Mine hostess's moid, (and her neaum 'twour Nell,) A pretty wench, and I lov'd her well; I lov'd her well, good reauzon why, Because zshe loved my dog and I.

My dog is good to catch a hen; A dug or goose is vood for men; And where good company I spy, O thether gwoes my dog and I.

My mwother told I, when I wur young, If I did vollow the strong-beer pwoot, That drenk would prov my awverdrow, And meauk me wear a threadbare cwoat.

My dog has gotten zitch a trick, To visit moids when thauy be zick; When thauy be zick and like to die, O thether gwoes my dog and I.

When I have dree zixpences under my thumb, O then I be welcome wherever I come; But when I have none, O, then I pass by, - 'Tis poverty pearts good companie.

If I should die, as it may hap, My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap; In voulded yarms there wool us lie, Cheek by jowl, my dog and I.



Ballad: THE CARRION CROW.



[This still popular song is quoted by Grose in his Olio, where it is made the subject of a burlesque commentary, the covert political allusions having evidently escaped the penetration of the antiquary. The reader familiar with the annals of the Commonwealth and the Restoration, will readily detect the leading points of the allegory. The 'Carrion Crow' in the oak is Charles II., who is represented as that bird of voracious appetite, because he deprived the puritan clergy of their livings; perhaps, also, because he ordered the bodies of the regicides to be exhumed—as Ainsworth says in one of his ballads:-

The carrion crow is a sexton bold, He raketh the dead from out of the mould.

The religion of the 'old sow,' whoever she may be, is clearly pointed out by her little pigs praying for her soul. The 'tailor' is not easily identified. It is possibly intended for some puritan divine of the name of Taylor, who wrote and preached against both prelacy and papacy, but with an especial hatred of the latter. In the last verse he consoles himself by the reflection that, notwithstanding the deprivations, his party will have enough remaining from the voluntary contributions of their adherents. The 'cloak' which the tailor is engaged in cutting out, is the Genevan gown, or cloak; the 'spoon' in which he desires his wife to bring treacle, is apparently an allusion to the 'spatula' upon which the wafer is placed in the administration of the Eucharist; and the introduction of 'chitterlings and black-puddings' into the last verse seems to refer to a passage in Rabelais, where the same dainties are brought in to personify those who, in the matter of fasting, are opposed to Romish practices. The song is found in collections of the time of Charles II.]

The carrion crow he sat upon an oak, And he spied an old tailor a cutting out a cloak. Heigho! the carrion crow.

The carrion crow he began for to rave, And he called the tailor a lousy knave! Heigho! the carrion crow.

'Wife, go fetch me my arrow and my bow, I'll have a shot at that carrion crow.' Heigho! the carrion crow.

The tailor he shot, and he missed his mark, But he shot the old sow through the heart. Heigho! the carrion crow.

'Wife, go fetch me some treacle in a spoon, For the old sow's in a terrible swoon!' Heigho! the carrion crow.

The old sow died, and the bells they did toll, And the little pigs prayed for the old sow's soul! Heigho! the carrion crow.

'Never mind,' said the tailor, 'I don't care a flea, There'll be still black-puddings, souse, and chitterlings for me.' Heigho! the carrion crow.



Ballad: THE LEATHERN BOTTEL. SOMERSETSHIRE VERSION.



[In Chappell's Popular Music is a much longer version of The Leathern Bottel. The following copy is the one sung at the present time by the country-people in the county of Somerset. It has been communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys.]

God above, who rules all things, Monks and abbots, and beggars and kings, The ships that in the sea do swim, The earth, and all that is therein; Not forgetting the old cow's hide, And everything else in the world beside: And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell, Who first invented this leathern bottel!

Oh! what do you say to the glasses fine? Oh! they shall have no praise of mine; Suppose a gentleman sends his man To fill them with liquor, as fast as he can, The man he falls, in coming away, And sheds the liquor so fine and gay; But had it been in the leathern bottel, And the stopper been in, 'twould all have been well!

Oh! what do you say to the tankard fine? Oh! it shall have no praise of mine; Suppose a man and his wife fall out, - And such things happen sometimes, no doubt, - They pull and they haul; in the midst of the fray They shed the liquor so fine and gay; But had it been in the leathern bottel, And the stopper been in, 'twould all have been well!

Now, when this bottel it is worn out, Out of its sides you may cut a clout; This you may hang upon a pin, - 'Twill serve to put odd trifles in; Ink and soap, and candle-ends, For young beginners have need of such friends. And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell, Who first invented the leathern bottel!



Ballad: THE FARMER'S OLD WIFE. A SUSSEX WHISTLING SONG.



[This is a countryman's whistling song, and the only one of the kind which we remember to have heard. It is very ancient, and a great favourite. The farmer's wife has an adventure somewhat resembling the hero's in the burlesque version of Don Giovanni. The tune is Lilli burlero, and the song is sung as follows:- the first line of each verse is given as a solo; then the tune is continued by a chorus of whistlers, who whistle that portion of the air which in Lilli burlero would be sung to the words, Lilli burlero bullen a la. The songster then proceeds with the tune, and sings the whole of the verse through, after which the strain is resumed and concluded by the whistlers. The effect, when accompanied by the strong whistles of a group of lusty countrymen, is very striking, and cannot be adequately conveyed by description. This song constitutes the 'traditionary verses' upon which Burns founded his Carle of Killyburn Braes.]

There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,

[Chorus of whistlers.]

There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell, And he had a bad wife, as many knew well.

[Chorus of whistlers.]

Then Satan came to the old man at the plough, - 'One of your family I must have now.

'It is not your eldest son that I crave, But it is your old wife, and she I will have.'

'O, welcome! good Satan, with all my heart, I hope you and she will never more part.'

Now Satan has got the old wife on his back, And he lugged her along, like a pedlar's pack.

He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate, Says he, 'Here! take in an old Sussex chap's mate!'

O! then she did kick the young imps about, - Says one to the other, 'Let's try turn her out.'

She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains, She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains.

She knocked the old Satan against the wall, - 'Let's try turn her out, or she'll murder us all!'

Now he's bundled her up on his back amain, And to her old husband he took her again.

'I have been a tormenter the whole of my life, But I ne'er was tormenter till I met with your wife.'



Ballad: OLD WICHET AND HIS WIFE.



[This song still retains its popularity in the North of England, and, when sung with humour, never fails to elicit roars of laughter. A Scotch version may be found in Herd's Collection, 1769, and also in Cunningham's Songs of England and Scotland, London, 1835. We cannot venture to give an opinion as to which is the original; but the English set is of unquestionable antiquity. Our copy was obtained from Yorkshire. It has been collated with one printed at the Aldermary press, and preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Collection. The tune is peculiar to the song.]

O! I went into the stable, and there for to see, {49} And there I saw three horses stand, by one, by two, and by three; O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she; 'O! what do these three horses here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see, These are three milking cows my mother sent to me?' 'Ods bobs! well done! milking cows with saddles on! The like was never known!' Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the kitchen, and there for to see, And there I saw three swords hang, by one, by two, quoth she; O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' 'O! what do these three swords do here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see, These are three roasting spits my mother sent to me?' 'Ods bobs! well done! roasting spits with scabbards on! The like was never known!' Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the parlour, and there for to see, And there I saw three cloaks hang, by one, by two, and by three; O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she; 'O! what do these three cloaks do here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see, These are three mantuas my mother sent to me?' 'Ods bobs! well done! mantuas with capes on! The like was never known!' Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the pantry, and there for to see, And there I saw three pair of boots, {50} by one, by two, and by three; O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she; 'O! what do these three pair of boots here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see, These are three pudding-bags my mother sent to me?' 'Ods bobs! well done! pudding-bags with spurs on! The like was never known!' Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the dairy, and there for to see, And there I saw three hats hang, by one, by two, and by three; O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she; 'Pray what do these three hats here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see, These are three skimming-dishes my mother sent to me?' 'Ods bobs! well done! skimming-dishes with hat-bands on! The like was never known!' Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the chamber, and there for to see, And there I saw three men in bed, by one, by two, and by three; O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she; 'O! what do these three men here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see, They are three milking-maids my mother sent to me?' 'Ods bobs! well done! milking-maids with beards on! The like was never known!' Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!



