Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry

Arthur O’Bradley’s Wedding

[In the ballad called Robin Hood, his Birth, Breeding, Valour and Marriage, occurs the following line:—

And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.

Antiquaries are by no means agreed as to what is the song of Arthur-a-Bradley, there alluded to, for it so happens that there are no less than three different songs about this same Arthur-a-Bradley. Ritson gives one of them in his Robin Hood, commencing thus:—

See you not Pierce the piper.

He took it from a black-letter copy in a private collection, compared with, and very much corrected by, a copy contained in An Antidote against Melancholy, made up in pills compounded of witty Ballads, jovial Songs, and merry Catches, 1661. Ritson quotes another, and apparently much more modern song on the same subject, and to the same tune, beginning,—

All in the merry month of May.

It is a miserable composition, as may be seen by referring to a copy preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Ballads. There is another song, the one given by us, which appears to be as ancient as any of those of which Arthur O’Bradley is the hero, and from its subject being a wedding, as also from its being the only Arthur O’Bradley song that we have been enabled to trace in broadside and chap-books of the last century, we are induced to believe that it may be the song mentioned in the old ballad, which is supposed to have been written in the reign of Charles I. An obscure music publisher, who about thirty years ago resided in the Metropolis, brought out an edition of Arthur O’Bradley’s Wedding, with the prefix ‘Written by Mr. Taylor.’ This Mr. Taylor was, however, only a low comedian of the day, and the ascribed authorship was a mere trick on the publisher’s part to increase the sale of the song. We are not able to give any account of the hero, but from his being alluded to by so many of our old writers, he was, perhaps, not altogether a fictitious personage. Ben Jonson names him in one of his plays, and he is also mentioned in Dekker’s Honest Whore. Of one of the tunes mentioned in the song, viz., Hence, Melancholy! we can give no account; the other,—Mad Moll, may be found in Playford’s Dancing-Master, 1698: it is the same tune as the one known by the names of Yellow Stockings and the Virgin Queen, the latter title seeming to connect it with Queen Elizabeth, as the name of Mad Moll does with the history of Mary, who was subject to mental aberration. The words of Mad Moll are not known to exist, but probably consisted of some fulsome panegyric on the virgin queen, at the expense of her unpopular sister. From the mention of Hence, Melancholy, and Mad Moll, it is presumed that they were both popular favourites when Arthur O’Bradley’s Wedding was written. A good deal of vulgar grossness has been at different times introduced into this song, which seems in this respect to be as elastic as the French chanson, Cadet Rouselle, which is always being altered, and of which there are no two copies alike. The tune of Arthur O’Bradley is given by Mr. Chappell in his Popular Music.]

Come, neighbours, and listen awhile,
   If ever you wished to smile,
Or hear a true story of old,
Attend to what I now unfold!
’Tis of a lad whose fame did resound
Through every village and town around,
For fun, for frolic, and for whim,
None ever was to equal him,
And his name was Arthur O’Bradley!
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

Now, Arthur being stout and bold,
And near upon thirty years old,
He needs a wooing would go,
To get him a helpmate, you know.
So, gaining young Dolly’s consent,
Next to be married they went;
And to make himself noble appear,
He mounted the old padded mare;
He chose her because she was blood,
And the prime of his old daddy’s stud.
She was wind-galled, spavined, and blind,
And had lost a near leg behind;
She was cropped, and docked, and fired,
And seldom, if ever, was tired,
She had such an abundance of bone;
So he called her his high-bred roan,
A credit to Arthur O’Bradley!
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

Then he packed up his drudgery hose,
And put on his holiday clothes;
His coat was of scarlet so fine,
Full trimmed with buttons behind;
Two sleeves it had it is true,
One yellow, the other was blue,
And the cuffs and the capes were of green,
And the longest that ever were seen;
His hat, though greasy and tore,
Cocked up with a feather before,
And under his chin it was tied,
With a strip from an old cow’s hide;
His breeches three times had been turned,
And two holes through the left side were burned;
Two boots he had, but not kin,
One leather, the other was tin;
And for stirrups he had two patten rings,
Tied fast to the girth with two strings;
Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth,
Which long had been eat by the moth.
’Twas a sad misfortune, you’ll say,
But still he looked gallant and gay,
And his name it was Arthur O’Bradley!
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

Thus accoutred, away he did ride,
While Dolly she walked by his side;
Till coming up to the church door,
In the midst of five thousand or more,
Then from the old mare he did alight,
Which put the clerk in a fright;
And the parson so fumbled and shook,
That presently down dropped his book.
Then Arthur began for to sing,
And made the whole church to ring;
Crying, ‘Dolly, my dear, come hither,
And let us be tacked together;
For the honour of Arthur O’Bradley!’
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

Then the vicar discharged his duty,
Without either reward or fee,
Declaring no money he’d have;
And poor Arthur he’d none to give:
So, to make him a little amends,
He invited him home with his friends,
To have a sweet kiss at the bride,
And eat a good dinner beside.
The dishes, though few, were good,
And the sweetest of animal food:
First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam,
A sheep’s head stewed in a lanthorn, 141
Two calves’ feet, and a bull’s trotter,
The fore and hind leg of an otter,
With craw-fish, cockles, and crabs,
Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs,
Red herrings and sprats, by dozens,
To feast all their uncles and cousins;
Who seemed well pleased with their treat,
And heartily they did all eat,
For the honour of Arthur O’Bradley!
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

Now, the guests being well satisfied,
The fragments were laid on one side,
When Arthur, to make their hearts merry,
Brought ale, and parkin, 142 and perry;
When Timothy Twig stept in,
With his pipe, and a pipkin of gin.
A lad that was pleasant and jolly,
And scorned to meet melancholy;
He would chant and pipe so well,
No youth could him excel.
Not Pan the god of the swains,
Could ever produce such strains;
But Arthur, being first in the throng,
He swore he would sing the first song,
And one that was pleasant and jolly:
And that should be ‘Hence, Melancholy!’
‘Now give me a dance,’ quoth Doll,
‘Come, Jeffrery, play up Mad Moll,
’Tis time to be merry and frisky,—
But first I must have some more whiskey.’
‘Oh! you’re right,’ says Arthur, ‘my love!
My daffy-down-dilly! my dove!
My everything! my wife!
I ne’er was so pleased in my life,
Since my name it was Arthur O’Bradley!’
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

Then the piper he screwed up his bags,
And the girls began shaking their rags;
First up jumped old Mother Crewe,
Two stockings, and never a shoe.
Her nose was crookèd and long,
Which she could easily reach with her tongue;
And a hump on her back she did not lack,
But you should take no notice of that;
And her mouth stood all awry,
And she never was heard to lie,
For she had been dumb from her birth;
So she nodded consent to the mirth,
For honour of Arthur O’Bradley.
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

Then the parson led off at the top,
Some danced, while others did hop;
While some ran foul of the wall,
And others down backwards did fall.
There was lead up and down, figure in,
Four hands across, then back again.
So in dancing they spent the whole night,
Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight;
When each had a kiss of the bride,
And hopped home to his own fire-side:
Well pleased was Arthur O’Bradley!
   O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!
   Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!

The Painful Plough

[This is one of our oldest agricultural ditties, and maintains its popularity to the present hour. It is called for at merry-makings and feasts in every part of the country. The tune is in the minor key, and of a pleasing character.]

‘Come, all you jolly ploughmen, of courage stout and bold,
That labour all the winter in stormy winds, and cold;
To clothe the fields with plenty, your farm-yards to renew,
To crown them with contentment, behold the painful plough!’

‘Hold! ploughman,’ said the gardener, ‘don’t count your trade with ours,
Walk through the garden, and view the early flowers;
Also the curious border and pleasant walks go view,—
There’s none such peace and plenty performèd by the plough!’

‘Hold! gardener,’ said the ploughman, ‘my calling don’t despise,
Each man for his living upon his trade relies;
Were it not for the ploughman, both rich and poor would rue,
For we are all dependent upon the painful plough.

‘Adam in the garden was sent to keep it right,
But the length of time he stayed there, I believe it was one night;
Yet of his own labour, I call it not his due,
Soon he lost his garden, and went to hold the plough.

‘For Adam was a ploughman when ploughing first begun,
The next that did succeed him was Cain, the eldest son;
Some of the generation this calling now pursue;
That bread may not be wanting, remains the painful plough.

Samson was the strongest man, and Solomon was wise,
Alexander for to conquer ’twas all his daily prise;
King David was valiant, and many thousands slew,
Yet none of these brave heroes could live without the plough!

Behold the wealthy merchant, that trades in foreign seas,
And brings home gold and treasure for those who live at ease;
With fine silks and spices, and fruits also, too,
They are brought from the Indies by virtue of the plough.

