In the Parliament House, a great rout has been there, Betwixt our good King and the Lord Delaware: Says Lord Delaware to his Majesty full soon, 'Will it please you, my liege, to grant me a boon?'

'What's your boon,' says the King, 'now let me understand?' 'It's, give me all the poor men we've starving in this land; And without delay, I'll hie me to Lincolnshire, To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang them all there.

'For with hempen cord it's better to stop each poor man's breath, Than with famine you should see your subjects starve to death.' Up starts a Dutch Lord, who to Delaware did say, 'Thou deserves to be stabbed!' then he turned himself away;

'Thou deserves to be stabbed, and the dogs have thine ears, For insulting our King in this Parliament of peers.' Up sprang a Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of Devonshire, 'In young Delaware's defence, I'll fight this Dutch Lord, my sire;

'For he is in the right, and I'll make it so appear: Him I dare to single combat, for insulting Delaware.' A stage was soon erected, and to combat they went, For to kill, or to be killed, it was either's full intent.

But the very first flourish, when the heralds gave command, The sword of brave Devonshire bent backward on his hand; In suspense he paused awhile, scanned his foe before he strake, Then against the King's armour, his bent sword he brake.

Then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in the ring, Saying, 'Lend your sword, that to an end this tragedy we bring: Though he's fighting me in armour, while I am fighting bare, Even more than this I'd venture for young Lord Delaware.'

Leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler now resounds, Till he left the Dutch Lord a bleeding in his wounds: This seeing, cries the King to his guards without delay, 'Call Devonshire down,—take the dead man away!'

'No,' says brave Devonshire, 'I've fought him as a man, Since he's dead, I will keep the trophies I have won; For he fought me in your armour, while I fought him bare, And the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them wear.'

God bless the Church of England, may it prosper on each hand, And also every poor man now starving in this land; And while I pray success may crown our King upon his throne, I'll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own.



Ballad: LORD BATEMAN.



[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

Lord Bateman he was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; He shipped himself on board a ship, Some foreign country he would go see.

He sailed east, and he sailed west, Until he came to proud Turkey; Where he was taken, and put to prison, Until his life was almost weary.

And in this prison there grew a tree, It grew so stout, and grew so strong; Where he was chained by the middle, Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter, The fairest creature my eyes did see; She stole the keys of her father's prison, And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.

'Have you got houses? have you got lands? Or does Northumberland belong to thee? What would you give to the fair young lady That out of prison would set you free?'

'I have got houses, I have got lands, And half Northumberland belongs to me I'll give it all to the fair young lady That out of prison would set me free.'

O! then she took him to her father's hall, And gave to him the best of wine; And every health she drank unto him, 'I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine!

'Now in seven years I'll make a vow, And seven years I'll keep it strong, If you'll wed with no other woman, I will wed with no other man.'

O! then she took him to her father's harbour, And gave to him a ship of fame; 'Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman, I'm afraid I ne'er shall see you again.'

Now seven long years are gone and past, And fourteen days, well known to thee; She packed up all her gay clothing, And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.

But when she came to Lord Bateman's castle, So boldly she rang the bell; 'Who's there? who's there?' cried the proud porter, 'Who's there? unto me come tell.'

'O! is this Lord Bateman's castle? Or is his Lordship here within?' 'O, yes! O, yes!' cried the young porter, 'He's just now taken his new bride in.'

'O! tell him to send me a slice of bread, And a bottle of the best wine; And not forgetting the fair young lady Who did release him when close confine.'

Away, away went this proud young porter, Away, away, and away went he, Until he came to Lord Bateman's chamber, Down on his bended knees fell he.

'What news, what news, my proud young porter? What news hast thou brought unto me?' 'There is the fairest of all young creatures That ever my two eyes did see!

'She has got rings on every finger, And round one of them she has got three, And as much gay clothing round her middle As would buy all Northumberlea.

'She bids you send her a slice of bread, And a bottle of the best wine; And not forgetting the fair young lady Who did release you when close confine.'

Lord Bateman he then in a passion flew, And broke his sword in splinters three; Saying, 'I will give all my father's riches If Sophia has crossed the sea.'

Then up spoke the young bride's mother, Who never was heard to speak so free, 'You'll not forget my only daughter, If Sophia has crossed the sea.'

'I own I made a bride of your daughter, She's neither the better nor worse for me; She came to me with her horse and saddle, She may go back in her coach and three.'

Lord Bateman prepared another marriage, And sang, with heart so full of glee, I'll range no more in foreign countries, Now since Sophia has crossed the sea.'



Ballad: THE GOLDEN GLOVE; OR, THE SQUIRE OF TAMWORTH.



[This is a very popular ballad, and sung in every part of England. It is traditionally reported to be founded on an incident which occurred in the reign of Elizabeth. It has been published in the broadside form from the commencement of the eighteenth century, but is no doubt much older. It does not appear to have been previously inserted in any collection.]

A wealthy young squire of Tamworth, we hear, He courted a nobleman's daughter so fair; And for to marry her it was his intent, All friends and relations gave their consent.

The time was appointed for the wedding-day, A young farmer chosen to give her away; As soon as the farmer the young lady did spy, He inflamed her heart; 'O, my heart!' she did cry.

She turned from the squire, but nothing she said, Instead of being married she took to her bed; The thought of the farmer soon run in her mind, A way for to have him she quickly did find.

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on, And a hunting she went with her dog and her gun; She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell, Because in her heart she did love him full well:

She oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed, At length the young farmer came into the field; And to discourse with him it was her intent, With her dog and her gun to meet him she went.

'I thought you had been at the wedding,' she cried, 'To wait on the squire, and give him his bride.' 'No, sir,' said the farmer, 'if the truth I may tell, I'll not give her away, for I love her too well'

'Suppose that the lady should grant you her love, You know that the squire your rival will prove.' 'Why, then,' says the farmer, 'I'll take sword in hand, By honour I'll gain her when she shall command.'

It pleased the lady to find him so bold; She gave him a glove that was flowered with gold, And told him she found it when coming along, As she was a hunting with her dog and gun.

The lady went home with a heart full of love, And gave out a notice that she'd lost a glove; And said, 'Who has found it, and brings it to me, Whoever he is, he my husband shall be.'

The farmer was pleased when he heard of the news, With heart full of joy to the lady he goes: 'Dear, honoured lady, I've picked up your glove, And hope you'll be pleased to grant me your love.'

'It's already granted, I will be your bride; I love the sweet breath of a farmer,' she cried. 'I'll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow, While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough.'

And when she was married she told of her fun, How she went a hunting with her dog and gun: 'And now I've got him so fast in my snare, I'll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare!'



Ballad: KING JAMES I. AND THE TINKLER. {5} (TRADITIONAL.)



[This ballad of King James I. and the Tinkler was probably written either in, or shortly after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero. The incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is doubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood, in Surrey; by others in some part of the English border. The ballad is alluded to by Percy, but is not inserted either in the Reliques, or in any other popular collection. It is to be found only in a few broadsides and chap-books of modern date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, as here given, from the recital of the late Francis King. {6} It is much superior to the common broadside edition with which it has been collated, and from which the thirteenth and fifteenth verses were obtained. The ballad is very popular on the Border, and in the dales of Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Craven. The late Robert Anderson, the Cumbrian bard, represents Deavie, in his song of the Clay Daubin, as singing The King and the Tinkler.]

And now, to be brief, let's pass over the rest, Who seldom or never were given to jest, And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne, A pleasanter monarch sure never was known.

As he was a hunting the swift fallow-deer, He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear, In hope of some pastime away he did ride, Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.

And there with a tinkler he happened to meet, And him in kind sort he so freely did greet: 'Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug, Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?'

'By the mass!' quoth the tinkler, 'it's nappy brown ale, And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail; For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine, I think that my twopence as good is as thine.'

'By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,' And straight he sat down with the tinkler to joke; They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other; Who'd seen 'em had thought they were brother and brother.

As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say, 'What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?' 'There's nothing of news, beyond that I hear The King's on the border a-chasing the deer.

'And truly I wish I so happy may be Whilst he is a hunting the King I might see; For although I've travelled the land many ways I never have yet seen a King in my days.'

The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied, 'I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride, Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.'

'But he'll be surrounded with nobles so gay, And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?' 'Thou'lt easily ken him when once thou art there; The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.'

He got up behind him and likewise his sack, His budget of leather, and tools at his back; They rode till they came to the merry greenwood, His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.

The tinkler then seeing so many appear, He slily did whisper the King in his ear: Saying, 'They're all clothed so gloriously gay, But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?'

The King did with hearty good laughter, reply, 'By my soul! my good fellow, it's thou or it's I! The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round.' - With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,

Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits, Then on his knees he instantly gets, Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said, 'Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.

'Come, tell thy name?' 'I am John of the Dale, A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.' 'Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here, - I make thee a knight of three thousand a year!'

This was a good thing for the tinkler indeed; Then unto the court he was sent for with speed, Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen, In the royal presence of King and of Queen.

Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee, At the court of the king who so happy as he? Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler's old sack, And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.



Ballad: THE KEACH I' THE CREEL.



[This old and very humorous ballad has long been a favourite on both sides of the Border, but had never appeared in print till about 1845, when a Northumbrian gentleman printed a few copies for private circulation, from one of which the following is taken. In the present impression some trifling typographical mistakes are corrected, and the phraseology has been rendered uniform throughout. Keach i' the Creel means the catch in the basket.]