Ballad: THE JOLLY WAGGONER.



[This country song can be traced back a century at least, but is, no doubt, much older. It is very popular in the West of England. The words are spirited and characteristic. We may, perhaps, refer the song to the days of transition, when the waggon displaced the packhorse.]

When first I went a-waggoning, a-waggoning did go, I filled my parents' hearts full of sorrow, grief, and woe. {51} And many are the hardships that I have since gone through. And sing wo, my lads, sing wo! Drive on my lads, I-ho! {52} And who wouldn't lead the life of a jolly waggoner?

It is a cold and stormy night, and I'm wet to the skin, I will bear it with contentment till I get unto the inn. And then I'll get a drinking with the landlord and his kin. And sing, &c.

Now summer it is coming,—what pleasure we shall see; The small birds are a-singing on every green tree, The blackbirds and the thrushes are a-whistling merrilie. And sing, &c.

Now Michaelmas is coming,—what pleasure we shall find; It will make the gold to fly, my boys, like chaff before the wind; And every lad shall take his lass, so loving and so kind. And sing, &c.



Ballad: THE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALER.



[This ludicrous and genuine Yorkshire song, the production of some unknown country minstrel, obtained considerable popularity a few years ago from the admirable singing of Emery. The incidents actually occurred at the close of the last century, and some of the descendants of 'Tommy Towers' were resident at Clapham till within a very recent period, and used to take great delight in relating the laughable adventure of their progenitor. Abey Muggins is understood to be a sobriquet for a then Clapham innkeeper. The village of Clapham is in the west of Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and Kendal.]

Bane {53} ta Claapam town-gate {54} lived an ond Yorkshire tike, Who i' dealing i' horseflesh hed ne'er met his like; 'Twor his pride that i' aw the hard bargains he'd hit, He'd bit a girt monny, but nivver bin bit.

This ond Tommy Towers (bi that naam he wor knaan), Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an' baan; Ta hev killed him for t' curs wad hev bin quite as well, But 'twor Tommy opinion {55} he'd dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat, Thowt ta diddle ond Tommy wad be a girt treat; Hee'd a horse, too, 'twor war than ond Tommy's, ye see, Fort' neet afore that hee'd thowt proper ta dee!

Thinks Abey, t' oud codger 'll nivver smoak t' trick, I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick, {56} An' if Tommy I nobbut {57} can happen ta trap, 'Twill be a fine feather i' Aberram cap!

Soa to Tommy he goas, an' the question he pops: 'Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops? What wilt gi' me ta boot? for mine's t'better horse still!' 'Nout,' says Tommy, 'I'll swop ivven hands, an' ye will.'

Abey preaached a lang time about summat ta boot, Insistin' that his war the liveliest brute; But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun, Till Abey shook hands, and sed, 'Well, Tommy, done!

'O! Tommy,' sed Abey, 'I'ze sorry for thee, I thowt thou'd a hadden mair white i' thy 'ee; Good luck's wi' thy bargin, for my horse is deead.' 'Hey!' says Tommy, 'my lad, soa is min, an it's fleead?'

Soa Tommy got t' better of t' bargin, a vast, An' cam off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last; For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mitch to choose, Yet Tommy war richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.



Ballad: THE KING AND THE COUNTRYMAN.



[This popular favourite is a mere abridgment and alteration of a poem preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, called The King and Northern Man, shewing how a poor Northumberland man (tenant to the King) being wronged by a lawyer (his neighbour) went to the King himself to make known his grievance. To the tune of Slut. Printed by and for Alex. Melbourne, at the Stationer's Arms in Green Arbour Court, in the Little Old Baily. The Percy Society printed The King and Northern Man from an edition published in 1640. There is also a copy preserved in the Bagford Collection, which is one of the imprints of W. Onley. The edition of 1640 has the initials of Martin Parker at the end, but, as Mr. Collier observes, 'There is little doubt that the story is much older than 1640.' See preface to Percy Society's Edition.]

There was an old chap in the west country, A flaw in the lease the lawyers had found, 'Twas all about felling of five oak trees, And building a house upon his own ground. Right too looral, looral, looral—right too looral la!

Now, this old chap to Lunnun would go, To tell the king a part of his woe, Likewise to tell him a part of his grief, In hopes the king would give him relief.

Now, when this old chap to Lunnun had come, He found the king to Windsor had gone; But if he'd known he'd not been at home, He danged his buttons if ever he'd come.

Now, when this old chap to Windsor did stump, The gates were barred, and all secure, But he knocked and thumped with his oaken clump, There's room within for I to be sure.

But when he got there, how he did stare, To see the yeomen strutting about; He scratched his head, and rubbed down his hair, In the ear of a noble he gave a great shout:

'Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King; Is that the King that I see there? I seed an old chap at Bartlemy fair Look more like a king than that chap there.

'Well, Mr. King, pray how d'ye do? I gotten for you a bit of a job, Which if you'll be so kind as to do, I gotten a summat for you in my fob.'

The king he took the lease in hand, To sign it, too, he was likewise willing; And the old chap to make a little amends, He lugg'd out his bag, and gave him a shilling.

The king, to carry on the joke, Ordered ten pounds to be paid down; The farmer he stared, but nothing spoke, And stared again, and he scratched his crown.

The farmer he stared to see so much money, And to take it up he was likewise willing; But if he'd a known King had got so much money, He danged his wig if he'd gien him that shilling!



Ballad: JONE O' GREENFIELD'S RAMBLE.



[The county of Lancaster has always been famed for its admirable patois songs; but they are in general the productions of modern authors, and consequently, however popular they may be, are not within the scope of the present work. In the following humorous production, however, we have a composition of the last century. It is the oldest and most popular Lancashire song we have been able to procure; and, unlike most pieces of its class, it is entirely free from grossness and vulgarity.]

Says Jone to his wife, on a hot summer's day, 'I'm resolved i' Grinfilt no lunger to stay; For I'll go to Owdham os fast os I can, So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, un fare thee weel, Nan; A soger I'll be, un brave Owdham I'll see, Un I'll ha'e a battle wi' th' French.'

'Dear Jone,' then said Nan, un hoo bitterly cried, Wilt be one o' th' foote, or tha meons to ride?' 'Odsounds! wench, I'll ride oather ass or a mule, Ere I'll kewer i' Grinfilt os black as te dule, Booath clemmink {58} un starvink, un never a fardink, Ecod! it would drive ony mon mad.

'Aye, Jone, sin' wi' coom i' Grinfilt for t' dwell, We'n had mony a bare meal, I con vara weel tell.' 'Bare meal! ecod! aye, that I vara weel know, There's bin two days this wick ot we'n had nowt at o: I'm vara near sided, afore I'll abide it, I'll feight oather Spanish or French.'

Then says my Aunt Marget, 'Ah! Jone, thee'rt so hot, I'd ne'er go to Owdham, boh i' Englond I'd stop.' 'It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham I'll go, I'll naw clam to deeoth, boh sumbry shalt know: Furst Frenchman I find, I'll tell him meh mind, Un if he'll naw feight, he shall run.'

Then down th' broo I coom, for we livent at top, I thowt I'd reach Owdharn ere ever I'd stop; Ecod! heaw they stared when I getten to th' Mumps, Meh owd hat i' my hond, un meh clogs full o'stumps; Boh I soon towd um, I'r gooink to Owdham, Un I'd ha'e battle wi' th' French.

I kept eendway thro' th' lone, un to Owdham I went, I ask'd a recruit if te'd made up their keawnt? 'No, no, honest lad' (for he tawked like a king), 'Go wi' meh thro' the street, un thee I will bring Where, if theaw'rt willink, theaw may ha'e a shillink.' Ecod! I thowt this wur rare news.

He browt me to th' pleck where te measurn their height, Un if they bin height, there's nowt said about weight; I retched me, un stretched me, un never did flinch, Says th' mon, 'I believe theaw 'rt meh lad to an inch.' I thowt this'll do, I'st ha'e guineas enow, Ecod! Owdham, brave Owdham for me.