‘For they must have bread, biscuit, rice pudding, flour and peas,
To feed the jolly sailors as they sail o’er the seas;
And the man that brings them will own to what is true,
He cannot sail the ocean without the painful plough!

‘I hope there’s none offended at me for singing this,
For it is not intended for anything amiss.
If you consider rightly, you’ll find what I say is true,
For all that you can mention depends upon the plough.’

The Useful Plow

OR, THE PLOUGH’S PRAISE.

[The common editions of this popular song inform us that it is taken ‘from an Old Ballad,’ alluding probably to the dialogue given at page 44. This song is quoted by Farquhar.]

A country life is sweet!
In moderate cold and heat,
   To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair!
In every field of wheat,
   The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,
And every meadow’s brow;
   To that I say, no courtier may
   Compare with they who clothe in grey,
And follow the useful plow.

They rise with the morning lark,
And labour till almost dark;
   Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;
While every pleasant park
   Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing,
On each green, tender bough.
   With what content, and merriment,
   Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
To follow the useful plow.

The gallant that dresses fine,
And drinks his bottles of wine,
   Were he to be tried, his feathers of pride,
Which deck and adorn his back,
   Are tailors’ and mercers’, and other men dressers,
For which they do dun them now.
   But Ralph and Will no compters fill
   For tailor’s bill, or garments still,
But follow the useful plow.

Their hundreds, without remorse,
Some spend to keep dogs and horse,
   Who never would give, as long as they live,
Not two-pence to help the poor;
   Their wives are neglected, and harlots respected;
This grieves the nation now;
   But ’tis not so with us that go
   Where pleasures flow, to reap and mow,
And follow the useful plow.

The Farmer’s Son

[This song, familiar to the dwellers in the dales of Yorkshire, was published in 1729, in the Vocal Miscellany; a collection of about four hundred celebrated songs. As the Miscellany was merely an anthology of songs already well known, the date of this song must have been sometime anterior to 1729. It was republished in the British Musical Miscellany, or the Delightful Grove, 1796, and in a few other old song books. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter dialogue preserved in the Roxburgh collection, called A Mad Kinde of Wooing; or, a Dialogue between Will the Simple and Nan the Subtill, with their loving argument. To the tune of the New Dance at the Red Bull Playhouse. Printed by the assignees of Thomas Symcock.]

‘Sweet Nelly! my heart’s delight!
   Be loving, and do not slight
The proffer I make, for modesty’s sake:—
   I honour your beauty bright.
For love, I profess, I can do no less,
   Thou hast my favour won:
And since I see your modesty,
I pray agree, and fancy me,
   Though I’m but a farmer’s son.

‘No! I am a lady gay,
   ’Tis very well known I may
Have men of renown, in country or town;
   So! Roger, without delay,
Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue,
   Their loves will soon be won;
But don’t you dare to speak me fair,
As if I were at my last prayer,
   To marry a farmer’s son.’

‘My father has riches’ store,
   Two hundred a year, and more;
Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs;
   His age is above threescore.
And when he does die, then merrily I
   Shall have what he has won;
Both land and kine, all shall be thine,
If thou’lt incline, and wilt be mine,
   And marry a farmer’s son.’

‘A fig for your cattle and corn!
   Your proffered love I scorn!
’Tis known very well, my name is Nell,
   And you’re but a bumpkin born.’
‘Well! since it is so, away I will go,—
   And I hope no harm is done;
Farewell, adieu!—I hope to woo
As good as you,—and win her, too,
   Though I’m but a farmer’s son.’

‘Be not in such haste,’ quoth she,
   ‘Perhaps we may still agree;
For, man, I protest I was but in jest!
   Come, prythee sit down by me;
For thou art the man that verily can
   Win me, if e’er I’m won;
Both straight and tall, genteel withal;
Therefore, I shall be at your call,
   To marry a farmer’s son.’

‘Dear lady! believe me now
   I solemnly swear and vow,
No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives,
   Like fellows that drive the plough:
For whatever they gain with labour and pain,
   They don’t with ’t to harlots run,
As courtiers do. I never knew
A London beau that could outdo
   A country farmer’s son.’

The Farmer’s Boy

[Mr. Denham of Piersbridge, who communicates the following, says—‘there is no question that the Farmer’s Boy is a very ancient song; it is highly popular amongst the north country lads and lasses.’ The date of the composition may probably be referred to the commencement of the last century, when there prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage for Farmers’ Sons, Plough Boys, Milk Maids, Farmers’ Boys, &c. &c. The song is popular all over the country, and there are numerous printed copies, ancient and modern.]

The sun had set behind yon hills,
   Across yon dreary moor,
Weary and lame, a boy there came
   Up to a farmer’s door:
‘Can you tell me if any there be
   That will give me employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
   And be a farmer’s boy?

‘My father is dead, and mother is left
   With five children, great and small;
And what is worse for mother still,
   I’m the oldest of them all.
Though little, I’ll work as hard as a Turk,
   If you’ll give me employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
   And be a farmer’s boy.

‘And if that you won’t me employ,
   One favour I’ve to ask,—
Will you shelter me, till break of day,
   From this cold winter’s blast?
At break of day, I’ll trudge away
   Elsewhere to seek employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
   And be a farmer’s boy.’

‘Come, try the lad,’ the mistress said,
   ‘Let him no further seek.’
‘O, do, dear father!’ the daughter cried,
   While tears ran down her cheek:
‘He’d work if he could, so ’tis hard to want food,
   And wander for employ;
Don’t turn him away, but let him stay,
   And be a farmer’s boy.’

And when the lad became a man,
   The good old farmer died,
And left the lad the farm he had,
   And his daughter for his bride.
The lad that was, the farm now has,
   Oft smiles, and thinks with joy
Of the lucky day he came that way,
   To be a farmer’s boy.

Richard of Taunton Dean

OR, DUMBLE DUM DEARY.

[This song is very popular with the country people in every part of England, but more particularly with the inhabitants of the counties of Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall. 149 The chorus is peculiar to country songs of the West of England. There are many different versions. The following one, communicated by Mr. Sandys, was taken down from the singing of an old blind fiddler, ‘who,’ says Mr. Sandys, ‘used to accompany it on his instrument in an original and humorous manner; a representative of the old minstrels!’ The air is in Popular Music. In Halliwell’s Nursery Rhymes of England there is a version of this song, called Richard of Dalton Dale.

Last New-Year’s day, as I’ve heerd say, 151
Young Richard he mounted his dapple grey,
And he trotted along to Taunton Dean,
To court the parson’s daughter, Jean.
      Dumble dum deary, dumble dum deary,
      Dumble dum deary, dumble dum dee.

With buckskin breeches, shoes and hose,
And Dicky put on his Sunday clothes;
Likewise a hat upon his head,
All bedaubed with ribbons red.

Young Richard he rode without dread or fear,
Till he came to the house where lived his sweet dear,
When he knocked, and shouted, and bellowed, ‘Hallo!
Be the folks at home? say aye or no.’

A trusty servant let him in,
That he his courtship might begin;
Young Richard he walked along the great hall,
And loudly for mistress Jean did call.

Miss Jean she came without delay,
To hear what Dicky had got to say;
‘I s’pose you knaw me, mistress Jean,
I’m honest Richard of Taunton Dean.

‘I’m an honest fellow, although I be poor,
And I never was in love afore;
My mother she bid me come here for to woo,
And I can fancy none but you.’

‘Suppose that I would be your bride,
Pray how would you for me provide?
For I can neither sew nor spin;—
Pray what will your day’s work bring in?’

‘Why, I can plough, and I can zow,
And zometimes to the market go
With Gaffer Johnson’s straw or hay,
And yarn my ninepence every day!’

‘Ninepence a-day will never do,
For I must have silks and satins too!
Ninepence a day won’t buy us meat!’
‘Adzooks!’ says Dick, ‘I’ve a zack of wheat;

‘Besides, I have a house hard by,
’Tis all my awn, when mammy do die;
If thee and I were married now,
Ods! I’d feed thee as fat as my feyther’s old zow.’

Dick’s compliments did so delight,
They made the family laugh outright;
Young Richard took huff, and no more would say,
He kicked up old Dobbin, and trotted away,
      Singing, dumble dum deary, &c.

Wooing Song of a Yeoman of Kent’s Sonne

[The following song is the original of a well-known and popular Scottish song:—

‘I hae laid a herring in saut;
Lass, ’gin ye lo’e me, tell me now!
I ha’e brewed a forpit o’ maut,
An’ I canna come ilka day to woo.’