A fair young May went up the street, Some white fish for to buy; And a bonny clerk's fa'n i' luve wi' her, And he's followed her by and by, by, And he's followed her by and by.

'O! where live ye my bonny lass, I pray thee tell to me; For gin the nicht were ever sae mirk, I wad come and visit thee, thee; I wad come and visit thee.'

'O! my father he aye locks the door, My mither keeps the key; And gin ye were ever sic a wily wicht, Ye canna win in to me, me; Ye canna win in to me.'

But the clerk he had ae true brother, And a wily wicht was he; And he has made a lang ladder, Was thirty steps and three, three; Was thirty steps and three.

He has made a cleek but and a creel - A creel but and a pin; And he's away to the chimley-top, And he's letten the bonny clerk in, in; And he's letten the bonny clerk in.

The auld wife, being not asleep, Tho' late, late was the hour; I'll lay my life,' quo' the silly auld wife, 'There's a man i' our dochter's bower, bower; There's a man i' our dochter's bower.'

The auld man he gat owre the bed, To see if the thing was true; But she's ta'en the bonny clerk in her arms, And covered him owre wi' blue, blue; And covered him owre wi' blue.

'O! where are ye gaun now, father?' she says, 'And where are ye gaun sae late? Ye've disturbed me in my evening prayers, And O! but they were sweit, sweit; And O! but they were sweit.'

'O! ill betide ye, silly auld wife, And an ill death may ye dee; She has the muckle buik in her arms, And she's prayin' for you and me, me; And she's prayin' for you and me.'

The auld wife being not asleep, Then something mair was said; 'I'll lay my life,' quo' the silly auld wife, 'There's a man by our dochter's bed, bed; There's a man by our dochter's bed.'

The auld wife she gat owre the bed, To see if the thing was true; But what the wrack took the auld wife's fit? For into the creel she flew, flew; For into the creel she flew.

The man that was at the chimley-top, Finding the creel was fu', He wrappit the rape round his left shouther, And fast to him he drew, drew: And fast to him he drew.

'O, help! O, help! O, hinny, noo, help! O, help! O, hinny, do! For HIM that ye aye wished me at, He's carryin' me off just noo, noo; He's carryin' me off just noo.'

'O! if the foul thief's gotten ye, I wish he may keep his haud; For a' the lee lang winter nicht, Ye'll never lie in your bed, bed; Ye'll never lie in your bed.'

He's towed her up, he's towed her down, He's towed her through an' through; 'O, Gude! assist,' quo' the silly auld wife, 'For I'm just departin' noo, noo; For I'm just departin' noo.'

He's towed her up, he's towed her down, He's gien her a richt down fa', Till every rib i' the auld wife's side, Played nick nack on the wa', wa'; Played nick nack on the wa'.

O! the blue, the bonny, bonny blue, And I wish the blue may do weel; And every auld wife that's sae jealous o' her dochter, May she get a good keach i' the creel, creel; May she get a good keach i' the creel!



Ballad: THE MERRY BROOMFIELD; OR, THE WEST COUNTRY WAGER.



[This old West-country ballad was one of the broadsides printed at the Aldermary press. We have not met with any older impression, though we have been assured that there are black-letter copies. In Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border is a ballad called the Broomfield Hill; it is a mere fragment, but is evidently taken from the present ballad, and can be considered only as one of the many modern antiques to be found in that work.]

A noble young squire that lived in the West, He courted a young lady gay; And as he was merry he put forth a jest, A wager with her he would lay.

'A wager with me,' the young lady replied, 'I pray about what must it be? If I like the humour you shan't be denied, I love to be merry and free.'

Quoth he, 'I will lay you a hundred pounds, A hundred pounds, aye, and ten, That a maid if you go to the merry Broomfield, That a maid you return not again.'

'I'll lay you that wager,' the lady she said, Then the money she flung down amain; 'To the merry Broomfield I'll go a pure maid, The same I'll return home again.'

He covered her bet in the midst of the hall, With a hundred and ten jolly pounds; And then to his servant he straightway did call, For to bring forth his hawk and his hounds.

A ready obedience the servant did yield, And all was made ready o'er night; Next morning he went to the merry Broomfield, To meet with his love and delight.

Now when he came there, having waited a while, Among the green broom down he lies; The lady came to him, and could not but smile, For sleep then had closed his eyes.

Upon his right hand a gold ring she secured, Drawn from her own fingers so fair; That when he awaked he might be assured His lady and love had been there.

She left him a posie of pleasant perfume, Then stepped from the place where he lay, Then hid herself close in the besom of broom, To hear what her true love did say.

He wakened and found the gold ring on his hand, Then sorrow of heart he was in; 'My love has been here, I do well understand, And this wager I now shall not win.

'Oh! where was you, my goodly goshawk, The which I have purchased so dear, Why did you not waken me out of my sleep, When the lady, my love, was here?'

'O! with my bells did I ring, master, And eke with my feet did I run; And still did I cry, pray awake! master, She's here now, and soon will be gone.'

'O! where was you, my gallant greyhound, Whose collar is flourished with gold; Why hadst thou not wakened me out of my sleep, When thou didst my lady behold?'

'Dear master, I barked with my mouth when she came, And likewise my collar I shook; And told you that here was the beautiful dame, But no notice of me then you took.'

'O! where wast thou, my servingman, Whom I have clothed so fine? If you had waked me when she was here, The wager then had been mine.'

In the night you should have slept, master, And kept awake in the day; Had you not been sleeping when hither she came, Then a maid she had not gone away.'

Then home he returned when the wager was lost, With sorrow of heart, I may say; The lady she laughed to find her love crost, - This was upon midsummer-day.

'O, squire! I laid in the bushes concealed, And heard you, when you did complain; And thus I have been to the merry Broomfield, And a maid returned back again.

'Be cheerful! be cheerful! and do not repine, For now 'tis as clear as the sun, The money, the money, the money is mine, The wager I fairly have won.'



Ballad: SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.



[The West-country ballad of Sir John Barleycorn is very ancient, and being the only version that has ever been sung at English merry-makings and country feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than any of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in Evans's Old Ballads; viz., John Barleycorn, The Little Barleycorn, and Mas Mault. Our west-country version bears the greatest resemblance to The Little Barleycorn, but it is very dissimilar to any of the three. Burns altered the old ditty, but on referring to his version it will be seen that his corrections and additions want the simplicity of the original, and certainly cannot be considered improvements. The common ballad does not appear to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. Sir John Barleycorn is very appropriately sung to the tune of Stingo. See Popular Music, p. 305.]

There came three men out of the West, Their victory to try; And they have taken a solemn oath, Poor Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him in, And harrowed clods on his head; And then they took a solemn oath, Poor Barleycorn was dead.

There he lay sleeping in the ground, Till rain from the sky did fall: Then Barleycorn sprung up his head, And so amazed them all.

There he remained till Midsummer, And looked both pale and wan; Then Barleycorn he got a beard, And so became a man.

Then they sent men with scythes so sharp, To cut him off at knee; And then poor little Barleycorn, They served him barbarously.

Then they sent men with pitchforks strong To pierce him through the heart; And like a dreadful tragedy, They bound him to a cart.

And then they brought him to a barn, A prisoner to endure; And so they fetched him out again, And laid him on the floor.

Then they set men with holly clubs, To beat the flesh from his bones; But the miller he served him worse than that, For he ground him betwixt two stones.

O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain That ever was sown on land; It will do more than any grain, By the turning of your hand.

It will make a boy into a man, And a man into an ass; It will change your gold into silver, And your silver into brass.

It will make the huntsman hunt the fox, That never wound his horn; It will bring the tinker to the stocks, That people may him scorn.

It will put sack into a glass, And claret in the can; And it will cause a man to drink Till he neither can go nor stand.



Ballad: BLOW THE WINDS, I-HO!



[This Northumbrian ballad is of great antiquity, and bears considerable resemblance to The Baffled Knight; or, Lady's Policy, inserted in Percy's Reliques. It is not in any popular collection. In the broadside from which it is here printed, the title and chorus are given, Blow the Winds, I-O, a form common to many ballads and songs, but only to those of great antiquity. Chappell, in his Popular Music, has an example in a song as old as 1698:-

'Here's a health to jolly Bacchus, I-ho! I-ho! I-ho!'

and in another well-known old catch the same form appears:-

'A pye sat on a pear-tree, I-ho, I-ho, I-ho.'

'Io!' or, as we find it given in these lyrics, 'I-ho!' was an ancient form of acclamation or triumph on joyful occasions and anniversaries. It is common, with slight variations, to different languages. In the Gothic, for example, Iola signifies to make merry. It has been supposed by some etymologists that the word 'yule' is a corruption of 'Io!']

There was a shepherd's son, He kept sheep on yonder hill; He laid his pipe and his crook aside, And there he slept his fill.

And blow the winds, I-ho! Sing, blow the winds, I-ho! Clear away the morning dew, And blow the winds, I-ho!

He looked east, and he looked west, He took another look, And there he spied a lady gay, Was dipping in a brook.

She said, 'Sir, don't touch my mantle, Come, let my clothes alone; I will give you as much money As you can carry home.'

