Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry

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.

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!’

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], 125a
   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, 125b
   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.

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 shouldèrs?’
‘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 chancèd to pass,
   And he severed those roses in twain.
Sure never were seen such true lovers before,
   Nor e’er will there be again.

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 propriâ personâ. 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. 129

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, 130a
   But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde,
Was no barne that colde her byde,
   That was fra heven or helle; 130b
Ne never man that had that myght,
That ever durst com in her syght,
   Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe 130c 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; 130d
Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife,
And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe,
   What tyme as musters were. 130e

These three men wended at theyr wyll,
This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll,
Liggand under a tree;
Rugg’d and rustic was her here,
Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, 131a
   To fyght agen the three.

Grizely was scho for to meete,
Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete,
   The barke cam fra’ the tree:
When Freer Myddeltone her saugh,
Wete yow wele hee list not laugh,
   Full earnestful luik’d hee.

These men of auncestors 131b were so wight,
They bound them bauldly for to fyght,
   And strake at her full sare;
Until a kilne they garred her flee,
Wolde God sende thayme the victorye,
   They wolde aske hym na maire.

The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone,
And they wer on the bawke aboone,
   For hurting of theyr feete;
They wer sea sauted 131c wyth this sewe,
That ’mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe,
   The kilne began to reeke!

Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande,
But put a rape downe wyth a wande,
   And heltered her ful meete;
They hauled her furth agen her wyll,
Qunyl they cam until a hille,
   A little fra the streete. 131d

And ther scho made thayme sike a fray,
As, had they lived until Domesday,
They colde yt nere forgette:
Scho brayded upon every syde,
And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde,
   For nathing wolde scho lette.

Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande
That Peter of Dale had in his hande,
   Hee myght not holde hys feete;
Scho chasèd thayme sea to and fro,
The wight men never wer sea woe,
   Ther mesure was not mete.

Scho bound her boldly to abide,
To Peter of Dale scho cam aside,
   Wyth mony a hideous yelle;
Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee,
The freer sayd, ‘I conjure thee,
   Thou art a fiend of helle!

‘Thou art comed hider for sum trayne,
I conjure thee to go agayne,
   Wher thou was wont to dwell.’
He sainèd hym wyth crosse and creede,
Tooke furth a booke, began to reade,
   In Ste Johan hys gospell.

The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare,
But rudely rushèd at the freer,
   That blynkèd all his blee; 132a
And when scho wolde have takken holde,
The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, 132b
   And bealed hym wyth a tree.

Scho was brim as anie beare,
For all their meete to laboure there,
To thayme yt was noe boote;
On tree and bushe that by her stode,
Scho vengèd her as scho wer woode,
   And rave thayme up by roote.

Hee sayd, ‘Alas that I wer freer,
I shal bee hugged asunder here,
   Hard is my destinie!
Wiste my brederen, in this houre,
That I was set in sike a stoure,
   They wolde pray for mee!’

This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe,
Tooke that rape from the other two,
   And than they fledd all three;
They fledd away by Watling streete,
They had no succour but their feete,
   Yt was the maire pittye.

The fielde it was both loste and wonne,
The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone,
   To Morton-on-the-Greene.
When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape,
He wist that there had bin debate,
   Whereat the sewe had beene.

He bade thayme stand out of her waye,
For scho had had a sudden fraye,—
   ‘I saw never sewe sea keene,
Some new thingis shall wee heare,
Of her and Myddeltone the freer,
   Some battel hath ther beene.’

But all that servèd him for nought,—
Had they not better succour sought, 133
   They wer servèd therfore loe.
Then Mistress Rokebye came anon,
And for her brought scho meete ful soone,
   The sewe cam her untoe.

Scho gav her meete upon the flower;
[Scho made a bed beneath a bower,
   With moss and broom besprent;
The sewe was gentle as mote be,
Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e’e,
   Scho seemèd wele content.]

FITTE THE SECONDE.

When Freer Myddeltone com home,
Hys breders war ful faine ilchone,
   And thanked God for hys lyfe;
He told thayme all unto the ende,
How hee had foughten wyth a fiende,
   And lived thro’ mickle stryfe.

‘Wee gav her battel half a daye,
And was faine to flee awaye
   For saving of oure lyfe;
And Peter Dale wolde never blin,
But ran as faste as he colde rinn,
   Till he cam till hys wyfe.’

The Warden sayde, ‘I am ful woe
That yow sholde bee torment soe,
   But wee had wyth yow beene!
Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle,
Wee wolde hav garred the warlo 134 falle,
   That wrought yow all thys teene.’

Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, ‘Naye,
In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye,
   When moste misstirre had bin;
Ye all can speke safte wordes at home,
The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on,
   An yt bee als I wene,

Hee luik’d sea grizely al that nyght.’
The Warden sayde, ‘Yon man wol fyght
If ye saye ought but gode,
Yon guest 135a hath grievèd hym sea sore;
Holde your tongues, and speake ne more,
   Hee luiks als hee wer woode.’

The Warden wagèd 135b on the morne,
Two boldest men that ever wer borne,
   I weyne, or ere shall bee:
Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne,
Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne,
   Both by land and sea.

Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine,
Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine;
   Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.
Theis men the battel undertoke
Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke,
   And sealed securitye,

That they shold boldly bide and fyghte,
And scomfit her in maine and myghte,
   Or therfor sholde they dye.
The Warden sealed toe thayme againe,
And sayde, ‘If ye in fielde be slaine,
   This condition make I:

‘Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade,
Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede,
   With al our progenie.’
Then the lettres wer wele made,
The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade,
   As deeds of arms sholde bee.

Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight,
And wyth theire armour burnished bryght,
   They went the sewe toe see.
Scho made at thayme sike a roare,
That for her they fear it sore,
   And almaiste bounde to flee.

Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne,
And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine,
   Hee brayded owt hys brande;
Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake,
Yet for the fence that he colde make,
   Scho strake it fro hys hande,
And rave asander half hys sheelde,
And bare hym backwerde in the fielde,
   Hee mought not her gainstande.

Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare,
But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre,
   Hee strake at her ful strang.
In her shouther hee held the swerde;
Than was Gilbert sore afearde,
   When the blade brak in twang.

And whan in hande hee had her ta’en,
Scho toke hym by the shouther bane,
   And held her hold ful faste;
Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure,
Scho byt thro’ ale hys rich armoure,
   Till bloud cam owt at laste.

Than Gilbert grievèd was sea sare,
That hee rave off the hyde of haire;
   The flesh cam fra the bane,
And wyth force hee held her ther,
And wanne her worthilie in warre,
   And band her hym alane;

And lifte her on a horse sea hee,
Into two panyers made of a tree,
   And toe Richmond anon.
When they sawe the felon come,
They sange merrilye Te Deum!
   The freers evrich one.

They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis,
That they had wonne the beaste of pris,
And nere a man was sleyne:
There never didde man more manlye,
The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye,
   Nor Louis of Lothraine.

If yow wyl any more of thys,
I’ the fryarie at Richmond 137 written yt is,
   In parchment gude and fyne,
How Freer Myddeltone sea hende,
Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende,
   In lykeness of a swyne.

Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man,
That Freer Theobald was warden than,
   And thys fel in hys tyme.
And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere,
Al that for solas this doe here,
   And hym that made the ryme.

Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl,
The freers of Richmond gav her tyll,
   This sewe toe mende ther fare;
Freer Myddeltone by name,
He wold bring the felon hame,
   That rewed hym sine ful sare.