There are modern copies of our Kentish Wooing Song, but the present version is taken from Melismata, Musical phansies fitting the court, citie, and countree. To 3, 4, and 5 voyces. London, printed by William Stansby, for Thomas Adams, 1611. The tune will be found in Popular Music, I., 90. The words are in the Kentish dialect.]

Ich have house and land in Kent,
      And if you’ll love me, love me now;
   Two-pence half-penny is my rent,—
      Ich cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. Two-pence half-penny is his rent,
         And he cannot come every day to woo.

Ich am my vather’s eldest zonne,
      My mouther eke doth love me well!
   For Ich can bravely clout my shoone,
      And Ich full-well can ring a bell.
Cho. For he can bravely clout his shoone,
         And he full well can ring a bell. 153

My vather he gave me a hogge,
      My mouther she gave me a zow;
   Ich have a god-vather dwells there by,
      And he on me bestowed a plow.
Cho. He has a god-vather dwells there by,
         And he on him bestowed a plow.

One time Ich gave thee a paper of pins,
      Anoder time a taudry lace;
   And if thou wilt not grant me love,
      In truth Ich die bevore thy vace.
Cho. And if thou wilt not grant his love,
         In truth he’ll die bevore thy vace.

Ich have been twice our Whitson Lord,
      Ich have had ladies many vare;
   And eke thou hast my heart in hold,
      And in my minde zeemes passing rare.
Cho. And eke thou hast his heart in hold,
         And in his minde zeemes passing rare.

Ich will put on my best white sloppe,
      And Ich will weare my yellow hose;
   And on my head a good gray hat,
      And in’t Ich sticke a lovely rose.
Cho. And on his head a good grey hat,
         And in’t he’ll stick a lovely rose.

Wherefore cease off, make no delay,
      And if you’ll love me, love me now;
   Or els Ich zeeke zome oder where,—
      For Ich cannot come every day to woo.
Cho. Or else he’ll zeeke zome oder where,
         For he cannot come every day to woo. 154

The Clown’s Courtship

[This song, on the same subject as the preceding, is as old as the reign of Henry VIII., the first verse, says Mr. Chappell, being found elaborately set to music in a manuscript of that date. The air is given in Popular Music, I., 87.]

Quoth John to Joan, wilt thou have me?
I prythee now, wilt? and I’ze marry with thee,
My cow, my calf, my house, my rents,
And all my lands and tenements:
         Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do?
         I cannot come every day to woo.

I’ve corn and hay in the barn hard by,
And three fat hogs pent up in the sty:
I have a mare, and she is coal black,
I ride on her tail to save my back.
Then say, &c.

I have a cheese upon the shelf,
And I cannot eat it all myself;
I’ve three good marks that lie in a rag,
In the nook of the chimney, instead of a bag.
Then say, &c.

To marry I would have thy consent,
But faith I never could compliment;
I can say nought but ‘hoy, gee ho,’
Words that belong to the cart and the plow.
Then say, &c.

Harry’s Courtship

[This old ditty, in its incidents, bears a resemblance to Dumble-dum-deary, see ante, p. 149. It used to be a popular song in the Yorkshire dales. We have been obliged to supply an hiatus in the second verse, and to make an alteration in the last, where we have converted the ‘red-nosed parson’ of the original into a squire.]

Harry courted modest Mary,
Mary was always brisk and airy;
Harry was country neat as could be,
But his words were rough, and his duds were muddy.

Harry when he first bespoke her,
[Kept a dandling the kitchen poker;]
Mary spoke her words like Venus,
But said, ‘There’s something I fear between us.

‘Have you got cups of China mettle,
Canister, cream-jug, tongs, or kettle?’
‘Odzooks, I’ve bowls, and siles, and dishes,
Enow to supply any prudent wishes.

‘I’ve got none o’ your cups of Chaney,
Canister, cream-jug, I’ve not any;
I’ve a three-footed pot and a good brass kettle,
Pray what do you want with your Chaney mettle?

‘A shippen full of rye for to fother,
A house full of goods, one mack or another;
I’ll thrash in the lathe while you sit spinning,
O, Molly, I think that’s a good beginning.’

‘I’ll not sit at my wheel a-spinning,
Or rise in the morn to wash your linen;
I’ll lie in bed till the clock strikes eleven—’
‘Oh, grant me patience gracious Heaven!

‘Why then thou must marry some red-nosed squire,
[Who’ll buy thee a settle to sit by the fire,]
For I’ll to Margery in the valley,
She is my girl, so farewell Malley.’

Harvest-Home Song

[Our copy of this song is taken from one in the Roxburgh Collection, where it is called, The Country Farmer’s vain glory; in a new song of Harvest Home, sung to a new tune much in request. Licensed according to order. The tune is published in Popular Music. A copy of this song, with the music, may be found in D’Urfey’s Pills to purge Melancholy. It varies from ours; but D’Urfey is so loose and inaccurate in his texts, that any other version is more likely to be correct. The broadside from which the following is copied was ‘Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Dencon [Deacon], J. Blai[r], and J. Back.’]

Our oats they are howed, and our barley’s reaped,
Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped;
      Harvest home! harvest home!
We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!
      Harvest home! harvest home!
We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!
We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!

We cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him again;
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
      One in ten! one in ten!
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
For staying while dinner is cold and hot,
And pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot;
      Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!
Till pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot,
      Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!

We’ll drink off the liquor while we can stand,
And hey for the honour of old England!
      Old England! old England!
And hey for the honour of old England!
      Old England! old England!

Harvest-Home

[From an old copy without printer’s name or date.]

Come, Roger and Nell,
   Come, Simpkin and Bell,
Each lad with his lass hither come;
   With singing and dancing,
   And pleasure advancing,
To celebrate harvest-home!

Chorus. ’Tis Ceres bids play,
   And keep holiday,
To celebrate harvest-home!
   Harvest-home!
   Harvest-home!
To celebrate harvest-home!

Our labour is o’er,
   Our barns, in full store,
Now swell with rich gifts of the land;
   Let each man then take,
   For the prong and the rake,
His can and his lass in his hand.
For Ceres, &c.

No courtier can be
   So happy as we,
In innocence, pastime, and mirth;
   While thus we carouse,
   With our sweetheart or spouse,
And rejoice o’er the fruits of the earth.
For Ceres, &c.

The Mow

A HARVEST HOME SONG.

Tune, Where the bee sucks.

[This favourite song, copied from a chap-book called The Whistling Ploughman, published at the commencement of the present century, is written in imitation of Ariel’s song, in the Tempest. It is probably taken from some defunct ballad-opera.]

Now our work’s done, thus we feast,
After labour comes our rest;
Joy shall reign in every breast,
And right welcome is each guest:
   After harvest merrily,
Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,
After the harvest that heaps up the mow.

Now the plowman he shall plow,
And shall whistle as he go,
Whether it be fair or blow,
For another barley mow,
   O’er the furrow merrily:
Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,
After the harvest, the fruit of the plow.

Toil and plenty, toil and ease,
Still the husbandman he sees;
Whether when the winter freeze,
Or in summer’s gentle breeze;
   Still he labours merrily,
Merrily, merrily, after the plow,
He looks to the harvest, that gives us the mow.

The Barley-Mow Song

[This song is sung at country meetings in Devon and Cornwall, particularly on completing the carrying of the barley, when the rick, or mow of barley, is finished. On putting up the last sheaf, which is called the craw (or crow) sheaf, the man who has it cries out ‘I have it, I have it, I have it;’ another demands, ‘What have ’ee, what have ’ee, what have ’ee?’ and the answer is, ‘A craw! a craw! a craw!’ upon which there is some cheering, &c., and a supper afterwards. The effect of the Barley-mow Song cannot be given in words; it should be heard, to be appreciated properly,—particularly with the West-country dialect.]

Here’s a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
We’ll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
Cho. Here’s a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,
Here’s a health to the barley-mow!

We’ll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The nipperkin and the jolly brown bowl,
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the quarter-pint, boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The quarter-pint, nipperkin, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the half-a-pint, boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The half-a-pint, quarter-pint, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the pint, my brave boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The pint, the half-a-pint, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the quart, my brave boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The quart, the pint, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

Well drink it out of the pottle, my boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The pottle, the quart, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the gallon, my boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The gallon, the pottle, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the half-anker, boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The half-anker, gallon, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the anker, my boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The anker, the half-anker, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the half-hogshead, boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The half-hogshead, anker, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the hogshead, my boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The hogshead, the half-hogshead, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the pipe, my brave boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The pipe, the hogshead, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the well, my brave boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The well, the pipe, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the river, my boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The river, the well, &c.
Cho. Here’s a health, &c.