'I will not touch your mantle, I'll let your clothes alone; I'll take you out of the water clear, My dear, to be my own.'

He did not touch her mantle, He let her clothes alone; But he took her from the clear water, And all to be his own.

He set her on a milk-white steed, Himself upon another; And there they rode along the road, Like sister, and like brother.

And as they rode along the road, He spied some cocks of hay; 'Yonder,' he says, 'is a lovely place For men and maids to play!'

And when they came to her father's gate, She pulled at a ring; And ready was the proud porter For to let the lady in.

And when the gates were open, This lady jumped in; She says, 'You are a fool without, And I'm a maid within.

'Good morrow to you, modest boy, I thank you for your care; If you had been what you should have been, I would not have left you there.

'There is a horse in my father's stable, He stands beyond the thorn; He shakes his head above the trough, But dares not prie the corn.

'There is a bird in my father's flock, A double comb he wears; He flaps his wings, and crows full loud, But a capon's crest he bears.

'There is a flower in my father's garden, They call it marygold; The fool that will not when he may, He shall not when he wold.'

Said the shepherd's son, as he doft his shoon, 'My feet they shall run bare, And if ever I meet another maid, I rede that maid beware.'



Ballad: THE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF KENT; OR, THE SEAMAN OF DOVER.



[We have met with two copies of this genuine English ballad; the older one is without printer's name, but from the appearance of the type and the paper, it must have been published about the middle of the last century. It is certainly not one of the original impressions, for the other copy, though of recent date, has evidently been taken from some still older and better edition. In the modern broadside the ballad is in four parts, whereas, in our older one, there is no such expressed division, but a word at the commencement of each part is printed in capital letters.]

PART I.

A seaman of Dover, whose excellent parts, For wisdom and learning, had conquered the hearts Of many young damsels, of beauty so bright, Of him this new ditty in brief I shall write;

And show of his turnings, and windings of fate, His passions and sorrows, so many and great: And how he was blessed with true love at last, When all the rough storms of his troubles were past.

Now, to be brief, I shall tell you the truth: A beautiful lady, whose name it was Ruth, A squire's young daughter, near Sandwich, in Kent, Proves all his heart's treasure, his joy and content.

Unknown to their parents in private they meet, Where many love lessons they'd often repeat, With kisses, and many embraces likewise, She granted him love, and thus gained the prize.

She said, 'I consent to be thy sweet bride, Whatever becomes of my fortune,' she cried. 'The frowns of my father I never will fear, But freely will go through the world with my dear.'

A jewel he gave her, in token of love, And vowed, by the sacred powers above, To wed the next morning; but they were betrayed, And all by the means of a treacherous maid.

She told her parents that they were agreed: With that they fell into a passion with speed, And said, ere a seaman their daughter should have, They rather would follow her corpse to the grave.

The lady was straight to her chamber confined, Here long she continued in sorrow of mind, And so did her love, for the loss of his dear, - No sorrow was ever so sharp and severe.

When long he had mourned for his love and delight, Close under the window he came in the night, And sung forth this ditty:- 'My dearest, farewell! Behold, in this nation no longer I dwell.

'I am going from hence to the kingdom of Spain, Because I am willing that you should obtain Your freedom once more; for my heart it will break If longer thou liest confined for my sake.'

The words which he uttered, they caused her to weep; Yet, nevertheless, she was forced to keep Deep silence that minute, that minute for fear Her honoured father and mother should hear.

PART II.

Soon after, bold Henry he entered on board, The heavens a prosperous gale did afford, And brought him with speed to the kingdom of Spain, There he with a merchant some time did remain;

Who, finding that he was both faithful and just, Preferred him to places of honour and trust; He made him as great as his heart could request, Yet, wanting his Ruth, he with grief was oppressed.

So great was his grief it could not be concealed, Both honour and riches no pleasure could yield; In private he often would weep and lament, For Ruth, the fair, beautiful lady of Kent.

Now, while he lamented the loss of his dear, A lady of Spain did before him appear, Bedecked with rich jewels both costly and gay, Who earnestly sought for his favour that day.

Said she, 'Gentle swain, I am wounded with love, And you are the person I honour above The greatest of nobles that ever was born; - Then pity my tears, and my sorrowful mourn!'

'I pity thy sorrowful tears,' he replied, 'And wish I were worthy to make thee my bride; But, lady, thy grandeur is greater than mine, Therefore, I am fearful my heart to resign.'

'O! never be doubtful of what will ensue, No manner of danger will happen to you; At my own disposal I am, I declare, Receive me with love, or destroy me with care.'

'Dear madam, don't fix your affection on me, You are fit for some lord of a noble degree, That is able to keep up your honour and fame; I am but a poor sailor, from England who came.

'A man of mean fortune, whose substance is small, I have not wherewith to maintain you withal, Sweet lady, according to honour and state; Now this is the truth, which I freely relate.'

The lady she lovingly squeezed his hand, And said with a smile, 'Ever blessed be the land That bred such a noble, brave seaman as thee; I value no honours, thou'rt welcome to me;

'My parents are dead, I have jewels untold, Besides in possession a million of gold; And thou shalt be lord of whatever I have, Grant me but thy love, which I earnestly crave.'

Then, turning aside, to himself he replied, 'I am courted with riches and beauty beside; This love I may have, but my Ruth is denied.' Wherefore he consented to make her his bride.

The lady she clothed him costly and great; His noble deportment, both proper and straight, So charmed the innocent eye of his dove, And added a second new flame to her love.

Then married they were without longer delay; Now here we will leave them both glorious and gay, To speak of fair Ruth, who in sorrow was left At home with her parents, of comfort bereft.

PART III.

When under the window with an aching heart, He told his fair Ruth he so soon must depart, Her parents they heard, and well pleased they were, But Ruth was afflicted with sorrow and care.

Now, after her lover had quitted the shore, They kept her confined a fall twelvemonth or more, And then they were pleased to set her at large, With laying upon her a wonderful charge:

To fly from a seaman as she would from death; She promised she would, with a faltering breath; Yet, nevertheless, the truth you shall hear, She found out a way for to follow her dear.

Then, taking her gold and her silver also, In seaman's apparel away she did go, And found out a master, with whom she agreed, To carry her over the ocean with speed.

Now, when she arrived at the kingdom of Spain, From city to city she travelled amain, Enquiring about everywhere for her love, Who now had been gone seven years and above.

In Cadiz, as she walked along in the street, Her love and his lady she happened to meet, But in such a garb as she never had seen, - She looked like an angel, or beautiful queen.

With sorrowful tears she turned her aside: 'My jewel is gone, I shall ne'er be his bride; But, nevertheless, though my hopes are in vain, I'll never return to old England again.

'But here, in this place, I will now be confined; It will be a comfort and joy to my mind, To see him sometimes, though he thinks not of me, Since he has a lady of noble degree.'

Now, while in the city fair Ruth did reside, Of a sudden this beautiful lady she died, And, though he was in the possession of all, Yet tears from his eyes in abundance did fall.

As he was expressing his piteous moan, Fair Ruth came unto him, and made herself known; He started to see her, but seemed not coy, Said he, 'Now my sorrows are mingled with joy!'

The time of the mourning he kept it in Spain, And then he came back to old England again, With thousands, and thousands, which he did possess; Then glorious and gay was sweet Ruth in her dress.

PART IV.

When over the seas to fair Sandwich he came, With Ruth, and a number of persons of fame, Then all did appear most splendid and gay, As if it had been a great festival day.

Now, when that they took up their lodgings, behold! He stripped off his coat of embroidered gold, And presently borrows a mariner's suit, That he with her parents might have some dispute,

Before they were sensible he was so great; And when he came in and knocked at the gate, He soon saw her father, and mother likewise, Expressing their sorrow with tears in their eyes,

To them, with obeisance, he modestly said, 'Pray where is my jewel, that innocent maid, Whose sweet lovely beauty doth thousands excel? I fear, by your weeping, that all is not well!'

'No, no! she is gone, she is utterly lost; We have not heard of her a twelvemonth at most! Which makes us distracted with sorrow and care, And drowns us in tears at the point of despair.'

'I'm grieved to hear these sad tidings,' he cried. 'Alas! honest young man,' her father replied, 'I heartily wish she'd been wedded to you, For then we this sorrow had never gone through.'

Sweet Henry he made them this answer again; 'I am newly come home from the kingdom of Spain, From whence I have brought me a beautiful bride, And am to be married to-morrow,' he cried;

'And if you will go to my wedding,' said he, 'Both you and your lady right welcome shall be.' They promised they would, and accordingly came, Not thinking to meet with such persons of fame.

All decked with their jewels of rubies and pearls, As equal companions of lords and of earls, Fair Ruth, with her love, was as gay as the rest, So they in their marriage were happily blessed.

Now, as they returned from the church to an inn, The father and mother of Ruth did begin Their daughter to know, by a mole they behold, Although she was clothed in a garment of gold.

With transports of joy they flew to the bride, 'O! where hast thou been, sweetest daughter?' they cried, 'Thy tedious absence has grieved us sore, As fearing, alas! we should see thee no more.'

'Dear parents,' said she, 'many hazards I run, To fetch home my love, and your dutiful son; Receive him with joy, for 'tis very well known, He seeks not your wealth, he's enough of his own.'