So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, a soger I'm made, I'n getten new shoon, un a rare cockade; I'll feight for Owd Englond os hard os I con, Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it's o one, I'll make 'em to stare like a new-started hare, Un I'll tell 'em fro' Owdham I coom.



Ballad: THORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS. A CELEBRATED NOTTINGHAMSHIRE POACHER'S SONG.



[Nottinghamshire was, in the olden day, famous in song for the achievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times the reckless daring of the heroes of the 'greenwood tree' has descended to the poachers of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exult over THEIR lawless exploits; and in Thornehagh- Moor Woods we have a specimen of one of these rude, but mischievous and exciting lyrics. The air is beautiful, and of a lively character; and will be found in Popular Music. There is it prevalent idea that the song is not the production of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written about the middle of the last century by a gentleman of rank and education, who, detesting the English game-laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the peasantry with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the village of Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or Moor-fields, was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called by the ancient designation. It contains eight hundred acres. The manor of Thornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who have a residence on the estate.]

In Thornehagh-Moor woods, in Nottinghamshire, Fol de rol, la re, right fol laddie, dee; In Robin Hood's bold Nottinghamshire, Fol de rol, la re da;

Three keepers' houses stood three-square, And about a mile from each other they were; - Their orders were to look after the deer. Fol de rol, la re da.

I went out with my dogs one night, - The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light; Over hedges and ditches, and steyls With my two dogs close at my heels, To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields.

Oh! that night we had bad luck, One of my very best dogs was stuck; He came to me both breeding and lame, - Right sorry was I to see the same, - He was not able to follow the game.

I searched his wounds, and found them slight, Some keeper has done this out of spite; But I'll take my pike-staff,—that's the plan! I'll range the woods till I find the man, And I'll tan his hide right well,—if I can!

I ranged the woods and groves all night, I ranged the woods till it proved daylight; The very first thing that then I found, Was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground; I knew my dogs gave him his death-wound.

I hired a butcher to skin the game, Likewise another to sell the same; The very first buck he offered for sale, Was to an old [hag] that sold bad ale, And she sent us three poor lads to gaol.

The quarter sessions we soon espied, At which we all were for to be tried; The Chairman laughed the matter to scorn, He said the old woman was all forsworn, And unto pieces she ought to be torn.

The sessions are over, and we are clear! The sessions are over, and we sit here, Singing fol de rol, la re da! The very best game I ever did see, Is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me! In Thornehagh-Moor woods this night we'll be! Fol de rol, la re da!



Ballad: THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER.



[This very old ditty has been transformed into the dialects of Somersetshire, Northamptonshire, and Leicestershire; but it properly belongs to Lincolnshire. Nor is this the only liberty that his been taken with it. The original tune is that of a Lancashire air, well known as The Manchester Angel; but a florid modern tune has been substituted. The Lincolnshire Poacher was a favourite ditty with George IV., and it is said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of Berkshire ploughmen. He also commanded it to be sung at his harvest-homes, but we believe it was always on such occasions sung to the 'playhouse tune,' and not to the genuine music. It is often very difficult to trace the locality of countrymen's songs, in consequence of the licence adopted by printers of changing the names of places to suit their own neighbourhoods; but there is no such difficulty about The Lincolnshire Poacher. The oldest copy we have seen, printed at York about 1776, reads 'Lincolnshire,' and it is only in very modern copies that the venue is removed to other counties. In the Somersetshire version the local vernacular is skilfully substituted for that of the original; but the deception may, nevertheless, be very easily detected.]

When I was bound apprentice, in famous Lincolnsheer, Full well I served my master for more than seven year, Till I took up with poaching, as you shall quickly hear:- Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As me and my comrades were setting of a snare, 'Twas then we seed the gamekeeper—for him we did not care, For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er everywhere:- Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As me and my comrades were setting four or five, And taking on him up again, we caught the hare alive; We caught the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:- Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnsheer; {59} Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare; Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:- Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.



Ballad: SOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG.



[This following song, which is very popular with the peasantry of Somersetshire, is given as a curious specimen of the dialect still spoken in some parts of that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant's ditty, it is heard in other circles, and frequently roared out at hunting dinners. It is here reprinted from a copy communicated by Mr. Sandys.]

There's no pleasures can compare Wi' the hunting o' the hare, In the morning, in the morning, In fine and pleasant weather.

Cho. With our hosses and our hounds, We will scamps it o'er the grounds, And sing traro, huzza! And sing traro, huzza! And sing traro, brave boys, we will foller.

And when poor puss arise, Then away from us she flies; And we'll gives her, boys, we'll gives her, One thundering and loud holler! Cho. With our hosses, &c.

And when poor puss is killed, We'll retires from the field; And we'll count boys, and we'll count On the same good ren to-morrer. Cho. With our bosses and our hounds, &c.



Ballad: THE TROTTING HORSE.



[The common copies of this old highwayman's song are very corrupt. We are indebted for the following version, which contains several emendations, to Mr. W. H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably be referred to the age of Charles II., is a spirited specimen of its class.]

I can sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town, To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I'll bet you fifty crown; He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in, And throw the dust in people's face, and think it not a sin. For to ride away, trot away, Ri, fa lar, la, &c.

He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any swan, A foot light as the stag's, the while his back is scarce a span; Kind Nature hath so formed him, he is everything that's good, - Aye! everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood. For to ride away, &c.

If you drop therein, he'll nod his head, and boldly walk away, While others kick and bounce about, to him it's only play; There never was a finer horse e'er went on English ground, He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound. For to ride away, &c.

If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town, I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging down; With large jack-towels round their necks, they think they're first and fast, But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they are last. Whilst I ride away, &c.

If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness never mind, My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind; Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot, But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot. For I ride away, &c.

If Fortune e'er should fickle be, and wish to have again That which she so freely gave, I'd give it without pain; I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse, Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse! That I may ride away, &c.



Ballad: THE SEEDS OF LOVE.



[This very curious old song is not only a favourite with our peasantry, but, in consequence of having been introduced into the modern dramatic entertainment of The Loan of a Lover, has obtained popularity in higher circles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in Popular Music. The words are quaint, but by no means wanting in beauty; they are, no doubt, corrupted, as we have derived them from common broadsides, the only form in which we have been able to meet with them. The author of the song was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham, of Habergham, in the county of Lancaster. 'Ruined by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows,' says Dr. Whitaker, 'by some stanzas yet remembered among the old people of her neighbourhood.'- -History of Whalley. Mrs. Habergham died in 1703, and was buried at Padiham.]

I sowed the seeds of love, it was all in the spring, In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do sing; My garden's well planted with flowers everywhere, Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the flower that I loved so dear.

My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose for me, He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused all three; The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon, The lily and the pink I did o'erlook, and I vowed I'd stay till June.

In June there's a red rose-bud, and that's the flower for me! But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the willow-tree; The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will twice, - O! I wish I was in the dear youth's arms that once had the heart of mine.

My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care, For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there; I told him I'd take no care till I did feel the smart, And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the heart.

I'll make me a posy of hyssop,—no other I can touch, - That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much; My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew - For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with rue? {60}



Ballad: THE GARDEN-GATE.



[One of our most pleasing rural ditties. The air is very beautiful. We first heard it sung in Malhamdale, Yorkshire, by Willy Bolton, an old Dales'-minstrel, who accompanied himself on the union-pipes. {61}]

The day was spent, the moon shone bright, The village clock struck eight; Young Mary hastened, with delight, Unto the garden-gate: But what was there that made her sad? - The gate was there, but not the lad, Which made poor Mary say and sigh, 'Was ever poor girl so sad as I?'

She traced the garden here and there, The village clock struck nine; Which made poor Mary sigh, and say, 'You shan't, you shan't be mine! You promised to meet at the gate at eight, You ne'er shall keep me, nor make me wait, For I'll let all such creatures see, They ne'er shall make a fool of me!'

She traced the garden here and there, The village clock struck ten; Young William caught her in his arms, No more to part again: For he'd been to buy the ring that day, And O! he had been a long, long way; - Then, how could Mary cruel prove, To banish the lad she so dearly did love?

Up with the morning sun they rose, To church they went away, And all the village joyful were, Upon their wedding-day: Now in a cot, by a river side, William and Mary both reside; And she blesses the night that she did wait For her absent swain, at the garden-gate.



