Tale, intituled, La Fiancée du Roy de Garbe, says, “Et reniant Mahom, Jupin, et TERVAGANT, Avec maint autre Dieu non morns extravagant.” Mem. de l’Acad. des Inscript. tom. xx. 4to. p. 352. As Termagant is evidently of Anglo-Saxon derivation, and can only be explained from the elements of that language, its being corrupted by the old French Romancers proves that they borrowed some things from ours. 17. “Toofall of the night,” seems to be an image drawn from a suspended canopy, so let fall as to cover what is below.— (Mr. Lambe.) 18. Taylor, in his ‘History of Gavel-kind,’ p. 49, says, “Bright; from word Brith, which signifies their wadde-colour; this was a light blue.”— Minshew’s Dictionary.

THE END

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