Her father replied, and he merrily smiled, 'He's brought home enough, as he's brought home my child; A thousand times welcome you are, I declare, Whose presence disperses both sorrow and care.'

Full seven long days in feasting they spent; The bells in the steeple they merrily went, And many fair pounds were bestowed on the poor, - The like of this wedding was never before!



Ballad: THE BERKSHIRE LADY'S GARLAND. IN FOUR PARTS. To the tune of The Royal Forester.



[When we first met with this very pleasing English ballad, we deemed the story to be wholly fictitious, but 'strange' as the 'relation' may appear, the incidents narrated are 'true' or at least founded on fact. The scene of the ballad is Whitley Park, near Reading, in Berkshire, and not, as some suppose, Calcot House, which was not built till 1759. Whitley is mentioned as 'the Abbot's Park, being at the entrance of Redding town.' At the Dissolution the estate passed to the crown, and the mansion seems, from time to time, to have been used as a royal 'palace' till the reign of Elizabeth, by whom it was granted, along with the estate, to Sir Francis Knollys; it was afterwards, by purchase, the property of the Kendricks, an ancient race, descended from the Saxon kings. William Kendrick, of Whitley, armr. was created a baronet in 1679, and died in 1685, leaving issue one son, Sir William Kendrick, of Whitley, Bart., who married Miss Mary House, of Reading, and died in 1699, without issue male, leaving an only daughter. It was this rich heiress, who possessed 'store of wealth and beauty bright,' that is the heroine of the ballad. She married Benjamin Child, Esq., a young and handsome, but very poor attorney of Reading, and the marriage is traditionally reported to have been brought about exactly as related in the ballad. We have not been able to ascertain the exact date of the marriage, which was celebrated in St. Mary's Church, Reading, the bride wearing a thick veil; but the ceremony must have taken place some time about 1705. In 1714, Mr. Child was high sheriff of Berkshire. As he was an humble and obscure personage previously to his espousing the heiress of Whitley, and, in fact, owed all his wealth and influence to his marriage, it cannot be supposed that IMMEDIATELY after his union he would be elevated to so important and dignified a post as the high-shrievalty of the very aristocratical county of Berks. We may, therefore, consider nine or ten years to have elapsed betwixt his marriage and his holding the office of high sheriff, which he filled when he was about thirty-two years of age. The author of the ballad is unknown: supposing him to have composed it shortly after the events which he records, we cannot be far wrong in fixing its date about 1706. The earliest broadside we have seen contains a rudely executed, but by no means bad likeness of Queen Anne, the reigning monarch at that period.]

PART I.

SHOWING CUPID'S CONQUEST OVER A COY LADY OF FIVE THOUSAND A YEAR.

Bachelors of every station, Mark this strange and true relation, Which in brief to you I bring, - Never was a stranger thing!

You shall find it worth the hearing; Loyal love is most endearing, When it takes the deepest root, Yielding charms and gold to boot.

Some will wed for love of treasure; But the sweetest joy and pleasure Is in faithful love, you'll find, Graced with a noble mind.

Such a noble disposition Had this lady, with submission, Of whom I this sonnet write, Store of wealth, and beauty bright.

She had left, by a good grannum, Full five thousand pounds per annum, Which she held without control; Thus she did in riches roll.

Though she had vast store of riches, Which some persons much bewitches, Yet she bore a virtuous mind, Not the least to pride inclined.

Many noble persons courted This young lady, 'tis reported; But their labour proved in vain, They could not her favour gain.

Though she made a strong resistance, Yet by Cupid's true assistance, She was conquered after all; How it was declare I shall.

Being at a noble wedding, Near the famous town of Redding, {7} A young gentleman she saw, Who belonged to the law.

As she viewed his sweet behaviour, Every courteous carriage gave her New addition to her grief; Forced she was to seek relief.

Privately she then enquired About him, so much admired; Both his name, and where he dwelt, - Such was the hot flame she felt.

Then, at night, this youthful lady Called her coach, which being ready, Homewards straight she did return; But her heart with flames did burn.

PART II.

SHOWING THE LADY'S LETTER OF A CHALLENGE TO FIGHT HIM UPON HIS REFUSING TO WED HER IN A MASK, WITHOUT KNOWING WHO SHE WAS.

Night and morning, for a season, In her closet would she reason With herself, and often said, 'Why has love my heart betrayed?

'I, that have so many slighted, Am at length so well requited; For my griefs are not a few! Now I find what love can do.

'He that has my heart in keeping, Though I for his sake be weeping, Little knows what grief I feel; But I'll try it out with steel.

'For I will a challenge send him, And appoint where I'll attend him, In a grove, without delay, By the dawning of the day.

'He shall not the least discover That I am a virgin lover, By the challenge which I send; But for justice I contend.

'He has caused sad distraction, And I come for satisfaction, Which if he denies to give, One of us shall cease to live.'

Having thus her mind revealed, She her letter closed and sealed; Which, when it came to his hand, The young man was at a stand.

In her letter she conjured him For to meet, and well assured him, Recompence he must afford, Or dispute it with the sword.

Having read this strange relation, He was in a consternation; But, advising with his friend, He persuades him to attend.

'Be of courage, and make ready, Faint heart never won fair lady; In regard it must be so, I along with you must go.'

PART III.

SHOWING HOW THEY MET BY APPOINTMENT IN A GROVE, WHERE SHE OBLIGED HIM TO FIGHT OR WED HER.

Early on a summer's morning, When bright Phoebus was adorning Every bower with his beams, The fair lady came, it seems.

At the bottom of a mountain, Near a pleasant crystal fountain, There she left her gilded coach, While the grove she did approach.

Covered with her mask, and walking, There she met her lover talking With a friend that he had brought; So she asked him whom he sought.

'I am challenged by a gallant, Who resolves to try my talent; Who he is I cannot say, But I hope to show him play.'

'It is I that did invite you, You shall wed me, or I'll fight you, Underneath those spreading trees; Therefore, choose you which you please.

'You shall find I do not vapour, I have brought my trusty rapier; Therefore, take your choice,' said she, 'Either fight or marry me.'

Said he, 'Madam, pray what mean you? In my life I've never seen you; Pray unmask, your visage show, Then I'll tell you aye or no.'

'I will not my face uncover Till the marriage ties are over; Therefore, choose you which you will, Wed me, sir, or try your skill.

'Step within that pleasant bower, With your friend one single hour; Strive your thoughts to reconcile, And I'll wander here the while.'

While this beauteous lady waited, The young bachelors debated What was best for to be done: Quoth his friend, 'The hazard run.

'If my judgment can be trusted, Wed her first, you can't be worsted; If she's rich, you'll rise to fame, If she's poor, why! you're the same.'

He consented to be married; All three in a coach were carried To a church without delay, Where he weds the lady gay.

Though sweet pretty Cupids hovered Round her eyes, her face was covered With a mask,—he took her thus, Just for better or for worse.

With a courteous kind behaviour, She presents his friend a favour, And withal dismissed him straight, That he might no longer wait.

PART IV.

SHOWING HOW THEY RODE TOGETHER IN HER GILDED COACH TO HER NOBLE SEAT, OR CASTLE, ETC.

As the gilded coach stood ready, The young lawyer and his lady Rode together, till they came To her house of state and fame;

Which appeared like a castle, Where you might behold a parcel Of young cedars, tall and straight, Just before her palace gate.

Hand in hand they walked together, To a hall, or parlour, rather, Which was beautiful and fair, - All alone she left him there.

Two long hours there he waited Her return;—at length he fretted, And began to grieve at last, For he had not broke his fast.

Still he sat like one amazed, Round a spacious room he gazed, Which was richly beautified; But, alas! he lost his bride.

There was peeping, laughing, sneering, All within the lawyer's hearing; But his bride he could not see; 'Would I were at home!' thought he.

While his heart was melancholy, Said the steward, brisk and jolly, 'Tell me, friend, how came you here? You've some bad design, I fear.'

He replied, 'Dear loving master, You shall meet with no disaster Through my means, in any case, - Madam brought me to this place.'

Then the steward did retire, Saying, that he would enquire Whether it was true or no: Ne'er was lover hampered so.

Now the lady who had filled him With those fears, full well beheld him From a window, as she dressed, Pleased at the merry jest.

When she had herself attired In rich robes, to be admired, She appeared in his sight, Like a moving angel bright.

'Sir! my servants have related, How some hours you have waited In my parlour,—tell me who In my house you ever knew?'

'Madam! if I have offended, It is more than I intended; A young lady brought me here:' - 'That is true,' said she, 'my dear.

'I can be no longer cruel To my joy, and only jewel; Thou art mine, and I am thine, Hand and heart I do resign!

'Once I was a wounded lover, Now these fears are fairly over; By receiving what I gave, Thou art lord of what I have.'

Beauty, honour, love, and treasure, A rich golden stream of pleasure, With his lady he enjoys; Thanks to Cupid's kind decoys.

Now he's clothed in rich attire, Not inferior to a squire; Beauty, honour, riches' store, What can man desire more?



Ballad: THE NOBLEMAN'S GENEROUS KINDNESS.