We’ll drink it out of the ocean, my boys,
   Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
The ocean, the river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead,
         the half-hogshead, the anker, the half-anker,
         the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pint, the
         half-a-pint, the quarter-pint, the nipperkin, and
         the jolly brown bowl!
Cho. Here’s a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys!
         Here’s a health to the barley-mow!

[The above verses are very much ad libitum, but always in the third line repeating the whole of the previously-named measures; as we have shown in the recapitulation at the close of the last verse.]

The Barley-Mow Song

(SUFFOLK VERSION.)

[The peasantry of Suffolk sing the following version of the Barley-Mow Song.]

Here’s a health to the barley mow!
   Here’s a health to the man
Who very well can
   Both harrow and plow and sow!

When it is well sown
See it is well mown,
Both raked and gavelled clean,
And a barn to lay it in.
He’s a health to the man
Who very well can
Both thrash and fan it clean!

The Craven Churn-Supper Song

[In some of the more remote dales of Craven it is customary at the close of the hay-harvest for the farmers to give an entertainment to their men; this is called the churn supper; a name which Eugene Aram traces to ‘the immemorial usage of producing at such suppers a great quantity of cream in a churn, and circulating it in cups to each of the rustic company, to be eaten with bread.’ At these churn-suppers the masters and their families attend the entertainment, and share in the general mirth. The men mask themselves, and dress in a grotesque manner, and are allowed the privilege of playing harmless practical jokes on their employers, &c. The churn-supper song varies in different dales, but the following used to be the most popular version. In the third verse there seems to be an allusion to the clergyman’s taking tythe in kind, on which occasions he is generally accompanied by two or three men, and the parish clerk. The song has never before been printed. There is a marked resemblance between it and a song of the date of 1650, called A Cup of Old Stingo. See Popular Music of the Olden Time, I., 308.]

God rest you, merry gentlemen!
Be not movèd at my strain,
For nothing study shall my brain,
   But for to make you laugh:
For I came here to this feast,
For to laugh, carouse, and jest,
And welcome shall be every guest,
   To take his cup and quaff.
Cho. Be frolicsome, every one,
Melancholy none;
Drink about!
See it out,
And then we’ll all go home,
And then we’ll all go home!

This ale it is a gallant thing,
It cheers the spirits of a king;
It makes a dumb man strive to sing,
   Aye, and a beggar play!
A cripple that is lame and halt,
And scarce a mile a day can walk,
When he feels the juice of malt,
   Will throw his crutch away.
Cho. Be frolicsome, &c.

’Twill make the parson forget his men,—
’Twill make his clerk forget his pen;
’Twill turn a tailor’s giddy brain,
   And make him break his wand,
The blacksmith loves it as his life,—
It makes the tinkler bang his wife,—
Aye, and the butcher seek his knife
   When he has it in his hand!
Cho. Be frolicsome, &c.

So now to conclude, my merry boys, all,
Let’s with strong liquor take a fall,
Although the weakest goes to the wall,
The best is but a play!
For water it concludes in noise,
Good ale will cheer our hearts, brave boys;
Then put it round with a cheerful voice,
   We meet not every day.
Cho. Be frolicsome, &c.

The Rural Dance About the May-Pole

[The most correct copy of this song is that given in The Westminster Drollery, Part II. p. 80. It is there called The Rural Dance about the May-pole, the tune, the first-figure dance at Mr. Young’s ball, May, 1671. The tune is in Popular Music. The May-pole, for so the song is called in modern collections, is a very popular ditty at the present time. The common copies vary considerably from the following version, which is much more correct than any hitherto published.]

Come, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads,
   And away to the may-pole hie;
For every he has got him a she,
   And the minstrel’s standing by;
For Willie has gotten his Jill,
   And Johnny has got his Joan,
To jig it, jig it, jig it,
   Jig it up and down.

‘Strike up,’ says Wat; ‘Agreed,’ says Kate,
   ‘And I prithee, fiddler, play;’
‘Content,’ says Hodge, and so says Madge,
   For this is a holiday.
Then every man did put
   His hat off to his lass,
And every girl did curchy,
   Curchy, curchy on the grass.

‘Begin,’ says Hall; ‘Aye, aye,’ says Mall,
   ‘We’ll lead up Packington’s Pound;’
‘No, no,’ says Noll, and so says Doll,
   ‘We’ll first have Sellenger’s Round.’ 165a
Then every man began
   To foot it round about;
And every girl did jet it,
   Jet it, jet it, in and out.

‘You’re out,’ says Dick; ‘’Tis a lie,’ says Nick,
   ‘The fiddler played it false;’
‘’Tis true,’ says Hugh, and so says Sue,
   And so says nimble Alice.
The fiddler then began
   To play the tune again;
And every girl did trip it, trip it,
   Trip it to the men.

‘Let’s kiss,’ says Jane, 165b ‘Content,’ says Nan,
   And so says every she;
‘How many?’ says Batt; ‘Why three,’ says Matt,
   ‘For that’s a maiden’s fee.’
But they, instead of three,
   Did give them half a score,
And they in kindness gave ’em, gave ’em,
   Gave ’em as many more.

Then after an hour, they went to a bower,
   And played for ale and cakes;
And kisses, too;—until they were due,
   The lasses kept the stakes:
The girls did then begin
   To quarrel with the men;
And bid ’em take their kisses back,
   And give them their own again.

Yet there they sate, until it was late,
   And tired the fiddler quite,
With singing and playing, without any paying,
   From morning unto night:
They told the fiddler then,
   They’d pay him for his play;
And each a two-pence, two-pence,
   Gave him, and went away.

‘Good night,’ says Harry; ‘Good night,’ says Mary;
   ‘Good night,’ says Dolly to John;
‘Good night,’ says Sue; ‘Good night,’ says Hugh;
   ‘Good night,’ says every one.
Some walked, and some did run,
   Some loitered on the way;
And bound themselves with love-knots, love-knots,
   To meet the next holiday.

The Hitchin May-Day Song

[The following song is sung by the Mayers at Hitchin in the county of Herts. For an account of the manner in which May-day is observed at Hitchin, see Hone’s Every-Day Book.]

Remember us poor Mayers all!
   And thus do we begin
To lead our lives in righteousness,
   Or else we die in sin.

We have been rambling all the night,
   And almost all the day;
And now returned back again,
   We have brought you a branch of May.

A branch of May we have brought you,
And at your door it stands;
   It is but a sprout,
   But it’s well budded out
By the work of our Lord’s hand.

The hedges and trees they are so green,
   As green as any leek;
Our heavenly Father he watered them
   With his heavenly dew so sweet.

The heavenly gates are open wide,
   Our paths are beaten plain;
And if a man be not too far gone,
   He may return again.

The life of man is but a span,
   It flourishes like a flower;
We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow,
   And we are dead in an hour.

The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,
   A little before it is day;
So God bless you all, both great and small,
   And send you a joyful May!

The Helstone Furry-Day Song

[At Helstone, in Cornwall, the 8th of May is a day devoted to revelry and gaiety. It is called the Furry-day, supposed to be a corruption of Flora’s day, from the garlands worn and carried in procession during the festival. 167 A writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine for June, 1790, says, ‘In the morning, very early, some troublesome rogues go round the streets [of Helstone], with drums and other noisy instruments, disturbing their sober neighbours, and singing parts of a song, the whole of which nobody now re-collects, and of which I know no more than that there is mention in it of the ‘grey goose quill,’ and of going ‘to the green wood’ to bring home ‘the Summer and the May, O!’’ During the festival, the gentry, tradespeople, servants, &c., dance through the streets, and thread through certain of the houses to a very old dance tune, given in the appendix to Davies Gilbert’s Christmas Carols, and which may also be found in Chappell’s Popular Music, and other collections. The Furry-day Song possesses no literary merit whatever; but as a part of an old and really interesting festival, it is worthy of preservation. The dance-tune has been confounded with that of the song, but Mr. Sandys, to whom we are indebted for this communication, observes that ‘the dance-tune is quite different.’]

Robin Hood and Little John,
   They both are gone to the fair, O!
And we will go to the merry green-wood,
   To see what they do there, O!
      And for to chase, O!
   To chase the buck and doe.
         With ha-lan-tow, rumble, O!
         For we were up as soon as any day, O!
         And for to fetch the summer home,
         The summer and the may, O!
         For summer is a-come, O!
         And winter is a-gone, O!

Where are those Spaniards
   That make so great a boast, O?
They shall eat the grey goose feather,
   And we will eat the roast, O!
In every land, O!
   The land where’er we go.
         With ha-lan-tow, &c

As for Saint George, O!
   Saint George he was a knight, O!
Of all the knights in Christendom,
   Saint George is the right, O!
      In every land, O!
      The land where’er we go.
         With ha-lan-tow, &c.