Ballad: THE NEW-MOWN HAY.



[This song is a village-version of an incident which occurred in the Cecil family. The same English adventure has, strangely enough, been made the subject of one of the most romantic of Moore's Irish Melodies, viz., You remember Helen, the hamlet's pride.]

As I walked forth one summer's morn, Hard by a river's side, Where yellow cowslips did adorn The blushing field with pride; I spied a damsel on the grass, More blooming than the may; Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed, Among the new-mown hay.

I said, 'Good morning, pretty maid, How came you here so soon?' 'To keep my father's sheep,' she said, 'The thing that must be done: While they are feeding 'mong the dew, To pass the time away, I sit me down to knit or sew, Among the new-mown hay.'

Delighted with her simple tale, I sat down by her side; With vows of love I did prevail On her to be my bride: In strains of simple melody, She sung a rural lay; The little lambs stood listening by, Among the new-mown hay.

Then to the church they went with speed, And Hymen joined them there; No more her ewes and lambs to feed, For she's a lady fair: A lord he was that married her, To town they came straightway: She may bless the day he spied her there, Among the new-mown hay.



Ballad: THE PRAISE OF A DAIRY.



[This excellent old country song, which can be traced to 1687, is sung to the air of Packington's Pound, for the history of which see Popular Music.]

In praise of a dairy I purpose to sing, But all things in order, first, God save the King! {62} And the Queen, I may say, That every May-day, Has many fair dairy-maids all fine and gay. Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme, Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream.

The first of fair dairy-maids, if you'll believe, Was Adam's own wife, our great grandmother Eve, Who oft milked a cow, As well she knew how. Though butter was not then as cheap as 'tis now, She hoarded no butter nor cheese on her shelves, For butter and cheese in those days made themselves.

In that age or time there was no horrid money, Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey; No Queen you could see, Of the highest degree, But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she. Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat, And in plenty and peace all their joys wore complete.

Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce, For a thousand of dainties it's daily in use: Now a pudding I'll tell 'ee, And so can maid Nelly, Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly: For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk, Is a citizen's wife, without satin or silk.

In the virtues of milk there is more to be mustered: O! the charming delights both of cheesecake and custard! If to wakes {63} you resort, You can have no sport, Unless you give custards and cheesecake too for't: And what's the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh, Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff?

Both pancake and fritter of milk have good store, But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more; Of no brew {64} you can think, Though you study and wink, From the lusty sack posset to poor posset drink, But milk's the ingredient, though wine's {65} ne'er the worse, For 'tis wine makes the man, though 'tis milk makes the nurse.



Ballad: THE MILK-MAID'S LIFE.



[Of this popular country song there are a variety of versions. The following, which is the most ancient, is transcribed from a black- letter broadside in the Roxburgh Collection, entitled The Milke- maid's Life; or, a pretty new ditty composed and penned, the praise of the Milking-pail to defend. To a curious new tune called the Milke-maid's Dump. It is subscribed with the initials M. P.; probably those of Martin Parker.]

You rural goddesses, That woods and fields possess, Assist me with your skill, that may direct my quill, More jocundly to express, The mirth and delight, both morning and night, On mountain or in dale, Of them who choose this trade to use, And, through cold dews, do never refuse To carry the milking-pail.

The bravest lasses gay, Live not so merry as they; In honest civil sort they make each other sport, As they trudge on their way; Come fair or foul weather, they're fearful of neither, Their courages never quail. In wet and dry, though winds be high, And dark's the sky, they ne'er deny To carry the milking-pail.

Their hearts are free from care, They never will despair; Whatever them befal, they bravely bear out all, And fortune's frowns outdare. They pleasantly sing to welcome the spring, 'Gainst heaven they never rail; If grass well grow, their thanks they show, And, frost or snow, they merrily go Along with the milking-pail:

Base idleness they do scorn, They rise very early i' th' morn, And walk into the field, where pretty birds do yield Brave music on every thorn. The linnet and thrush do sing on each bush, And the dulcet nightingale Her note doth strain, by jocund vein, To entertain that worthy train, Which carry the milking-pail.

Their labour doth health preserve, No doctor's rules they observe, While others too nice in taking their advice, Look always as though they would starve. Their meat is digested, they ne'er are molested, No sickness doth them assail; Their time is spent in merriment, While limbs are lent, they are content, To carry the milking-pail.

Upon the first of May, With garlands, fresh and gay, With mirth and music sweet, for such a season meet, They pass the time away. They dance away sorrow, and all the day thorough Their legs do never fail, For they nimbly their feet do ply, And bravely try the victory, In honour o' the milking-pail.

If any think that I Do practise flattery, In seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaids' praise, I'll to them thus reply:- It is their desert inviteth my art, To study this pleasant tale; In their defence, whose innocence, And providence, gets honest pence Out of the milking-pail.



Ballad: THE MILKING-PAIL.



[The following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one most commonly sung.]

Ye nymphs and sylvan gods, That love green fields and woods, When spring newly-born herself does adorn, With flowers and blooming buds: Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze, On yonder pleasant vale, Of those that choose to milk their ewes, And in cold dews, with clouted shoes, To carry the milking-pail.

You goddess of the morn, With blushes you adorn, And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare A concert on each green thorn; The blackbird and thrush on every bush, And the charming nightingale, In merry vein, their throats do strain To entertain, the jolly train Of those of the milking-pail.

When cold bleak winds do roar, And flowers will spring no more, The fields that were seen so pleasant and green, With winter all candied o'er, See now the town lass, with her white face, And her lips so deadly pale; But it is not so, with those that go Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow, And carry the milking-pail.

The country lad is free From fears and jealousy, Whilst upon the green he oft is seen, With his lass upon his knee. With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat, And swears her charms won't fail; But the London lass, in every place, With brazen face, despises the grace Of those of the milking-pail.



Ballad: THE SUMMER'S MORNING.



[This is a very old ditty, and a favourite with the peasantry in every part of England; but more particularly in the mining districts of the North. The tune is pleasing, but uncommon. R. W. Dixon, Esq., of Seaton-Carew, Durham, by whom the song was communicated to his brother for publication, says, 'I have written down the above, verbatim, as generally sung. It will be seen that the last lines of each verse are not of equal length. The singer, however, makes all right and smooth! The words underlined in each verse are sung five times, thus:- They ad-van-ced, they ad-van-ced, they ad-van-ced, they ad-van-ced, they ad-van-ced me some money,— ten guineas and a crown. The last line is thus sung:- We'll be married, (as the word is usually pronounced), We'll be married, we'll be married, we'll be married, we'll be married, we'll be mar- ri-ed when I return again.' The tune is given in Popular Music. Since this song appeared in the volume issued by the Percy Society, we have met with a copy printed at Devonport. The readings are in general not so good; but in one or two instances they are apparently more ancient, and are, consequently, here adopted. The Devonport copy contains two verses, not preserved in our traditional version. These we have incorporated in our present text, in which they form the third and last stanzas.]

It was one summer's morning, as I went o'er the moss, I had no thought of 'listing, till the soldiers did me cross; They kindly did invite me to a flowing bowl, and down, THEY ADVANCED me some money,—ten guineas and a crown.

'It's true my love has listed, he wears a white cockade, He is a handsome tall young man, besides a roving blade; He is a handsome young man, and he's gone to serve the king, OH! MY VERY heart is breaking for the loss of him.

'My love is tall and handsome, and comely for to see, And by a sad misfortune a soldier now is he; I hope the man that listed him may not prosper night nor day, FOR I WISH THAT the Hollanders may sink him in the sea.

'Oh! may he never prosper, oh! may he never thrive, Nor anything he takes in hand so long as he's alive; May the very grass he treads upon the ground refuse to grow, SINCE HE'S BEEN the only cause of my sorrow, grief, and woe!'

Then he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her flowing eyes, - 'Leave off those lamentations, likewise those mournful cries; Leave of your grief and sorrow, while I march o'er the plain, WE'LL BE MARRIED when I return again.'

'O now my love has listed, and I for him will rove, I'll write his name on every tree that grows in yonder grove, Where the huntsman he does hollow, and the hounds do sweetly cry, TO REMIND ME of my ploughboy until the day I die.'