Giving an account of a nobleman, who, taking notice of a poor man's industrious care and pains for the maintaining of his charge of seven small children, met him upon a day, and discoursing with him, invited him, and his wife and his children, home to his house, and bestowed upon them a farm of thirty acres of land, to be continued to him and his heirs for ever.

To the tune of The Two English Travellers.



[This still popular ballad is entitled in the modern copies, The Nobleman and Thrasher; or, the Generous Gift. There is a copy preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, with which our version has been collated. It is taken from a broadside printed by Robert Marchbank, in the Custom-house Entry, Newcastle.]

A nobleman lived in a village of late, Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great; For he had seven children, and most of them small, And nought but his labour to support them withal.

He never was given to idle and lurk, For this nobleman saw him go daily to work, With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of beer, As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.

Thus careful, and constant, each morning he went, Unto his daily labour with joy and content; So jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing, As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.

One morning, this nobleman taking a walk, He met this poor man, and he freely did talk; He asked him [at first] many questions at large, And then began talking concerning his charge.

'Thou hast many children, I very well know, Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low, And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true, How can you maintain them as well as you do?'

'I carefully carry home what I do earn, My daily expenses by this I do learn; And find it is possible, though we be poor, To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.

'I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow, Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go; No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I plough, Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.

'My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke, We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke; We both of us strive, like the labouring ant, And do our endeavours to keep us from want.

'And when I come home from my labour at night, To my wife and my children, in whom I delight; To see them come round me with prattling noise, - Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.

'Though I am as weary as weary may be, The youngest I commonly dance on my knee; I find that content is a moderate feast, I never repine at my lot in the least.'

Now the nobleman hearing what he did say, Was pleased, and invited him home the next day; His wife and his children he charged him to bring; In token of favour he gave him a ring.

He thanked his honour, and taking his leave, He went to his wife, who would hardly believe But this same story himself he might raise; Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze.

Betimes in the morning the good wife she arose, And made them all fine, in the best of their clothes; The good man with his good wife, and children small, They all went to dine at the nobleman's hall.

But when they came there, as truth does report, All things were prepared in a plentiful sort; And they at the nobleman's table did dine, With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.

The feast being over, he soon let them know, That he then intended on them to bestow A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land; And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.

'Because thou art careful, and good to thy wife, I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life; It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs, Because I beheld thy industrious cares.'

No tongue then is able in full to express The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness; With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground, - Such noblemen there are but few to be found.



Ballad: THE DRUNKARD'S LEGACY. IN THREE PARTS.

First, giving an account of a gentlemen a having a wild son, and who, foreseeing he would come to poverty, had a cottage built with one door to it, always kept fast; and how, on his dying bed, he charged him not to open it till he was poor and slighted, which the young man promised he would perform. Secondly, of the young man's pawning his estate to a vintner, who, when poor, kicked him out of doors; when thinking it time to see his legacy, he broke open the cottage door, where instead of money he found a gibbet and halter, which he put round his neck, and jumping off the stool, the gibbet broke, and a thousand pounds came down upon his head, which lay hid in the ceiling. Thirdly, of his redeeming his estate, and fooling the vintner out of two hundred pounds; who, for being jeered by his neighbours, cut his own throat. And lastly, of the young man's reformation. Very proper to be read by all who are given to drunkenness.



[Percy, in the introductory remarks to the ballad of The Heir of Linne, says, 'the original of this ballad [The Heir of Linne] is found in the editor's folio MS.; the breaches and defects of 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.' The ballad thus alluded to by Percy is The Drunkard's Legacy, which, it may be remarked, although styled by him a MODERN ballad, is only so comparatively speaking; for it must have been written long anterior to Percy's time, and, by his own admission, must be older than the latter portion of the Heir of Linne. Our copy is taken from an old chap-book, without date or printer's name, and which is decorated with three rudely executed wood-cuts.]

Young people all, I pray draw near, And listen to my ditty here; Which subject shows that drunkenness Brings many mortals to distress!

As, for example, now I can Tell you of one, a gentleman, Who had a very good estate, His earthly travails they were great.

We understand he had one son Who a lewd wicked race did run; He daily spent his father's store, When moneyless, he came for more.

The father oftentimes with tears, Would this alarm sound in his ears; 'Son! thou dost all my comfort blast, And thou wilt come to want at last.'

The son these words did little mind, To cards and dice he was inclined; Feeding his drunken appetite In taverns, which was his delight.

The father, ere it was too late, He had a project in his pate, Before his aged days were run, To make provision for his son.

Near to his house, we understand, He had a waste plat of land, Which did but little profit yield, On which he did a cottage build.

The Wise Man's Project was its name; There were few windows in the same; Only one door, substantial thing, Shut by a lock, went by a spring.

Soon after he had played this trick, It was his lot for to fall sick; As on his bed he did lament, Then for his drunken son he sent.

He shortly came to his bedside; Seeing his son, he thus replied: 'I have sent for you to make my will, Which you must faithfully fulfil.

'In such a cottage is one door, Ne'er open it, do thou be sure, Until thou art so poor, that all Do then despise you, great and small.

'For, to my grief, I do perceive, When I am dead, this life you live Will soon melt all thou hast away; Do not forget these words, I pray.

'When thou hast made thy friends thy foes, Pawned all thy lands, and sold thy clothes; Break ope the door, and there depend To find something thy griefs to end.'

This being spoke, the son did say, 'Your dying words I will obey.' Soon after this his father dear Did die, and buried was, we hear.

PART II.

Now, pray observe the second part, And you shall hear his sottish heart; He did the tavern so frequent, Till he three hundred pounds had spent.

This being done, we understand He pawned the deeds of all his land Unto a tavern-keeper, who, When poor, did him no favour show.

For, to fulfil his father's will, He did command this cottage still: At length great sorrow was his share, Quite moneyless, with garments bare.

Being not able for to work, He in the tavern there did lurk; From box to box, among rich men, Who oftentimes reviled him then.

To see him sneak so up and down, The vintner on him he did frown; And one night kicked him out of door, Charging him to come there no more.

He in a stall did lie all night, In this most sad and wretched plight; Then thought it was high time to see His father's promised legacy.

Next morning, then, oppressed with woe, This young man got an iron crow; And, as in tears he did lament, Unto this little cottage went.

When he the door had open got, This poor, distressed, drunken sot, Who did for store of money hope, He saw a gibbet and a rope.

Under this rope was placed a stool, Which made him look just like a fool; Crying, 'Alas! what shall I do? Destruction now appears in view!

'As my father foresaw this thing, What sottishness to me would bring; As moneyless, and free of grace, His legacy I will embrace.'

So then, oppressed with discontent, Upon the stool he sighing went; And then, his precious life to check, Did place the rope about his neck.

Crying, 'Thou, God, who sitt'st on high, And on my sorrow casts an eye; Thou knowest that I've not done well, - Preserve my precious soul from hell.

''Tis true the slighting of thy grace, Has brought me to this wretched case; And as through folly I'm undone, I'll now eclipse my morning sun.'

When he with sighs these words had spoke, Jumped off, and down the gibbet broke; In falling, as it plain appears, Dropped down about this young man's ears,

In shining gold, a thousand pound! Which made the blood his ears surround: Though in amaze, he cried, 'I'm sure This golden salve the sore will cure!

'Blessed be my father, then,' he cried, 'Who did this part for me so hide; And while I do alive remain, I never will get drunk again.'

PART III.

Now, by the third part you will hear, This young man, as it doth appear, With care he then secured his chink, And to the vintner's went to drink.

When the proud vintner did him see, He frowned on him immediately, And said, 'Begone! or else with speed, I'll kick thee out of doors, indeed.'

Smiling, the young man he did say, 'Thou cruel knave! tell me, I pray, As I have here consumed my store, How durst thee kick me out of door?

'To me thou hast been too severe; The deeds of eightscore pounds a-year, I pawned them for three hundred pounds, That I spent here;—what makes such frowns?'

The vintner said unto him, 'Sirrah! Bring me one hundred pounds to-morrow By nine o'clock,—take them again; So get you out of doors till then.'

He answered, 'If this chink I bring, I fear thou wilt do no such thing. He said, 'I'll give under my hand, A note, that I to this will stand.'

Having the note, away he goes, And straightway went to one of those That made him drink when moneyless, And did the truth to him confess.

They both went to this heap of gold, And in a bag he fairly told A thousand pounds, ill yellow-boys, And to the tavern went their ways.

This bag they on the table set, Making the vintner for to fret; He said, 'Young man! this will not do, For I was but in jest with you.'

So then bespoke the young man's friend: 'Vintner! thou mayest sure depend, In law this note it will you cast, And he must have his land at last.'

This made the vintner to comply, - He fetched the deeds immediately; He had one hundred pounds, and then The young man got his deeds again.

At length the vintner 'gan to think How he was fooled out of his chink; Said, 'When 'tis found how I came off, My neighbours will me game and scoff.'

So to prevent their noise and clatter The vintner he, to mend the matter, In two days after, it doth appear, Did cut his throat from ear to ear.

Thus he untimely left the world, That to this young man proved a churl. Now he who followed drunkenness, Lives sober, and doth lands possess.

Instead of wasting of his store, As formerly, resolves no more To act the same, but does indeed Relieve all those that are in need.

Let all young men now, for my sake, Take care how they such havoc make; For drunkenness, you plain may see, Had like his ruin for to be.