Cornish Midsummer Bonfire Song

[The very ancient custom of lighting fires on Midsummer-eve, being the vigil of St. John the Baptist, is still kept up in several parts of Cornwall. On these occasions the fishermen and others dance about the fires, and sing appropriate songs. The following has been sung for a long series of years at Penzance and the neighbourhood, and is taken down from the recitation of the leader of a West-country choir. It is communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys. The origin of the Midsummer bonfires is fully explained in Brand’s Popular Antiquities. See Sir H. Ellis’s edition of that work, vol. i. pp. 166–186.]

The bonny month of June is crowned
   With the sweet scarlet rose;
The groves and meadows all around
   With lovely pleasure flows.

As I walked out to yonder green,
   One evening so fair;
All where the fair maids may be seen
   Playing at the bonfire.

Hail! lovely nymphs, be not too coy,
   But freely yield your charms;
Let love inspire with mirth and joy,
   In Cupid’s lovely arms.

Bright Luna spreads its light around,
   The gallants for to cheer;
As they lay sporting on the ground,
   At the fair June bonfire.

All on the pleasant dewy mead,
   They shared each other’s charms;
Till Phoebus’ beams began to spread,
   And coming day alarms.

Whilst larks and linnets sing so sweet,
   To cheer each lovely swain;
Let each prove true unto their love,
   And so farewell the plain.

Suffolk Harvest-Home Song

[In no part of England are the harvest-homes kept up with greater spirit than in Suffolk. The following old song is a general favourite on such occasions.]

Here’s a health unto our master,
      The founder of the feast!
   I wish, with all my heart and soul,
      In heaven he may find rest.
   I hope all things may prosper,
      That ever be takes in hand;
   For we are all his servants,
      And all at his command.

Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill,
For if you do, you must drink two,—it is your master’s will.

Now our harvest is ended,
      And supper is past;
   Here’s our mistress’ good health,
      In a full flowing glass!
   She is a good woman,—
      She prepared us good cheer;
   Come, all my brave boys,
      And drink off your beer.

Drink, my boys, drink till you come unto me,
The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be!

In yon green wood there lies an old fox,
Close by his den you may catch him, or no;
Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no.
His beard and his brush are all of one colour,—

[Takes the glass and empties it off.

I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller.
’Tis down the red lane! ’tis down the red lane!
So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane! 171

The Haymaker’s Song

[An old and very favourite ditty sung in many parts of England at merry-makings, especially at those which occur during the hay-harvest. It is not in any collection.]

In the merry month of June,
   In the prime time of the year;
Down in yonder meadows
   There runs a river clear:
And many a little fish
   Doth in that river play;
And many a lad, and many a lass,
   Go abroad a-making hay.

In come the jolly mowers,
   To mow the meadows down;
With budget and with bottle
   Of ale, both stout and brown,
All labouring men of courage bold
   Come here their strength to try;
They sweat and blow, and cut and mow,
   For the grass cuts very dry.

Here’s nimble Ben and Tom,
   With pitchfork, and with rake;
Here’s Molly, Liz, and Susan,
   Come here their hay to make.
While sweet, jug, jug, jug!
   The nightingale doth sing,
From morning unto even-song,
   As they are hay-making.

And when that bright day faded,
   And the sun was going down,
There was a merry piper
   Approachèd from the town:
He pulled out his pipe and tabor,
   So sweetly he did play,
Which made all lay down their rakes,
   And leave off making hay.

Then joining in a dance,
   They jig it o’er the green;
Though tired with their labour,
   No one less was seen.
But sporting like some fairies,
   Their dance they did pursue,
In leading up, and casting off,
   Till morning was in view.

And when that bright daylight,
   The morning it was come,
They lay down and rested
   Till the rising of the sun:
Till the rising of the sun,
   When the merry larks do sing,
And each lad did rise and take his lass,
   And away to hay-making.

The Sword-Dancers’ Song

[Sword-dancing is not so common in the North of England as it was a few years ago; but a troop of rustic practitioners of the art may still be occasionally met with at Christmas time, in some of the most secluded of the Yorkshire dales. The following is a copy of the introductory song, as it used to be sung by the Wharfdale sword-dancers. It has been transcribed from a MS. in the possession of Mr. Holmes, surgeon, at Grassington, in Craven. At the conclusion of the song a dance ensues, and sometimes a rustic drama is performed. See post, p. 175. Jumping Joan, alluded to in the last verse, is a well-known old country dance tune.]

The spectators being assembled, the Clown enters, and after drawing a circle with his sword, walks round it, and calls in the actors in the following lines, which are sung to the accompaniment of a violin played outside, or behind the door.

The first that enters on the floor,
   His name is Captain Brown;
I think he is as smart a youth
   As any in this town:
In courting of the ladies gay,
   He fixes his delight;
He will not stay from them all day,
   And is with them all the night.

The next’s a tailor by his trade,
   Called Obadiah Trim;
You may quickly guess, by his plain dress,
   And hat of broadest brim,
That he is of the Quaking sect,
   Who would seem to act by merit
Of yeas and nays, and hums and hahs,
   And motions of the spirit.

The next that enters on the floor,
   He is a foppish knight;
The first to be in modish dress,
   He studies day and night.
Observe his habit round about,—
   Even from top to toe;
The fashion late from France was brought,—
   He’s finer than a beau!

Next I present unto your view
   A very worthy man;
He is a vintner, by his trade,
   And Love-ale is his name.
If gentlemen propose a glass,
   He seldom says ’em nay,
But does always think it’s right to drink,
   While other people pay.

The next that enters on the floor,
   It is my beauteous dame;
Most dearly I do her adore,
   And Bridget is her name.
At needlework she does excel
   All that e’er learnt to sew,
And when I choose, she’ll ne’er refuse,
   What I command her do.

And I myself am come long since,
   And Thomas is my name;
Though some are pleased to call me Tom,
   I think they’re much to blame:
Folks should not use their betters thus,
   But I value it not a groat,
Though the tailors, too, that botching crew,
   Have patched it on my coat.

I pray who’s this we’ve met with here,
   That tickles his trunk wame? 174
We’ve picked him up as here we came,
   And cannot learn his name:
But sooner than he’s go without,
   I’ll call him my son Tom;
And if he’ll play, be it night or day,
   We’ll dance you Jumping Joan.

The Sword-Dancers’ Song and Interlude

AS NOW PERFORMED AT CHRISTMAS, IN THE COUNTY OF DURHAM.

[The late Sir Cuthbert Sharp remarks, that ‘It is still the practice during the Christmas holidays for companies of fifteen to perform a sort of play or dance, accompanied by song or music.’ The following version of the song, or interlude, has been transcribed from Sir C. Sharp’s Bishoprick Garland, corrected by collation with a MS. copy recently remitted to the editor by a countryman of Durham. The Devonshire peasants have a version almost identical with this, but laths are used instead of swords, and a few different characters are introduced to suit the locality. The pageant called The Fool Plough, which consists of a number of sword-dancers dragging a plough with music, was anciently observed in the North of England, not only at Christmas time, but also in the beginning of Lent. Wallis thinks that the Sword Dance is the antic dance, or chorus armatus of the Romans. Brand supposes that it is a composition made up of the gleaning of several obsolete customs anciently followed in England and other countries. The Germans still practise the Sword Dance at Christmas and Easter. We once witnessed a Sword Dance in the Eifel mountains, which closely resembled our own, but no interlude, or drama, was performed.]

Enter Dancers, decorated with swords and ribbons; the Captain of the band wearing a cocked hat and a peacock’s feather in it by way of cockade, and the Clown, or ‘Bessy,’ who acts as treasurer, being decorated with a hairy cap and a fox’s brush dependent.

The Captain forms with his sword a circle, around which walks.

The Bessy opens the proceedings by singing—

Good gentlemen all, to our captain take heed,
   And hear what he’s got for to sing;
He’s lived among music these forty long year,
   And drunk of the elegant 175 spring.

The Captain then proceeds as follows, his song being accompanied by a violin, generally played by the Bessy—

Six actors I have brought
   Who were ne’er on a stage before;
But they will do their best,
   And they can do no more.

The first that I call in
   He is a squire’s son;
He’s like to lose his sweetheart
   Because he is too young.

But though he is too young,
   He has money for to rove,
And he will spend it all
   Before he’ll lose his love.

Chorus. Fal lal de ral, lal de dal, fal lal de ra ral da.

Followed by a symphony on the fiddle, during which the introduced actor walks round the circle.