Ballad: OLD ADAM.



[We have had considerable trouble in procuring a copy of this old song, which used, in former days, to be very popular with aged people resident in the North of England. It has been long out of print, and handed down traditionally. By the kindness, however, of Mr. S. Swindells, printer, Manchester, we have been favoured with an ancient printed copy, which Mr. Swindells observes he had great difficulty in obtaining. Some improvements have been made in the present edition from the recital of Mr. Effingham Wilson, who was familiar with the song in his youth.]

Both sexes give ear to my fancy, While in praise of dear woman I sing; Confined not to Moll, Sue, or Nancy, But mates from a beggar to king.

When old Adam first was created, And lord of the universe crowned, His happiness was not completed, Until that an helpmate was found.

He'd all things in food that were wanting To keep and support him through life; He'd horses and foxes for hunting, Which some men love better than wife.

He'd a garden so planted by nature, Man cannot produce in his life; But yet the all-wise great Creator Still saw that he wanted a wife.

Then Adam he laid in a slumber, And there he lost part of his side; And when he awoke, with a wonder, Beheld his most beautiful bride!

In transport he gazed upon her, His happiness now was complete! He praised his bountiful donor, Who thus had bestowed him a mate.

She was not took out of his head, sir, To reign and triumph over man; Nor was she took out of his feet, sir, By man to be trampled upon.

But she was took out of his side, sir, His equal and partner to be; But as they're united in one, sir, The man is the top of the tree.

Then let not the fair be despised By man, as she's part of himself; For woman by Adam was prized More than the whole globe full of wealth.

Man without a woman's a beggar, Suppose the whole world he possessed; And the beggar that's got a good woman, With more than the world he is blest.



Ballad: TOBACCO.



[This song is a mere adaptation of Smoking Spiritualized; see ante, p. 39. The earliest copy of the abridgment we have been able to meet with, is published in D'Urfey's Pills to purge Melancholy, 1719; but whether we are indebted for it to the author of the original poem, or to 'that bright genius, Tom D'Urfey,' as Burns calls him, we are not able to determine. The song has always been popular. The tune is in Popular Music.]

Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve; It shows our decay, We are but clay; Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The pipe that is so lily white, Wherein so many take delight, It's broken with a touch, - Man's life is such; Think of this when you take tobacco!

The pipe that is so foul within, It shows man's soul is stained with sin; It doth require To be purred with fire; Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The dust that from the pipe doth fall, It shows we are nothing but dust at all; For we came from the dust, And return we must; Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The ashes that are left behind, Do serve to put us all in mind That unto dust Return we must; Think of this when you take tobacco!

The smoke that does so high ascend, Shows that man's life must have an end; The vapour's gone, - Man's life is done; Think of this when you take tobacco!



Ballad: THE SPANISH LADIES.



[This song is ancient, but we have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written. Captain Marryat, in his novel of Poor Jack, introduces it, and says it is OLD. It is a general favourite. The air is plaintive, and in the minor key. See Popular Music.]

Farewell, and adieu to you Spanish ladies, Farewell, and adieu to you ladies of Spain! For we've received orders for to sail for old England, But we hope in a short time to see you again.

We'll rant and we'll roar {66} like true British heroes, We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas, Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England; From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.

Then we hove our ship to, with the wind at sou'-west, boys, We hove our ship to, for to strike soundings clear; We got soundings in ninety-five fathom, and boldly Up the channel of old England our course we did steer.

The first land we made it was called the Deadman, Next, Ram'shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight; We passed by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness, And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland light.

Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor All in the Downs, that night for to sleep; Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters, Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.

So let every man toss off a full bumper, Let every man toss off his full bowls; We'll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy, So here's a good health to all true-hearted souls!



Ballad: HARRY THE TAILOR. (TRADITIONAL.)



[The following song was taken down some years ago from the recitation of a country curate, who said he had learned it from a very old inhabitant of Methley, near Pontefract, Yorkshire. We have never seen it in print.]

When Harry the tailor was twenty years old, He began for to look with courage so bold; He told his old mother he was not in jest, But he would have a wife as well as the rest.

Then Harry next morning, before it was day, To the house of his fair maid took his way. He found his dear Dolly a making of cheese, Says he, 'You must give me a buss, if you please!'

She up with the bowl, the butter-milk flew, And Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue. 'O, Dolly, my dear, what hast thou done? From my back to my breeks has thy butter-milk run.'

She gave him a push, he stumbled and fell Down from the dairy into the drawwell. Then Harry, the ploughboy, ran amain, And soon brought him up in the bucket again.

Then Harry went home like a drowned rat, And told his old mother what he had been at. With butter-milk, bowl, and a terrible fall, O, if this be called love, may the devil take all!



Ballad: SIR ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE. (TRADITIONAL.)



[For this old Northumbrian song we are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers. It was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The 'Sir Arthur' is no less a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]

As noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride, With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side, He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree, He asked her name, and she said 'twas Mollee.

'Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall be, To draw the red wine for yourself and for me! I'll make you a lady so high in degree, If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!

'I'll give you fine ribbons, I'll give you fine rings, I'll give you fine jewels, and many fine things; I'll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee, If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

'I'll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings, None of your jewels, and other fine things; And I've got a petticoat suits my degree, And I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

'Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife, And I will go home, and I'll kill my own wife; I'll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three, If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

'Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so, Go home to your wife, and let nobody know; For seven long years I will wait upon thee, But I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

Now seven long years are gone and are past, The old woman went to her long home at last; The old woman died, and Sir Arthur was free, And he soon came a-courting to charming Mollee.

Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth ride, With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side: Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me, And ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.



Ballad: THERE WAS AN OLD MAN CAME OVER THE LEA.



[This is a version of the Baillie of Berwick, which will be found in the Local Historian's Table-Book. It was originally obtained from Morpeth, and communicated by W. H. Longstaffe, Esq., of Darlington, who says, 'in many respects the Baillie of Berwick is the better edition—still mine may furnish an extra stanza or two, and the ha! ha! ha! is better than heigho, though the notes suit either version.']

There was an old man came over the Lea, Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won't have him. {67} He came over the Lea, A-courting to me, With his grey beard newly-shaven.

My mother she bid me open the door: I opened the door, And he fell on the floor.

My mother she bid me set him a stool: I set him a stool, And he looked like a fool.

My mother she bid me give him some beer: I gave him some beer, And he thought it good cheer.

My mother she bid me cut him some bread: I cut him some bread, And I threw't at his head.

My mother she bid me light him to bed. I lit him to bed, And wished he were dead.

My mother she bid me tell him to rise: I told him to rise, And he opened his eyes.

My mother she bid me take him to church: I took him to church, And left him in the lurch; With his grey beard newly-shaven.



Ballad: WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES.



[A version of this very favourite song may be found in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany. Though a sailor's song, we question whether it is not a greater favourite with landsmen. The chorus is become proverbial, and its philosophy has often been invoked to mitigate the evils and misfortunes of life.]

How pleasant a sailor's life passes, Who roams o'er the watery main! No treasure he ever amasses, But cheerfully spends all his gain. We're strangers to party and faction, To honour and honesty true; And would not commit a bad action For power or profit in view. Then why should we quarrel for riches, Or any such glittering toys; A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches, Will go through the world, my brave boys!

The world is a beautiful garden, Enriched with the blessings of life, The toiler with plenty rewarding, Which plenty too often breeds strife. When terrible tempests assail us, And mountainous billows affright, No grandeur or wealth can avail us, But skilful industry steers right. Then why, &c.

The courtier's more subject to dangers, Who rules at the helm of the state, Than we that, to politics strangers, Escape the snares laid for the great. The various blessings of nature, In various nations we try; No mortals than us can be greater, Who merrily live till we die. Then why should, &c.



Ballad: THE MERRY FELLOWS; OR, HE THAT WILL NOT MERRY, MERRY BE.



[The popularity of this old lyric, of which ours is the ballad- printer's version, has been increased by the lively and appropriate music recently adapted to it by Mr. Holderness. The date of this song is about the era of Charles II.]