Ballad: THE BOWES TRAGEDY.

Being a true relation of the Lives and Characters of ROGER WRIGHTSON and MARTHA RAILTON, of the Town of Bowes, in the County of York, who died for love of each other, in March, 1714/5

Tune of Queen Dido.



[The Bowes Tragedy is the original of Mallet's Edition and Emma. In these verses are preserved the village record of the incident which suggested that poem. When Mallet published his ballad he subjoined an attestation of the facts, which may be found in Evans' Old Ballads, vol. ii. p. 237. Edit. 1784. Mallet alludes to the statement in the parish registry of Bowes, that 'they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave,' &c. The following is an exact copy of the entry, as transcribed by Mr. Denham, 17th April, 1847. The words which we have printed in brackets are found interlined in another and a later hand by some person who had inspected the register:-

'RoDger Wrightson, Jun., and Martha Railton, both of Bowes, Buried in one grave: He Died in a Fever, and upon tolling his passing Bell, she cry'd out My heart is broke, and in a Few hours expir'd, purely [OR SUPPOSED] thro' Love, March 15, 1714/5, aged about 20 years each.'

Mr. Denham says:-

'The Bowes Tragedy was, I understand, written immediately after the death of the lovers, by the then master of Bowes Grammar School. His name I never heard. My father, who died a few years ago (aged nearly 80), knew a younger sister of Martha Railton's, who used to sing it to strangers passing through Bowes. She was a poor woman, advanced in years, and it brought her in many a piece of money.']

Let Carthage Queen be now no more The subject of our mournful song; Nor such old tales which, heretofore, Did so amuse the teeming throng; Since the sad story which I'll tell, All other tragedies excel.

Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bowes, Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell; He courted Martha Railton, whose Repute for virtue did excel; Yet Roger's friends would not agree, That he to her should married be.

Their love continued one whole year, Full sore against their parents' will; And when he found them so severe, His loyal heart began to chill: And last Shrove Tuesday, took his bed, With grief and woe encompassed.

Thus he continued twelve days' space, In anguish and in grief of mind; And no sweet peace in any case, This ardent lover's heart could find; But languished in a train of grief, Which pierced his heart beyond relief.

Now anxious Martha sore distressed, A private message did him send, Lamenting that she could not rest, Till she had seen her loving friend: His answer was, 'Nay, nay, my dear, Our folks will angry be I fear.'

Full fraught with grief, she took no rest, But spent her time in pain and fear, Till a few days before his death She sent an orange to her dear; But's cruel mother in disdain, Did send the orange back again.

Three days before her lover died, Poor Martha with a bleeding heart, To see her dying lover hied, In hopes to ease him of his smart; Where she's conducted to the bed, In which this faithful young man laid.

Where she with doleful cries beheld, Her fainting lover in despair; At which her heart with sorrow filled, Small was the comfort she had there; Though's mother showed her great respect, His sister did her much reject.

She stayed two hours with her dear, In hopes for to declare her mind; But Hannah Wrightson {8} stood so near, No time to do it she could find: So that being almost dead with grief, Away she went without relief.

Tears from her eyes did flow amain, And she full oft would sighing say, 'My constant love, alas! is slain, And to pale death, become a prey: Oh, Hannah, Hannah thou art base; Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace!'

She spent her time in godly prayers, And quiet rest did from her fly; She to her friends full oft declares, She could not live if he did die: Thus she continued till the bell, Began to sound his fatal knell.

And when she heard the dismal sound, Her godly book she cast away, With bitter cries would pierce the ground. Her fainting heart 'gan to decay: She to her pensive mother said, 'I cannot live now he is dead.'

Then after three short minutes' space, As she in sorrow groaning lay, A gentleman {9} did her embrace, And mildly unto her did say, 'Dear melting soul be not so sad, But let your passion be allayed.'

Her answer was, 'My heart is burst, My span of life is near an end; My love from me by death is forced, My grief no soul can comprehend.' Then her poor heart it waxed faint, When she had ended her complaint.

For three hours' space, as in a trance, This broken-hearted creature lay, Her mother wailing her mischance, To pacify her did essay: But all in vain, for strength being past, She seemingly did breathe her last.

Her mother, thinking she was dead, Began to shriek and cry amain; And heavy lamentations made, Which called her spirit back again; To be an object of hard fate, And give to grief a longer date.

Distorted with convulsions, she, In dreadful manner gasping lay, Of twelve long hours no moment free, Her bitter groans did her dismay: Then her poor heart being sadly broke, Submitted to the fatal stroke.

When things were to this issue brought, Both in one grave were to be laid: But flinty-hearted Hannah thought, By stubborn means for to persuade, Their friends and neighbours from the same, For which she surely was to blame.

And being asked the reason why, Such base objections she did make, She answered thus scornfully, In words not fit for Billingsgate: 'She might have taken fairer on - Or else be hanged:' Oh heart of stone!

What hell-born fury had possessed, Thy vile inhuman spirit thus? What swelling rage was in thy breast, That could occasion this disgust, And make thee show such spleen and rage, Which life can't cure nor death assuage?

Sure some of Satan's minor imps, Ordained were to be thy guide; To act the part of sordid pimps, And fill thy heart with haughty pride; But take this caveat once for all, Such devilish pride must have a fall.

But when to church the corpse was brought, And both of them met at the gate; What mournful tears by friends were shed, When that alas it was too late, - When they in silent grave were laid, Instead of pleasing marriage-bed.

You parents all both far and near, By this sad story warning take; Nor to your children be severe, When they their choice in love do make; Let not the love of cursed gold, True lovers from their love withhold.



Ballad: THE CRAFTY LOVER; OR, THE LAWYER OUTWITTED.

Tune of I love thee more and more.



[This excellent old ballad is transcribed from a copy printed in Aldermary church-yard. It still continues to be published in the old broadside form.]

Of a rich counsellor I write, Who had one only daughter, Who was of youthful beauty bright; Now mark what follows after. {10} Her uncle left her, I declare, A sumptuous large possession; Her father he was to take care Of her at his discretion.

She had ten thousand pounds a-year, And gold and silver ready, And courted was by many a peer, Yet none could gain this lady. At length a squire's youngest son In private came a-wooing, And when he had her favour won, He feared his utter ruin.

The youthful lady straightway cried, 'I must confess I love thee, Though lords and knights I have denied, Yet none I prize above thee: Thou art a jewel in my eye, But here,' said she, 'the care is, - I fear you will be doomed to die For stealing of an heiress.'

The young man he replied to her Like a true politician; 'Thy father is a counsellor, I'll tell him my condition. Ten guineas they shall be his fee, He'll think it is some stranger; Thus for the gold he'll counsel me, And keep me safe from danger.'

Unto her father he did go, The very next day after; But did not let the lawyer know The lady was his daughter. Now when the lawyer saw the gold That he should be she gainer, A pleasant trick to him he told With safety to obtain her.

'Let her provide a horse,' he cried, 'And take you up behind her; Then with you to some parson ride Before her parents find her: That she steals you, you may complain, And so avoid their fury. Now this is law I will maintain Before or judge or jury.

'Now take my writing and my seal, Which I cannot deny thee, And if you any trouble feel, In court I will stand by thee.' 'I give you thanks,' the young man cried, 'By you I am befriended, And to your house I'll bring my bride After the work is ended.'

Next morning, ere the day did break, This news to her he carried; She did her father's counsel take And they were fairly married, And now they felt but ill at case, And, doubts and fears expressing, They home returned, and on their knees They asked their father's blessing,

But when he had beheld them both, He seemed like one distracted, And vowed to be revenged on oath For what they now had acted. With that bespoke his new-made son - 'There can be no deceiving, That this is law which we have done Here is your hand and sealing!'

The counsellor did then reply, Was ever man so fitted; 'My hand and seal I can't deny, By you I am outwitted. 'Ten thousand pounds a-year in store 'She was left by my brother, And when I die there will be more, For child I have no other.

'She might have had a lord or knight, From royal loins descended; But, since thou art her heart's delight, I will not be offended; 'If I the gordian knot should part, 'Twere cruel out of measure; Enjoy thy love, with all my heart, In plenty, peace, and pleasure.'



Ballad: THE DEATH OF QUEEN JANE. (TRADITIONAL.)



[We have seen an old printed copy of this ballad, which was written probably about the date of the event it records, 1537. Our version was taken down from the singing of a young gipsy girl, to whom it had descended orally through two generations. She could not recollect the whole of it. In Miss Strickland's Lives of the Queens of England, we find the following passage: 'An English ballad is extant, which, dwelling on the elaborate mourning of Queen Jane's ladies, informs the world, in a line of pure bathos,

In black were her ladies, and black were their faces.'

Miss Strickland does not appear to have seen the ballad to which she refers; and as we are not aware of the existence of any other ballad on the subject, we presume that her line of 'pure bathos' is merely a corruption of one of the ensuing verses.]

Queen Jane was in travail For six weeks or more, Till the women grew tired, And fain would give o'er. 'O women! O women! Good wives if ye be, Go, send for King Henrie, And bring him to me.'

King Henrie was sent for, He came with all speed, In a gownd of green velvet From heel to the head. 'King Henrie! King Henrie! If kind Henrie you be, Send for a surgeon, And bring him to me.'