The Captain proceeds—

The next that I call in
   He is a tailor fine;
What think you of his work?
   He made this coat of mine!

Here the Captain turns round and exhibits his coat, which, of course, is ragged, and full of holes.

So comes good master Snip,
   His best respects to pay:
He joins us in our trip
   To drive dull care away.

Chorus and symphony as above.

Here the Tailor walks round, accompanied by the Squire’s Son. This form is observed after each subsequent introduction, all the new comers taking apart.

The next I do call in,
   The prodigal son is he;
By spending of his gold
   He’s come to poverty.

But though he all has spent,
   Again he’ll wield the plow,
And sing right merrily
   As any of us now. 177

Next comes a skipper bold,
   He’ll do his part right weel—
A clever blade I’m told
   As ever pozed a keel.

He is a bonny lad,
   As you must understand;
It’s he can dance on deck,
   And you’ll see him dance on land.

To join us in this play
   Here comes a jolly dog,
Who’s sober all the day—
   If he can get no grog.

But though he likes his grog,
   As all his friends do say,
He always likes it best
   When other people pay.

Last I come in myself,
   The leader of this crew;
And if you’d know my name,
   My name it is ‘True Blue.’

Here the Bessy gives an account of himself.

My mother was burnt for a witch,
   My father was hanged on a tree,
And it’s because I’m a fool
   There’s nobody meddled wi’ me.

The dance now commences. It is an ingenious performance, and the swords of the actors are placed in a variety of graceful positions, so as to form stars, hearts, squares, circles, &c. &c. The dance is so elaborate that it requires frequent rehearsals, a quick eye, and a strict adherence to time and tune. Before it concludes, grace and elegance have given place to disorder, and at last all the actors are seen fighting. The Parish Clergyman rushes in to prevent bloodshed, and receives a death-blow. While on the ground, the actors walk round the body, and sing as follows, to a slow, psalm-like tune:—

Alas! our parson’s dead,
   And on the ground is laid;
Some of us will suffer for’t,
   Young men, I’m sore afraid.

I’m sure ’twas none of me,
   I’m clear of that crime;
’Twas him that follows me
   That drew his sword so fine.

I’m sure it was not me,
   I’m clear of the fact;
’Twas him that follows me
   That did this dreadful act.

I’m sure ’twas none of me,
   Who say’t be villains all;
For both my eyes were closed
   When this good priest did fall.

The Bessy sings—

Cheer up, cheer up, my bonny lads,
   And be of courage brave,
We’ll take him to his church,
   And bury him in the grave.

The Captain speaks in a sort of recitative—

Oh, for a doctor,
A ten pound doctor, oh.

Enter Doctor.

Doctor. Here I am, I.

Captain. Doctor, what’s your fee?

Doctor. Ten pounds is my fee!

But nine pounds nineteen shillings eleven pence three farthings I will take from thee.

The Bessy. There’s ge-ne-ro-si-ty!

The Doctor sings—

I’m a doctor, a doctor rare,
Who travels much at home;
My famous pills they cure all ills,
Past, present, and to come.

My famous pills who’d be without,
They cure the plague, the sickness 179 and gout,
Anything but a love-sick maid;
If you’re one, my dear, you’re beyond my aid!

Here the Doctor occasionally salutes one of the fair spectators; he then takes out his snuff-box, which is always of very capacious dimensions (a sort of miniature warming-pan), and empties the contents (flour or meal) on the Clergyman’s face, singing at the time—

Take a little of my nif-naf,
Put it on your tif-taf;
Parson rise up and preach again,
The doctor says you are not slain.

The Clergyman here sneezes several times, and gradually recovers, and all shake him by the hand.

The ceremony terminates by the Captain singing—

Our play is at an end,
   And now we’ll taste your cheer;
   We wish you a merry Christmas,
      And a happy new year.
The Bessy. And your pockets full of brass,
   And your cellars full of beer!

A general dance concludes the play.

The Maskers’ Song

[In the Yorkshire dales the young men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a sort of rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. 180 The maskers have wooden swords, and the performance is an evening one. The following version of their introductory song was taken down literally from the recitation of a young besom-maker, now residing at Linton in Craven, who for some years past has himself been one of these rustic actors. From the allusion to the pace, or paschal-egg, it is evident that the play was originally an Easter pageant, which, in consequence of the decline of the gorgeous rites formerly connected with that season, has been transferred to Christmas, the only festival which, in the rural districts of Protestant England, is observed after the olden fashion. The maskers generally consist of five characters, one of whom officiates in the threefold capacity of clown, fiddler, and master of the ceremonies. The custom of masking at Christmas is common to many parts of Europe, and is observed with especial zest in the Swiss cantons, where the maskers are all children, and the performances closely resemble those of England. In Switzerland, however, more care is bestowed upon the costume, and the songs are better sung.]

Enter Clown, who sings in a sort of chant, or recitative.

I open this door, I enter in,
I hope your favour for to win;
Whether we shall stand or fall,
We do endeavour to please you all.

A room! a room! a gallant room,
   A room to let us ride!
We are not of the raggald sort,
   But of the royal tribe:
Stir up the fire, and make a light,
To see the bloody act to-night!

Here another of the party introduces his companions by singing to a violin accompaniment, as follows:

Here’s two or three jolly boys, all in one mind;
We’ve come a pace-egging, 181 I hope you’ll prove kind:
I hope you’ll prove kind with your money and beer,
We shall come no more near you until the next year.
Fal de ral, lal de lal, &c.

The first that steps up is Lord [Nelson] 182 you’ll see,
With a bunch of blue ribbons tied down to his knee;
With a star on his breast, like silver doth shine;
I hope you’ll remember this pace-egging time.
Fal de ral, &c.

O! the next that steps up is a jolly Jack tar,
He sailed with Lord [Nelson], during last war:
He’s right on the sea, Old England to view:
He’s come a pace-egging with so jolly a crew.
Fal de ral, &c.

O! the next that steps up is old Toss-Pot, you’ll see,
He’s a valiant old man, in every degree,
He’s a valiant old man, and he wears a pig-tail;
And all his delight is drinking mulled ale.
Fal de ral, &c.

O! the next that steps up is old Miser, you’ll see;
She heaps up her white and her yellow money;
She wears her old rags till she starves and she begs;
And she’s come here to ask for a dish of pace eggs.
Fal de ral, &c.

The characters being thus duly introduced, the following lines are sung in chorus by all the party.

Gentlemen and ladies, that sit by the fire,
Put your hand in your pocket, ’tis all we desire;
Put your hand in your pocket, and pull out your purse,
And give us a trifle,—you’ll not be much worse.

Here follows a dance, and this is generally succeeded by a dialogue of an ad libitum character, which varies in different districts, being sometimes similar to the one performed by the sword-dancers.

Gloucestershire Wassailers’ Song

[It is still customary in many parts of England to hand round the wassail, or health-bowl, on New-Year’s Eve. The custom is supposed to be of Saxon origin, and to be derived from one of the observances of the Feast of Yule. The tune of this song is given in Popular Music. It is a universal favourite in Gloucestershire, particularly in the neighbourhood of

‘Stair on the wold,
Where the winds blow cold,’

as the old rhyme says.]

Wassail! wassail! all over the town,
Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;
Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;
We be good fellows all;

—I drink to thee.

Here’s to our horse, 183 and to his right ear,
God send our measter a happy new year:
A happy new year as e’er he did see,—
With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here’s to our mare, and to her right eye,
God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;
A good Christmas pie as e’er I did see,—
With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here’s to our cow, and to her long tail,
God send our measter us never may fail
Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,
And our jolly wassail it’s then you shall hear.

Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;
Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!
Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,
And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.

Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best;
I hope your soul in heaven will rest;
But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,
Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.

The Mummers’ Song

OR, THE POOR OLD HORSE.

As sung by the Mummers in the Neighbourhood of Richmond, Yorkshire, at the merrie time of Christmas.

[The rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The ‘old horse’ is, probably, of Scandinavian origin,—a reminiscence of Odin’s Sleipnor.]

You gentlemen and sportsmen,
   And men of courage bold,
All you that’s got a good horse,
   Take care of him when he is old;
Then put him in your stable,
   And keep him there so warm;
Give him good corn and hay,
   Pray let him take no harm.
      Poor old horse! poor old horse!

Once I had my clothing
   Of linsey-woolsey fine,
My tail and mane of length,
   And my body it did shine;
But now I’m growing old,
   And my nature does decay,
My master frowns upon me,
   These words I heard him say,—
      Poor old horse! poor old horse!