Now, since we're met, let's merry, merry be, In spite of all our foes; And he that will not merry be, We'll pull him by the nose. Cho. Let him be merry, merry there, While we're all merry, merry here, For who can know where he shall go, To be merry another year.

He that will not merry, merry be, With a generous bowl and a toast, May he in Bridewell be shut up, And fast bound to a post. Let him, &c.

He that will not merry, merry be, And take his glass in course, May he be obliged to drink small beer, Ne'er a penny in his purse. Let him, &c.

He that will not merry, merry be, With a company of jolly boys; May he be plagued with a scolding wife, To confound him with her noise. Let him, &c.

[He that will not merry, merry be, With his sweetheart by his side, Let him be laid in the cold churchyard, With a head-stone for his bride. Let him, &c.]



Ballad: THE OLD MAN'S SONG.



[This ditty, still occasionally heard in the country districts, seems to be the original of the very beautiful song, The Downhill of Life. The Old Man's Song may be found in Playford's Theatre of Music, 1685; but we are inclined to refer it to an earlier period. The song is also published by D'Urfey, accompanied by two objectionable parodies.]

If I live to grow old, for I find I go down, Let this be my fate in a country town:- May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate; May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

In a country town, by a murmuring brook, With the ocean at distance on which I may look; With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile, And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile. May I govern, &c.

With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more Of the best wits that lived in the age before; With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal, And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal. May I govern, &c.

With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor, And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar; With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine, To drink the king's health in as oft as I dine. May I govern, &c.

When the days are grown short, and it freezes and snows, May I have a coal fire as high as my nose; A fire (which once stirred up with a prong), Will keep the room temperate all the night long. May I govern, &c.

With a courage undaunted may I face my last day; And when I am dead may the better sort say - 'In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, He's gone, and he leaves not behind him his fellow!' May I govern, &c.



Ballad: ROBIN HOOD'S HILL.



[Ritson speaks of a Robin Hood's Hill near Gloucester, and of a 'foolish song' about it. Whether this is the song to which he alludes we cannot determine. We find it in Notes and Queries, where it is stated to be printed from a MS. of the latter part of the last century, and described as a song well known in the district to which it refers.]

Ye bards who extol the gay valleys and glades, The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades, Who prospects so rural can boast at your will, Yet never once mentioned sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

This spot, which of nature displays every smile, From famed Glo'ster city is distanced two mile, Of which you a view may obtain at your will, From the sweet rural summit of 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow, To supply and refresh the fair valley below; No dog-star's brisk heat e'er diminished the rill Which sweetly doth prattle on 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Here, gazing around, you find objects still new, Of Severn's sweet windings, how pleasing the view, Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill The sweet-smelling vale beneath 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare, Few valleys can with it for herbage compare; Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill Direct to the praise of sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Here lads and gay lasses in couples resort, For sweet rural pastime and innocent sport; Sure pleasures ne'er flowed from gay nature or skill, Like those that are found on sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Had I all the riches of matchless Peru, To revel in splendour as emperors do, I'd forfeit the whole with a hearty good will, To dwell in a cottage on 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Then, poets, record my loved theme in your lays: First view;—then you'll own that 'tis worthy of praise; Nay, Envy herself must acknowledge it still, That no spot's so delightful as 'Robin Hood's Hill.'



Ballad: BEGONE DULL CARE. (TRADITIONAL.)



[We cannot trace this popular ditty beyond the reign of James II, but we believe it to be older. The origin is to be found in an early French chanson. The present version has been taken down from the singing of an old Yorkshire yeoman. The third verse we have never seen in print, but it is always sung in the west of Yorkshire.]

Begone, dull care! I prithee begone from me; Begone, dull care! Thou and I can never agree. Long while thou hast been tarrying here, And fain thou wouldst me kill; But i' faith, dull care, Thou never shalt have thy will.

Too much care Will make a young man grey; Too much care Will turn an old man to clay. My wife shall dance, and I shall sing, So merrily pass the day; For I hold it is the wisest thing, To drive dull care away.

Hence, dull care, I'll none of thy company; Hence, dull care, Thou art no pair {68} for me. We'll hunt the wild boar through the wold, So merrily pass the day; And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl, We'll drive dull care away.



Ballad: FULL MERRILY SINGS THE CUCKOO.



[The earliest copy of this playful song is one contained in a MS. of the reign of James I., preserved amongst the registers of the Stationers' Company; but the song can be traced back to 1566.]

Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the beechen tree; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the morn, When of married men Full nine in ten Must be content to wear the horn.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the oaken tree; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the day! For married men But now and then, Can 'scape to bear the horn away.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the ashen tree; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the noon, When married men Must watch the hen, Or some strange fox will steal her soon.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the alder tree; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the eve, When married men Must bid good den To such as horns to them do give.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the aspen tree; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the night, When married men, Again and again, Must hide their horns in their despite.



Ballad: JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.



[A version of this song, not quite so accurate as the following was published from an old broadside in Notes and Queries, vol. vii., p. 49, where it is described as a 'very celebrated Gloucestershire ballad.' But Gloucestershire is not exclusively entitled to the honour of this genuine old country song, which is well known in Westmoreland and other counties. 'Jockey' songs constitute a distinct and numerous class, and belong for the most part to the middle of the last century, when Jockey and Jenny were formidable rivals to the Strephons and Chloes of the artificial school of pastoral poetry. The author of this song, whoever he was, drew upon real rural life, and not upon its fashionable masquerade. We have been unable to trace the exact date of this ditty, which still enjoys in some districts a wide popularity. It is not to be found in any of several large collections of Ranelagh and Vauxhall songs, and other anthologies, which we have examined. From the christian names of the lovers, it might be supposed to be of Scotch or Border origin; but Jockey to the Fair is not confined to the North; indeed it is much better known, and more frequently sung, in the South and West.]

'Twas on the morn of sweet May-day, When nature painted all things gay, Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play, And gild the meadows fair; Young Jockey, early in the dawn, Arose and tripped it o'er the lawn; His Sunday clothes the youth put on, For Jenny had vowed away to run With Jockey to the fair; For Jenny had vowed, &c.

The cheerful parish bells had rung, With eager steps he trudged along, While flowery garlands round him hung, Which shepherds use to wear; He tapped the window; 'Haste, my dear!' Jenny impatient cried, 'Who's there?' ''Tis I, my love, and no one near; Step gently down, you've nought to fear, With Jockey to the fair.' Step gently down, &c.

'My dad and mam are fast asleep, My brother's up, and with the sheep; And will you still your promise keep, Which I have heard you swear? And will you ever constant prove?' 'I will, by all the powers above, And ne'er deceive my charming dove; Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love, With Jockey to the fair.' Dispel, &c.

'Behold, the ring,' the shepherd cried; 'Will Jenny be my charming bride? Let Cupid be our happy guide, And Hymen meet us there.' Then Jockey did his vows renew; He would be constant, would he true, His word was pledged; away she flew, O'er cowslips tipped with balmy dew, With Jockey to the fair. O'er cowslips, &c.

In raptures meet the joyful throng; Their gay companions, blithe and young, Each join the dance, each raise the song, To hail the happy pair. In turns there's none so loud as they, They bless the kind propitious day, The smiling morn of blooming May, When lovely Jenny ran away With Jockey to the fair. When lovely, &c.



Ballad: LONG PRESTON PEG. (A FRAGMENT.)



[Mr. Birkbeck, of Threapland House, Lintondale, in Craven, has favoured us with the following fragment. The tune is well known in the North, but all attempts on the part of Mr. Birkbeck to obtain the remaining verses have been unsuccessful. The song is evidently of the date of the first rebellion, 1715.]

Long Preston Peg to proud Preston went, To see the Scotch rebels it was her intent. A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by, On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye.

He called to his servant, which on him did wait, 'Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate, {69} That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet, And in my name do her lovingly greet.'



Ballad: THE SWEET NIGHTINGALE; OR, DOWN IN THOSE VALLEYS BELOW. AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.



[This curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the seventeenth century, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure- gardens of the Marienberg, on the Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The leader or 'Captain,' John Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:-

I have had a great deal of trouble about The Valley Below. It is not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however, as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there, but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman at Truro, and he says 'It is pretty near the way we sing it.'