The surgeon was sent for, He came with all speed, In a gownd of black velvet From heel to the head. He gave her rich caudle, But the death-sleep slept she. Then her right side was opened, And the babe was set free.

The babe it was christened, And put out and nursed, While the royal Queen Jane She lay cold in the dust.

* * * * *

So black was the mourning, And white were the wands, Yellow, yellow the torches, They bore in their hands.

The bells they were muffled, And mournful did play, While the royal Queen Jane She lay cold in the clay.

Six knights and six lords Bore her corpse through the grounds; Six dukes followed after, In black mourning gownds.

The flower of Old England Was laid in cold clay, Whilst the royal King Henrie Came weeping away.



Ballad: THE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN; OR, CATSKIN.



[The following version of this ancient English ballad has been collated with three copies. In some editions it is called Catskin's Garland; or, the Wandering Young Gentlewoman. The story has a close similarity to that of Cinderella, and is supposed to be of oriental origin. Several versions of it are current in Scandinavia, Germany, Italy, Poland, and Wales. For some account of it see Pictorial Book of Ballads, ii. 153, edited by Mr. J. S. Moore.]

PART 1.

You fathers and mothers, and children also, Draw near unto me, and soon you shall know The sense of my ditty, and I dare to say, The like's not been heard of this many a day.

The subject which to you I am to relate, It is of a young squire of vast estate; The first dear infant his wife did him bear, It was a young daughter of beauty most rare.

He said to his wife, 'Had this child been a boy, 'Twould have pleased me better, and increased my joy, If the next be the same sort, I declare, Of what I'm possessed it shall have no share.'

In twelve months' time after, this woman, we hear, Had another daughter of beauty most clear; And when that he knew it was but a female, Into a bitter passion he presently fell,

Saying, 'Since this is of the same sort as the first, In my habitation she shall not be nursed; Pray let her be sent into the countrie, For where I am, truly, this child shall not be.'

With tears his dear wife unto him did say, 'Husband, be contented, I'll send her away.' Then to the countrie with speed her did send, For to be brought up by one was her friend.

Although that her father he hated her so, He a good education on her did bestow; And with a gold locket, and robes of the best, This slighted young damsel was commonly dressed.

And when unto stature this damsel was grown, And found from her father she had no love shown, She cried, 'Before I will lay under his frown, I'm resolved to travel the country around.'

PART II.

But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest, In what sort of manner this creature was dressed; With cat-skins she made her a robe, I declare, The which for her covering she daily did wear.

Her own rich attire, and jewels beside, Then up in a bundle by her they were tied, And to seek her fortune she wandered away; And when she had travelled a cold winter's day,

In the evening-tide she came to a town, Where at a knight's door she sat herself down, For to rest herself, who was tired sore; - This noble knight's lady then came to the door.

This fair creature seeing in such sort of dress, The lady unto her these words did express: 'Whence camest thou, girl, and what wouldst thou have?' She said, 'A night's rest in your stable I crave.'

The lady said to her, 'I'll grant thy desire, Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire.' Then she thanked the lady, and went in with haste; And there she was gazed on from highest to least.

And, being well warmed, her hunger was great, They gave her a plate of good food for to eat, And then to an outhouse this creature was led, Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed.

And when in the morning the daylight she saw, Her riches and jewels she hid in the straw; And, being very cold, she then did retire Into the kitchen, and stood by the fire.

The cook said, 'My lady hath promised that thee Shall be as a scullion to wait upon me; What say'st thou girl, art thou willing to bide?' 'With all my heart truly,' to him she replied.

To work at her needle she could very well, And for raising of paste few could her excel; She being so handy, the cook's heart did win, And then she was called by the name of Catskin.

PART III.

The lady a son had both comely and tall, Who oftentimes used to be at a ball A mile out of town; and one evening-tide, To dance at this ball away he did ride.

Catskin said to his mother, 'Pray, madam, let me Go after your son now, this ball for to see.' With that in a passion this lady she grew, And struck her with the ladle, and broke it in two.

On being thus served she quick got away, And in her rich garments herself did array; And then to this ball she with speed did retire, Where she danced so bravely that all did admire.

The sport being done, the young squire did say, 'Young lady, where do you live? tell me, I pray.' Her answer was to him, 'Sir, that I will tell, - At the sign of the broken ladle I dwell.'

She being very nimble, got home first, 'tis said, And in her catskin robes she soon was arrayed; And into the kitchen again she did go, But where she had been they did none of them know.

Next night this young squire, to give him content, To dance at this ball again forth he went. She said, 'Pray let me go this ball for to view.' Then she struck with the skimmer, and broke it in two.

Then out of the doors she ran full of heaviness, And in her rich garments herself soon did dress; And to this ball ran away with all speed, Where to see her dancing all wondered indeed.

The ball being ended, the young squire said, 'Where is it you live?' She again answered, 'Sir, because you ask me, account I will give, At the sign of the broken skimmer I live.'

Being dark when she left him, she homeward did hie, And in her catskin robes she was dressed presently, And into the kitchen amongst them she went, But where she had been they were all innocent.

When the squire dame home, and found Catskin there, He was in amaze and began for to swear; 'For two nights at the ball has been a lady, The sweetest of beauties that ever I did see.

'She was the best dancer in all the whole place, And very much like our Catskin in the face; Had she not been dressed in that costly degree, I should have swore it was Catskin's body.

Next night to the ball he did go once more, And she asked his mother to go as before, Who, having a basin of water in hand, She threw it at Catskin, as I understand.

Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run, And dressed herself when this thing she had done. To the ball once more she then went her ways; To see her fine dancing they all gave her praise.

And having concluded, the young squire said he, 'From whence might you come, pray, lady, tell me?' Her answer was, 'Sir, you shall soon know the same, From the sign of the basin of water I came.'

Then homeward she hurried, as fast as could be; This young squire then was resolved to see Whereto she belonged, and, following Catskin, Into an old straw house he saw her creep in.

He said, 'O brave Catskin, I find it is thee, Who these three nights together has so charmed me; Thou'rt the sweetest of creatures my eyes e'er beheld, With joy and content my heart now is filled.

'Thou art our cook's scullion, but as I have life, Grant me but thy love, and I'll make thee my wife, And thou shalt have maids for to be at thy call.' 'Sir, that cannot be, I've no portion at all.'

'Thy beauty's a portion, my joy and my dear, I prize it far better than thousands a year, And to have my friends' consent I have got a trick, I'll go to my bed, and feign myself sick.

'There no one shall tend me but thee I profess; So one day or another in thy richest dress, Thou shalt be clad, and if my parents come nigh, I'll tell them 'tis for thee that sick I do lie.'

PART IV.

Thus having consulted, this couple parted. Next day this young squire he took to his bed; And when his dear parents this thing both perceived, For fear of his death they were right sorely grieved.

To tend him they send for a nurse speedily, He said, 'None but Catskin my nurse now shall be.' His parents said, 'No, son.' He said, 'But she shall, Or else I'll have none for to nurse me at all.'

His parents both wondered to hear him say thus, That no one but Catskin must be his nurse; So then his dear parents their son to content, Up into his chamber poor Catskin they sent.

Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepared, Which between this young couple were equally shared; And when all alone they in each other's arms, Enjoyed one another in love's pleasant charms.

And at length on a time poor Catskin, 'tis said, In her rich attire again was arrayed, And when that his mother to the chamber drew near, Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear;

Which caused her to stare, and thus for to say, 'What young lady is this, come tell me, I pray?' He said, 'It is Catskin for whom sick I lie, And except I do have her with speed I shall die.'

His mother then hastened to call up the knight, Who ran up to see this amazing great sight; He said, 'Is this Catskin we held in such scorn? I ne'er saw a finer dame since I was born.'

The old knight he said to her, 'I prithee tell me, From whence thou didst come and of what family?' Then who were her parents she gave them to know, And what was the cause of her wandering so.

The young squire he cried, 'If you will save my life, Pray grant this young creature she may be my wife.' His father replied, 'Thy life for to save, If you have agreed, my consent you may have.'

Next day, with great triumph and joy as we hear, There were many coaches came far and near; Then much like a goddess dressed in rich array, Catskin was married to the squire that day.

For several days this wedding did last, Where was many a topping and gallant repast, And for joy the bells rung out all over the town, And bottles of canary rolled merrily round.

When Catskin was married, her fame for to raise, Who saw her modest carriage they all gave her praise; Thus her charming beauty the squire did win; And who lives so great now as he and Catskin.

PART V.

Now in the fifth part I'll endeavour to show, How things with her parents and sister did go; Her mother and sister of life are bereft, And now all alone the old squire is left.

Who hearing his daughter was married so brave, He said, 'In my noddle a fancy I have; Dressed like a poor man now a journey I'll make, And see if she on me some pity will take.'

Then dressed like a beggar he went to her gate, Where stood his daughter, who looked very great; He cried, 'Noble lady, a poor man I be, And am now forced to crave charity.'

With a blush she asked him from whence that he came; And with that he told her, and likewise his name. She cried 'I'm your daughter, whom you slighted so, Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I'll show.

'Through mercy the Lord hath provided for me; Pray, father, come in and sit down then,' said she. Then the best provisions the house could afford, For to make him welcome was set on the board.

She said, 'You are welcome, feed hearty, I pray, And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay, So long as you live.' Then he made this reply: 'I only am come now thy love for to try.