These pretty little shoulders,
   That once were plump and round,
They are decayed and rotten,—
   I’m afraid they are not sound.
Likewise these little nimble legs,
   That have run many miles,
Over hedges, over ditches,
   Over valleys, gates, and stiles.
      Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept
   On the best corn and hay
That in fields could be grown,
   Or in any meadows gay;
But now, alas! it’s not so,—
   There’s no such food at all!
I’m forced to nip the short grass
   That grows beneath your wall.
      Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept up
   All in a stable warm,
To keep my tender body
   From any cold or harm;
But now I’m turned out
   In the open fields to go,
To face all kinds of weather,
   The wind, cold, frost, and snow.
      Poor old horse! poor old horse!

My hide unto the huntsman
   So freely I would give,
My body to the hounds,
   For I’d rather die than live:
So shoot him, whip him, strip him,
   To the huntsman let him go;
For he’s neither fit to ride upon,
   Nor in any team to draw.
      Poor old horse! you must die!

Fragment of the Hagmena Song

As sung at Richmond, Yorkshire, on the eve of the New Year, by the Corporation Pinder.

[The custom of singing Hagmena songs is observed in different parts of both England and Scotland. The origin of the term is a matter of dispute. Some derive it from ‘au guy l’an neuf,’ i.e., to the misletoe this new year, and a French Hagmena song still in use seems to give some authority to such a derivation; others, dissatisfied with a heathen source, find the term to be a corruption of [Greek text which cannot be reproduced], i.e., the holy month. The Hagmena songs are sometimes sung on Christmas Eve and a few of the preceding nights, and sometimes, as at Richmond, on the eve of the new year. For further information the reader is referred to Brand’s Popular Antiquities, vol. i. 247–8, Sir H. Ellis’s edit. 1842.]

To-night it is the New-year’s night, to-morrow is the day,
And we are come for our right, and for our ray,
As we used to do in old King Henry’s day.
         Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit;
Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw;
Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb,
That me and my merry men may have some,
         Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the black-ark, bring me X mark;
Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground,
That me and my merry men may have some.
         Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

The Greenside Wakes Song

[The wakes, feasts, or tides of the North of England, were originally religious festivals in honour of the saints to whom the parish churches were dedicated. But now-a-days, even in Catholic Lancashire, all traces of their pristine character have departed, and the hymns and prayers by which their observance was once hallowed have given place to dancing and merry-making. At Greenside, near Manchester, during the wakes, two persons, dressed in a grotesque manner, the one a male, the other a female, appear in the village on horseback, with spinning-wheels before them; and the following is the dialogue, or song, which they sing on these occasions.]

‘’Tis Greenside wakes, we’ve come to the town
To show you some sport of great renown;
And if my old wife will let me begin,
I’ll show you how fast and how well I can spin.
   Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell O.’

‘Thou brags of thyself, but I don’t think it true,
For I will uphold thy faults are not a few;
For when thou hast done, and spun very hard,
Of this I’m well sure, thy work is ill marred.
   Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell O.’

‘Thou’rt a saucy old jade, and pray hold thy tongue,
Or I shall be thumping thee ere it be long;
And if that I do, I shall make thee to rue,
For I can have many a one as good as you.
   Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.’

‘What is it to me who you can have?
I shall not be long ere I’m laid in my grave;
And when I am dead you may find if you can,
One that’ll spin as hard as I’ve done.
   Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.’

‘Come, come, my dear wife, here endeth my song,
I hope it has pleased this numerous throng;
But if it has missed, you need not to fear,
We’ll do our endeavour to please them next year.
   Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.’

The Swearing-in Song or Rhyme

As formerly sung or said at Highgate, in the county of Middlesex.

[The proverb, ‘He has been sworn at Highgate,’ is more widely circulated than understood. In its ordinary signification it is applied to a ‘knowing’ fellow who is well acquainted with the ‘good things,’ and always helps himself to the best; and it has its origin in an old usage still kept up at Highgate, in Middlesex. Grose, in his Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, London, 1785, says,—

A ridiculous custom formerly prevailed at the public-houses of Highgate, to administer a ludicrous oath to all the men of the middling rank who stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of horns fastened on a stick; the substance of the oath was never to kiss the maid when he could kiss the mistress, never to drink small beer when he could get strong, with many other injunctions of the like kind to all of which was added a saving clause—Unless you like it best! The person administering the oath was always to be called father by the juror, and he in return was to style him son, under the penalty of a bottle.

From this extract it is evident that in 1786 the custom was ancient, and had somewhat fallen into desuetude. Hone’s Year-Book contains a very complete account of the ceremony, with full particulars of the mode in which the ‘swearing-in’ was then performed in the ‘Fox under the Hill.’ Hone does not throw any light on the origin of the practice, nor does he seem to have been aware of its comparative antiquity. He treated the ceremony as a piece of modern foolery, got up by some landlord for ‘the good of the house,’ and adopted from the same interested motive by others of the tribe. A subsequent correspondent of Mr. Hone, however, points out the antiquity of the custom, and shows that it could be traced back long before the year 1782, when it was introduced into a pantomime called Harlequin Teague; or, the Giant’s Causeway, which was performed at the Haymarket on Saturday, August 17, 1782. One of the scenes was Highgate, where, in the ‘parlour’ of a public house, the ceremony was performed. Mr. Hone’s correspondent sends a copy of the old initiation song, which varies considerably from our version, supplied to us in 1851 by a very old man (an ostler) at Highgate. The reciter said that the copy of verses was not often used now, as there was no landlord who could sing, and gentlemen preferred the speech. He said, moreover, ‘that the verses were not always alike—some said one way, and some another—some made them long, and some cut ’em short.’

Grose was in error when he supposed that the ceremony was confined to the inferior classes, for even in his day such was not the case. In subsequent times the oath has been frequently taken by people of rank, and also by several persons of the highest literary and political celebrity. An inspection of any one of the register-books will show that the jurors have belonged to all sorts of classes, and that amongst them the Harrovians have always made a conspicuous figure. When the stage-coaches ceased to pass through the village in consequence of the opening of railways, the custom declined, and was kept up only at three houses, which were called the ‘original house,’ the ‘old original,’ and the ‘real old original.’ Two of the above houses have latterly ceased to hold courts, and the custom is now confined to the ‘Fox under the Hill,’ where the rite is celebrated with every attention to ancient forms and costume, and for a fee which, in deference to modern notions of economy, is only one shilling.

Byron, in the first canto of Childe Harold, alludes to the custom of Highgate:—

Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
   Others along the safer turnpike fly;
   Some Richmond-hill ascend, some wend to Ware,
   And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
   Ask ye, Bœotian shades! the reason why?
   ’Tis to the worship of the solemn horn,
Grasped in the holy hand of mystery,
In whose dread name both men and maids 189 are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.

Canto I, stanza 70.]

Enter Landlord, dressed in a black gown and bands, and wearing an antique-fashioned wig, followed by the Clerk of the Court, also in appropriate costume, and carrying the registry-book and the horns.

Landlord. Do you wish to be sworn at Highgate?

Candidate. I do, Father.

Clerk. Amen.

The Landlord then sings, or says, as follows:—

Silence! O, yes! you are my son!
   Full to your old father turn, sir;
This is an oath you may take as you run,
   So lay your hand thus on the horn, sir.

Here the Candidate places his right hand on the horn.

You shall spend not with cheaters or cozeners your life,
   Nor waste it on profligate beauty;
And when you are wedded be kind to your wife,
   And true to all petticoat duty.

The Candidate says ‘I will,’ and kisses the horn in obedience to the command of the Clerk, who exclaims in a loud and solemn tone, ‘Kiss the horn, sir!’

And while you thus solemnly swear to be kind,
   And shield and protect from disaster,
This part of your oath you must bear it in mind,
   That you, and not she, is the master.

Clerk. ‘Kiss the horn, sir!’

You shall pledge no man first when a woman is near,
   For neither ’tis proper nor right, sir;
Nor, unless you prefer it, drink small for strong beer,
   Nor eat brown bread when you can get white, sir.

Clerk. ‘Kiss the horn, sir!’

You shall never drink brandy when wine you can get,
   Say when good port or sherry is handy;
Unless that your taste on spirit is set,
   In which case—you may, sir, drink brandy!

Clerk. ‘Kiss the horn, sir!’

To kiss with the maid when the mistress is kind,
   Remember that you must be loth, sir;
But if the maid’s fairest, your oath doesn’t bind,—
   Or you may, if you like it, kiss both, sir!

Clerk. ‘Kiss the horn, sir!’

Should you ever return, take this oath here again,
   Like a man of good sense, leal and true, sir;
And be sure to bring with you some more merry men,
   That they on the horn may swear too, sir.

Landlord. Now, sir, if you please, sign your name in that book, and if you can’t write, make your mark, and the clerk of the court will attest it.