The tune is plaintive and original.]

'My sweetheart, come along! Don't you hear the fond song, The sweet notes of the nightingale flow? Don't you hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below? So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below.

'Pretty Betsy, don't fail, For I'll carry your pail, Safe home to your cot as we go; You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below.' But she was afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below.

'Pray let me alone, I have hands of my own; Along with you I will not go, To hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below; For I am afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below.'

'Pray sit yourself down With me on the ground, On this bank where sweet primroses grow; You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below; So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below.'

This couple agreed; They were married with speed, And soon to the church they did go. She was no more afraid For to {70} walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below: Nor to hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sung in those valleys below, As she sung in those valleys below.



Ballad: THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.



[This traditional ditty, founded upon the old ballad inserted ante, p. 124, is current as a nursery song in the North of England.]

There was an old man, and sons he had three, {71} Wind well, Lion, good hunter. A friar he being one of the three, With pleasure he ranged the north country, For he was a jovial hunter.

As he went to the woods some pastime to see, Wind well, Lion, good hunter, He spied a fair lady under a tree, Sighing and moaning mournfully. He was a jovial hunter.

'What are you doing, my fair lady!' Wind well, Lion, good hunter. 'I'm frightened, the wild boar he will kill me, He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty, As thou art a jovial hunter.'

Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth, Wind well, Lion, good hunter. And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south, And the wild boar from his den he came forth Unto the jovial hunter.



Ballad: A BEGGING WE WILL GO.



[The authorship of this song is attributed to Richard Brome—(he who once 'performed a servant's faithful part' for Ben Jonson)—in a black-letter copy in the Bagford Collection, where it is entitled The Beggars' Chorus in the 'Jovial Crew,' to an excellent new tune. No such chorus, however, appears in the play, which was produced at the Cock-pit in 1641; and the probability is, as Mr. Chappell conjectures, that it was only interpolated in the performance. It is sometimes called The Jovial Beggar. The tune has been from time to time introduced into several ballad operas; and the song, says Mr. Chappell, who publishes the air in his Popular Music, 'is the prototype of many others, such as A bowling we will go, A fishing we will go, A hawking we will go, and A fishing we will go. The last named is still popular with those who take delight in hunting, and the air is now scarcely known by any other title.]

There was a jovial beggar, He had a wooden leg, Lame from his cradle, And forced for to beg. And a begging we will go, we'll go, we'll go; And a begging we will go!

A bag for his oatmeal, Another for his salt; And a pair of crutches, To show that he can halt. And a begging, &c.

A bag for his wheat, Another for his rye; A little bottle by his side, To drink when he's a-dry. And a begging, &c.

Seven years I begged For my old Master Wild, He taught me to beg When I was but a child. And a begging, &c.

I begged for my master, And got him store of pelf; But now, Jove be praised! I'm begging for myself. And a begging, &c.

In a hollow tree I live, and pay no rent; Providence provides for me, And I am well content. And a begging, &c.

Of all the occupations, A beggar's life's the best; For whene'er he's weary, He'll lay him down and rest. And a begging, &c.

I fear no plots against me, I live in open cell; Then who would be a king When beggars live so well? And a begging we will go, we'll go, we'll go; And a begging we will go!



Footnotes:

{1} This is the same tune as Fortune my foe.—See Popular Music of the Olden Time, p. 162.

{2} This word seems to be used here in the sense of the French verb mettre, to put, to place.

{3} The stall copies read 'Gamble bold.'

{4} In the Roxburgh Collection is a copy of this ballad, in which the catastrophe is brought about in a different manner. When the young lady finds that she is to be drowned, she very leisurely makes a particular examination of the place of her intended destruction, and raises an objection to some nettles which are growing on the banks of the stream; these she requires to be removed, in the following poetical stanza:-

'Go fetch the sickle, to crop the nettle, That grows so near the brim; For fear it should tangle my golden locks, Or freckle my milk-white skin.'

A request so elegantly made is gallantly complied with by the treacherous knight, who, while engaged in 'cropping' the nettles, is pushed into the stream.

{5} A tinker is still so called in the north of England.

{6} This poor minstrel was born at the village of Rylstone, in Craven, the scene of Wordsworth's White Doe of Rylstone. King was always called 'the Skipton Minstrel;' and he merited that name, for he was not a mere player of jigs and country dances, but a singer of heroic ballads, carrying his hearers back to the days of chivalry and royal adventure, when the King of England called up Cheshire and Lancashire to fight the King of France, and monarchs sought the greenwood tree, and hob-a-nobbed with tinkers, knighting these Johns of the Dale as a matter of poetical justice and high sovereign prerogative. Francis King was a character. His physiognomy was striking and peculiar; and, although there was nothing of the rogue in its expression, for an honester fellow never breathed, he might have sat for Wordsworth's 'Peter Bell.' He combined in a rare degree the qualities of the mime and the minstrel, and his old jokes, and older ballads and songs, always ensured him a hearty welcome. He was lame, in consequence of one leg being shorter than the other, and his limping gait used to give occasion to the remark that 'few Kings had had more ups and downs in the world.' He met his death by drowning on the night of December 13, 1844. He had been at a 'merry-making' at Gargrave, in Craven, and it is supposed that, owing to the darkness of the night, he mistook the road, and walked into the river. As a musician his talents were creditable; and his name will long survive in the village records. The minstrel's grave is in the quiet churchyard of Gargrave. Further particulars of Francis King may be seen in Dixon's Stories of the Craven Dales, published by Tasker and Son, of Skipton.

{7} This is the ancient way of spelling the name of Reading. In Percy's version of Barbara Allen, that ballad commences 'In Scarlet town,' which, in the common stall copies, is rendered 'In Redding town.' The former is apparently a pun upon the old orthography— REDding.

{8} The sister of Roger.

{9} This gentleman was Mr. Thomas Petty.

{10} We here, and in a subsequent verse, find 'daughter' made to rhyme with 'after;' but we must not therefore conclude that the rhyme is of cockney origin. In many parts of England, the word 'daughter' is pronounced 'dafter' by the peasantry, who, upon the same principle, pronounce 'slaughter' as if it were spelt 'slafter.'

{11} Added to complete the sense.

{12} That is, 'said he, the wild boar.'

{13} Scott has strangely misunderstood this line, which he interprets -

'Many people did she KILL.'

'Fell' is to knock down, and the meaning is that she could 'well' knock down, or 'fell' people.

{14} Went.

{15} The meaning appears to be that no 'wiseman' or wizard, no matter from whence his magic, was derived, durst face her. Craven has always been famed for its wizards, or wisemen, and several of such impostors may be found there at the present day.

{16} Scott's MS. reads Ralph, but Raphe is the ancient form.

{17} Scott reads 'brim as beare,' which he interprets 'fierce as a bear.' Whitaker's rendering is correct. Beare is a small hamlet on the Bay of Morecambe, no great distance, as the crow files, from the locale of the poem. There is also a Bear-park in the county of Durham, of which place Bryan might be an inhabitant. Utrum horum, &c.

{18} That is, they were good soldiers when the MUSTERS were—when the regiments were called up.

{19} Fierce look.

{20} Descended from an ancient race famed for fighting.

{21} Assaulted. They were, although out of danger, terrified by the attacks of the sow, and their fear was shared by the kiln, which began to smoke!

{22} Watling-street, the Roman way from Catterick to Bowes.

{23} Lost his colour.

{24} Scott, not understanding this expression, has inserted 'Jesus' for the initials 'I. H. S.,' and so has given a profane interpretation to the passage. By a figure of speech the friar is called an I. H. S., from these letters being conspicuously wrought on his robes, just as we might call a livery-servant by his master's motto, because it was stamped on his buttons.

{25} The meaning here is obscure. The verse is not in Whitaker.

{26} Warlock or wizard.

{27} It is probable that by guest is meant an allusion to the spectre dog of Yorkshire (the Barguest), to which the sow is compared.

{28} Hired.

{29} The monastery of Gray Friars at Richmond.—See LELAND, Itin., vol. iii, p. 109.