'Through mercy, my dear child, I'm rich and not poor, I have gold and silver enough now in store; And for this love which at thy hands I have found, For thy portion I'll give thee ten thousand pound.'

So in a few days after, as I understand, This man he went home, and sold off all his land, And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give, And now altogether in love they do live.



Ballad: THE BRAVE EARL BRAND AND THE KING OF ENGLAND'S DAUGHTER. (TRADITIONAL.)



[This ballad, which resembles the Danish ballad of Ribolt, was taken down from the recitation of an old fiddler in Northumberland: in one verse there is an hiatus, owing to the failure of the reciter's memory. The refrain should be repeated in every verse.]

O did you ever hear of the brave Earl Brand, Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie; His courted the king's daughter o' fair England, I' the brave nights so early!

She was scarcely fifteen years that tide, When sae boldly she came to his bed-side, 'O, Earl Brand, how fain wad I see A pack of hounds let loose on the lea.'

'O, lady fair, I have no steed but one, But thou shalt ride and I will run.' 'O, Earl Brand, but my father has two, And thou shalt have the best of tho'.'

Now they have ridden o'er moss and moor, And they have met neither rich nor poor; Till at last they met with old Carl Hood, He's aye for ill, and never for good.

'Now Earl Brand, an ye love me, Slay this old Carl and gar him dee.' 'O, lady fair, but that would be sair, To slay an auld Carl that wears grey hair.

'My own lady fair, I'll not do that, I'll pay him his fee . . . . . . ' 'O, where have ye ridden this lee lang day, And where have ye stown this fair lady away?'

'I have not ridden this lee lang day, Nor yet have I stown this lady away; 'For she is, I trow, my sick sister, Whom I have been bringing fra' Winchester.'

'If she's been sick, and nigh to dead, What makes her wear the ribbon so red? 'If she's been sick, and like to die, What makes her wear the gold sae high?'

When came the Carl to the lady's yett, He rudely, rudely rapped thereat. 'Now where is the lady of this hall?' 'She's out with her maids a playing at the ball.'

'Ha, ha, ha! ye are all mista'en, Ye may count your maidens owre again. 'I met her far beyond the lea With the young Earl Brand his leman to be.'

Her father of his best men armed fifteen, And they're ridden after them bidene. The lady looked owre her left shoulder then, Says, 'O Earl Brand we are both of us ta'en.'

'If they come on me one by one, You may stand by till the fights be done; 'But if they come on me one and all, You may stand by and see me fall.'

They came upon him one by one, Till fourteen battles he has won; And fourteen men he has them slain, Each after each upon the plain.

But the fifteenth man behind stole round, And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound. Though he was wounded to the deid, He set his lady on her steed.

They rode till they came to the river Doune, And there they lighted to wash his wound. 'O, Earl Brand, I see your heart's blood!' 'It's nothing but the glent and my scarlet hood.'

They rode till they came to his mother's yett, So faint and feebly he rapped thereat. 'O, my son's slain, he is falling to swoon, And it's all for the sake of an English loon.'

'O, say not so, my dearest mother, But marry her to my youngest brother - 'To a maiden true he'll give his hand, Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie.

To the king's daughter o' fair England, To a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand, I' the brave nights so early!'



Ballad: THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE; OR, THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS. (TRADITIONAL.)



[The following ballad has long been popular in Worcestershire and some of the adjoining counties. It was printed for the first time by Mr. Allies of Worcester, under the title of The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the adjoining county of Warwick, it has always been called The Old Man and his Three Sons—the name given to a fragment of the ballad still used as a nursery song in the north of England, the chorus of which slightly varies from that of the ballad. See post, p. 250. The title of The Old Man and his Three Sons is derived from the usage of calling a ballad after the first line—a practice that has descended to the present day. In Shakspeare's comedy of As You Like It there appears to be an allusion to this ballad. Le Beau says, -

There comes an old man and his three sons,

to which Celia replies,

I could match this beginning with an old tale.—i. 2.

Whether The Jovial Hunter belongs to either Worcestershire or Warwickshire is rather questionable. The probability is that it is a north country ballad connected with the family of Bolton, of Bolton, in Wensleydale. A tomb, said to be that of Sir Ryalas Bolton, the Jovial Hunter, is shown in Bromsgrove church, Worcestershire; but there is no evidence beyond tradition to connect it with the name or deeds of any 'Bolton;' indeed it is well known that the tomb belongs to a family of another name. In the following version are preserved some of the peculiarities of the Worcestershire dialect.]

Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And one of them was Sir Ryalas, For he was a jovial hunter.

He ranged all round down by the wood side, Wind well thy horn, good hunter, Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied, For he was a jovial hunter.

'Oh, what dost thee mean, fair lady,' said he, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 'The wild boar's killed my lord, and has thirty men gored, And thou beest a jovial hunter.'

'Oh, what shall I do this wild boar for to see?' Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 'Oh, thee blow a blast and he'll come unto thee, As thou beest a jovial hunter.'

Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west, and south, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And the wild boar then heard him full in his den, As he was a jovial hunter.

Then he made the best of his speed unto him, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; [Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with [gore], {11} To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along, To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

'Oh, what dost thee want of me?' wild boar, said he, {12} Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 'Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for thee, For I am the jovial hunter.'

Then they fought four hours in a long summer day, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Till the wild boar fain would have got him away From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite, For he was a jovial hunter.

Then out of the wood the wild woman flew, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 'Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew, For thou beest a jovial hunter.

'There are three things, I demand them of thee,' Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 'It's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady, As thou beest a jovial hunter.'

'If these three things thou dost ask of me,' Wind well thy horn, good hunter; 'It's just as my sword and thy neck can agree, For I am a jovial hunter.'

Then into his long locks the wild woman flew, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Till she thought in her heart to tear him through, Though he was a jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again, Wind well thy horn, good hunter, And he fairly split her head into twain, For he was a jovial hunter.

In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby, Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.



Ballad: LADY ALICE.



[This old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The termination resembles that of Lord Lovel and other ballads. See Early Ballads, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect traditional copy was printed in Notes and Queries.]

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window, At midnight mending her quoif; And there she saw as fine a corpse As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall? What bear ye on your shoulders?' 'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins, An old and true lover of yours.'

'O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall, All on the grass so green, And to-morrow when the sun goes down, Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's Church, All for my love so true; And make me a garland of marjoram, And of lemon thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east, Lady Alice all in the west; And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave, They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass, And he severed those roses in twain. Sure never were seen such true lovers before, Nor e'er will there be again.



Ballad: THE FELON SEWE OF ROKEBY AND THE FREERES OF RICHMOND.



[This very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was originally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his History of Craven, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique. Whitaker's version was transferred to Evan's Old Ballads, the editor of which work introduced some judicious conjectural emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note in the second edition of his History:-

This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only, and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have recollected that The Felon Sewe had been already reclaimed PROPERTY VESTED. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall suffice.—History of Craven, second edition, London, 1812.

When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker discovered that The Felon Sewe was not of such 'exceeding rarity' as he had been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with the fact that another MS. of the 'unique' ballad was preserved in the archives of the Rokeby family. This version was published by Scott, who considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr. Whitaker's version we know nothing more than that it was 'printed from a MS. in his possession.' The readings of the Rokeby MS., however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as full and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the following text has been founded upon a careful collation of both MSS. A few alterations have been adopted, but only when the necessity for them appeared to be self-evident; and the orthography has been rendered tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason why we should have 'sewe,' 'scho,' and 'sike,' in some places, and the more modern forms of 'sow,' 'she,' and 'such,' in others. If the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the composition is acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII., the provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have been so little affected by the spread of education, that the Felon Sewe is at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, and to such a reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, few and brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect, and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite local knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.

The Felon Sewe belongs to the same class of compositions as the Hunting of the Hare, reprinted by Weber, and the Tournament of Tottenham, in Percy's Reliques. Scott says that 'the comic romance was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.' This idea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many instances not merely 'sorts of parodies,' but real parodies on compositions which were popular in their day, although they have not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met with an old chivalric romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to those of the Felon Sewe.

It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability a follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical allusions to the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox Catholic would have ventured to indulge.

Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as having been 'a fellow of infinite jest,' and the very man to bestow so valuable a gift on the convent! The Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was, according to the pedigree of the family, a daughter and heiress of Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore we may suppose that the monk had some other name; the minstrel author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent, perhaps, to introduce a priest in propria persona. The story is told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]

FITTE THE FIRSTE.

Ye men that will of aunters wynne, That late within this lande hath bin, Of on I will yow telle; And of a sewe that was sea strang, Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang, For fell folk did scho wele. {13}

Scho was mare than other three, The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee Her hede was greate and graye; Scho was bred in Rokebye woode, Ther war few that thither yoode, {14} But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde, Was no barne that colde her byde, That was fra heven or helle; {15} Ne never man that had that myght, That ever durst com in her syght, Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe {16} of Rokebye, with full gode wyll, The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll, Full wele to gar thayme fare; Freer Myddeltone by name, Hee was sent to fetch her hame, Yt rewed him syne full sare.

Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two, Peter of Dale was on of tho, Tother was Bryan of Beare; {17} Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife, And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe, What tyme as musters were. {18}