{30} This appears to have been a cant saying in the reign of Charles II. It occurs in several novels, jest books and satires of the time, and was probably as unmeaning as such vulgarisms are in general.

{31} A cake composed of oatmeal, caraway-seeds, and treacle. 'Ale and parkin' is a common morning meal in the north of England.

{32} We have heard a Yorkshire yeoman sing a version, which commenced with this line:-

' It was at the time of a high holiday.'

{33} Bell-ringing was formerly a great amusement of the English, and the allusions to it are of frequent occurrence. Numerous payments to bell-ringers are generally to be found in Churchwarden's accounts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.—CHAPPELL.

{34} The subject and burthen of this song are identical with those of the song which immediately follows, called in some copies The Clown's Courtship, sung to the King at Windsor, and in others, I cannot come everyday to woo. The Kentish ditty cannot be traced to so remote a date as the Clown's Courtship; but it probably belongs to the same period.

{35} The common modern copies read 'St. Leger's Round.'

{36} The common stall copies read 'Pan,' which not only furnishes a more accurate rhyme to 'Nan,' but is, probably, the true reading. About the time when this song was written, there appears to have been some country minstrel or fiddler, who was well known by the sobriquet of 'Pan.' Frequent allusions to such a personage may be found in popular ditties of the period, and it is evidently that individual, and not the heathen deity, who is referred to in the song of Arthur O'Bradley:-

'Not Pan, the god of the swains, Could e'er produce such strains.'—See ante, p. 142.

{37} A correspondent of Notes and Queries says that, although there is some resemblance between Flora and Furry, the latter word is derived from an old Cornish term, and signifies jubilee or fair.

{38} There is another version of these concluding lines:-

'Down the red lane there lives an old fox, There does he sit a-mumping his chops; Catch him, boys, catch him, catch if you can; 'Tis twenty to one if you catch him or Nan.'

{39} A cant term for a fiddle. In its literal sense, it means trunk, or box-belly.

{40} 'Helicon,' as observed by Sir C. Sharp, is, of course, the true reading.

{41} In the introduction of the 'prodigal son,' we have a relic derived from the old mysteries and moralities. Of late years, the 'prodigal son' has been left out, and his place supplied by a 'sailor.'

{42} Probably the disease here pointed at is the sweating sickness of old times.

{43} Robert Kearton, a working miner, and librarian and lecturer at the Grassington Mechanics' institution, informs us that at Coniston, in Lancashire, and the neighbourhood, the maskers go about at the proper season, viz., Easter. Their introductory song is different to the one given above. He has favoured us with two verses of the delectable composition; he says, 'I dare say they'll be quite sufficient!'

'The next that comes on Is a gentleman's son; - A gentleman's son he was born; For mutton and beef, You may look at his teeth, He's a laddie for picking a bone!

'The next that comes on Is a tailor so bold - He can stitch up a hole in the dark! There's never a 'prentice In famed London city Can find any fault with his WARK!'

{44} For the history of the paschal egg, see a paper by Mr. J. H. Dixon, in the Local Historian's Table Book (Traditional Division). Newcastle. 1843.

{45} We suspect that Lord Nelson's name was introduced out of respect to the late Jack Rider, of Linton (who is himself introduced into the following verse), an old tar who, for many years, was one of the 'maskers' in the district from whence our version was obtained. Jack was 'loblolly boy' on board the 'Victory,' and one of the group that surrounded the dying Hero of Trafalgar. Amongst his many miscellaneous duties, Jack had to help the doctor; and while so employed, he once set fire to the ship as he was engaged investigating, by candlelight, the contents of a bottle of ether. The fire was soon extinguished, but not without considerable noise and confusion. Lord Nelson, when the accident happened, was busy writing his despatches. 'What's all that noise about?' he demanded. The answer was, 'Loblolly boy's set fire to an empty bottle, and it has set fire to the doctor's shop!' 'Oh, that's all, is it?' said Nelson, 'then I wish you and loblolly would put the fire out without making such a confusion'—and he went on writing with the greatest coolness, although the accident might have been attended by the most disastrous consequences, as an immense quantity of powder was on board, and some of it close to the scene of the disaster. The third day after the above incident Nelson was no more, and the poor 'loblolly boy' left the service minus two fingers. 'Old Jack' used often to relate his 'accident;' and Captain Carslake, now of Sidmouth, who, at the time was one of the officers, permits us to add his corroboration of its truth.

{46} In this place, and in the first line of the following verse, the name of the horse is generally inserted by the singer; and 'Filpail' is often substituted for 'the cow' in a subsequent verse.

{47} The 'swearing-in' is gone through by females as well as the male sex. See Hone's Year-Book.

{48} A fig newly gathered from the tree; so called to distinguish it from a grocer's, or preserved fig.

{49} This line is sometimes sung -

O! I went into the stable, to see what I could see.

{50} Three cabbage-nets, according to some versions.

{51} This is a common phrase in old English songs and ballads. See The Summer's Morning, post, p. 229.

{52} See ante, p. 82.

{53} Near.

{54} The high-road through a town or village.

{55} That is Tommy's opinion. In the Yorkshire dialect, when the possessive case is followed by the relative substantive, it is customary to omit the S; but if the relative be understood, and not expressed, the possessive case is formed in the usual manner, as in a subsequent line of this song:-

'Hee'd a horse, too, 'twor war than ond Tommy's, ye see.'

{56} Alive, quick.

{57} Only.

{58} Famished. The line in which this word occurs exhibits one of the most striking peculiarities of the Lancashire dialect, which is, that in words ending in ING, the termination is changed into INK. Ex. gr., for starving, starvink, farthing, fardink.

{59} In one version this line has been altered, probably by some printer who had a wholesome fear of the 'Bench of Justices,' into -

'Success to every gentleman That lives in Lincolnsheer.'

{60} Dr. Whitaker gives a traditional version of part of this song as follows:-

'The gardener standing by proferred to chuse for me, The pink, the primrose, and the rose, but I refused the three; The primrose I forsook because it came too soon, The violet I o'erlooked, and vowed to wait till June.

In June, the red rose sprung, bat was no flower for me, I plucked it up, lo! by the stalk, and planted the willow-tree. The willow I must wear with sorrow twined among, That all the world may know I falshood loved too long.'

{61} The following account of Billy Bolton may, with propriety, be inserted here:- It was a lovely September day, and the scene was Arncliffe, a retired village in Littondale, one of the most secluded of the Yorkshire dales. While sitting at the open window of the humble hostelrie, we heard what we, at first, thought was a RANTER parson, but, on inquiry, were told it was old Billy Bolton reading to a crowd of villagers. Curious to ascertain what the minstrel was reading, we joined the crowd, and found the text-book was a volume of Hume's England, which contained the reign of Elizabeth. Billy read in a clear voice, with proper emphasis, and correct pronunciation, interlarding his reading with numerous comments, the nature of some of which may be readily inferred from the fact that the minstrel belonged to what he called 'the ancient church.' It was a scene for a painter; the village situate in one of the deepest parts of the dale, the twilight hour, the attentive listeners, and the old man, leaning on his knife-grinding machine, and conveying popular information to a simple peasantry. Bolton is in the constant habit of so doing, and is really an extraordinary man, uniting, as he does, the opposite occupations of minstrel, conjuror, knife-grinder, and schoolmaster. Such a labourer (though an humble one) in the great cause of human improvement is well deserving of this brief notice, which it would be unjust to conclude without stating that whenever the itinerant teacher takes occasion to speak of his own creed, and contrast it with others, he does so in a spirit of charity; and he never performs any of his sleight-of-hand tricks without a few introductory remarks on the evil of superstition, and the folly of supposing that in the present age any mortal is endowed with supernatural attainments.

{62} This elastic opening might be adapted to existing circumstances by a slight alteration:-

The praise of a dairy to tell you I mean, But all things in order, first God save the Queen.

The common copies print 'God save the Queen,' which of course destroys the rhyme.

{63} This is the reading of a common stall copy. Chappell reads -

'For at Tottenham-court,'

which is no doubt correct, though inapplicable to a rural assembly in our days.

{64} Brew, or broo, or broth. Chappell's version reads, 'No state you can think,' which is apparently a mistake. The reading of the common copies is to be preferred.

THE END