Here one of the above requests is complied with.

Landlord. You will please pay half-a-crown for court fees, and what you please to the clerk.

This necessary ceremony being gone through, the important business terminates by the Landlord saying, ‘God bless the King [or Queen] and the lord of the manor;’ to which the Clerk responds, ‘Amen, amen!’

N.B. The court fees are always returned in wines, spirits, or porter, of which the Landlord and Clerk are invited to partake.

Fairlop Fair Song

[The following song is sung at Fairlop fair, one of the gayest of the numerous saturnalia kept by the good citizens of London. The venerable oak has disappeared; but the song is nevertheless song, and the curious custom of riding through the fair, seated in boats, still continues to be observed.]

Come, come, my boys, with a hearty glee,
To Fairlop fair, bear chorus with me;
At Hainault forest is known very well,
This famous oak has long bore the bell.

Cho. Let music sound as the boat goes round,
If we tumble on the ground, we’ll be merry, I’ll be bound;
We will booze it away, dull care we will defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

At Tainhall forest, Queen Anne she did ride,
And beheld the beautiful oak by her side,
And after viewing it from bottom to top,
She said that her court should be at Fairlop.

It is eight fathom round, spreads an acre of ground,
They plastered it round to keep the tree sound.
So we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

About a century ago, as I have heard say,
This fair it was kept by one Daniel Day,
A hearty good fellow as ever could be,
His coffin was made of a limb of the tree.

With black-strap and perry he made his friends merry,
All sorrow for to drown with brandy and sherry.
So we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

At Tainhall forest there stands a tree,
And it has performed a wonderful bounty,
It is surrounded by woods and plains,
The merry little warblers chant their strains.

So we’ll dance round the tree, and merry we will be,
Every year we’ll agree the fair for to see;
And we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

As Tom Was A-Walking

AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.

[This song, said to be translated from the Cornish, ‘was taken down,’ says Mr. Sandys, ‘from the recital of a modern Corypheus, or leader of a parish choir,’ who assigned to it a very remote, but indefinite, antiquity.]

As Tom was a-walking one fine summer’s morn,
When the dazies and goldcups the fields did adorn;
He met Cozen Mal, with a tub on her head,
Says Tom, ‘Cozen Mal, you might speak if you we’d.’

But Mal stamped along, and appeared to be shy,
And Tom singed out, ‘Zounds! I’ll knaw of thee why?’
So back he tore a’ter, in a terrible fuss,
And axed cozen Mal, ‘What’s the reason of thus?’

‘Tom Treloar,’ cried out Mal, ‘I’ll nothing do wi’ ’ee,
Go to Fanny Trembaa, she do knaw how I’m shy;
Tom, this here t’other daa, down the hill thee didst stap,
And dab’d a great doat fig [193] in Fan Trembaa’s lap.’

‘As for Fanny Trembaa, I ne’er taalked wi’ her twice,
And gived her a doat fig, they are so very nice;
So I’ll tell thee, I went to the fear t’other day,
And the doat figs I boft, why I saved them away.’

Says Mal, ‘Tom Treloar, ef that be the caase,
May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty faace;
Ef thee’st give me thy doat figs thee’st boft in the fear,
I’ll swear to thee now, thee shu’st marry me here.’

The Miller and His Sons

[A miller, especially if he happen to be the owner of a soke-mill, has always been deemed fair game for the village satirist. Of the numerous songs written in ridicule of the calling of the ‘rogues in grain,’ the following is one of the best and most popular: its quaint humour will recommend it to our readers. For the tune, see Popular Music.]

There was a crafty miller, and he
Had lusty sons, one, two, and three:
He called them all, and asked their will,
If that to them he left his mill.

He called first to his eldest son,
Saying, ‘My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?’

‘Father,’ said he, ‘my name is Jack;
Out of a bushel I’ll take a peck,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.’

‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man said,
‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne’er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.’

He called for his middlemost son,
Saying, ‘My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?’

‘Father,’ says he, ‘my name is Ralph;
Out of a bushel I’ll take a half,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.’

‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man said,
‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne’er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.’

He called for his youngest son,
Saying, ‘My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?’

‘Father,’ said he, ‘I’m your only boy,
For taking toll is all my joy!
Before I will a good living lack,
I’ll take it all, and forswear the sack!’

‘Thou art my boy!’ the old man said,
‘For thou hast right well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I give,’ he cried,—
And then he turned up his toes and died.

Jack and Tom

AN OULD BORDER DITTIE.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[The following song was taken down from recitation in 1847. Of its history nothing is known; but we are strongly inclined to believe that it may be assigned to the early part of the seventeenth century, and that it relates to the visit of Prince Charles and Buckingham, under the assumed names of Jack and Tom, to Spain, in 1623. Some curious references to the adventures of the Prince and his companion, on their masquerading tour, will be found in Halliwell’s Letters of the Kings of England, vol. ii.]

I’m a north countrie-man, in Redesdale born,
Where our land lies lea, and grows ne corn,—
And such two lads to my house never com,
As them two lads called Jack and Tom!

Now, Jack and Tom, they’re going to the sea;
I wish them both in good companie!
They’re going to seek their fortunes ayont the wide sea,
Far, far away frae their oan countrie!

They mounted their horses, and rode over the moor,
Till they came to a house, when they rapped at the door;
And out came Jockey, the hostler-man.
‘D’ye brew ony ale? D’ye sell ony beer?
Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?’

‘Ne, we brew ne ale, nor we sell ne beer,
Nor we have ne lodgings for strangers here.’
So he bolted the door, and bade them begone,
For there was ne lodgings there for poor Jack and Tom.

They mounted their horses, and rode over the plain;—
Dark was the night, and down fell the rain;
Till a twinkling light they happened to spy,
And a castle and a house they were close by.

They rode up to the house, and they rapped at the door,
And out came Jockey, the hosteler.
‘D’ye brew ony ale? D’ye sell ony beer?
Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?’

‘Yes, we have brewed ale this fifty lang year,
And we have got lodgings for strangers here.’
So the roast to the fire, and the pot hung on,
’Twas all to accommodate poor Jack and Tom.

When supper was over, and all was sided down,
The glasses of wine did go merrily roun’.
‘Here is to thee, Jack, and here is to thee,
And all the bonny lasses in our countrie!’
‘Here is to thee, Tom, and here is to thee,
And look they may leuk for thee and me!’

’Twas early next morning, before the break of day,
They mounted their horses, and so they rode away.
Poor Jack, he died upon a far foreign shore,
And Tom, he was never, never heard of more!

Joan’s Ale Was New

[Ours is the common version of this popular song; it varies considerably from the one given by D’Urfey, in the Pills to purge Melancholy. From the names of Nolly and Joan and the allusion to ale, we are inclined to consider the song as a lampoon levelled at Cromwell, and his wife, whom the Royalist party nick-named ‘Joan.’ The Protector’s acquaintances (depicted as low and vulgar tradesmen) are here humorously represented paying him a congratulatory visit on his change of fortune, and regaling themselves with the ‘Brewer’s’ ale. The song is mentioned in Thackeray’s Catalogue, under the title of Joan’s Ale’s New; which may be regarded as circumstantial evidence in favour of our hypothesis. The air is published in Popular Music, accompanying three stanzas of a version copied from the Douce collection. The first verse in Mr. Chappell’s book runs as follows:—

There was a jovial tinker,
Who was a good ale drinker,
He never was a shrinker,
Believe me this is true;
And he came from the Weald of Kent,
When all his money was gone and spent,
Which made him look like a Jack a-lent.
         And Joan’s ale is new, my boys,
         And Joan’s ale is new.]

There were six jovial tradesmen,
And they all sat down to drinking,
   For they were a jovial crew;
They sat themselves down to be merry;
And they called for a bottle of sherry,
You’re welcome as the hills, says Nolly,
   While Joan’s ale is new, brave boys,
   While Joan’s ale is new.

The first that came in was a soldier,
With his firelock over his shoulder,
Sure no one could be bolder,
   And a long broad-sword he drew:
He swore he would fight for England’s ground,
Before the nation should be run down;
He boldly drank their healths all round,
   While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a hatter,
Sure no one could be blacker,
And he began to chatter,
   Among the jovial crew:
He threw his hat upon the ground,
And swore every man should spend his pound,
And boldly drank their hearths all round,
   While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a dyer,
And he sat himself down by the fire,
For it was his heart’s desire
   To drink with the jovial crew:
He told the landlord to his face,
The chimney-corner should be his place,
And there he’d sit and dye his face,
   While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a tinker,
And he was no small beer drinker,
And he was no strong ale shrinker,
   Among the jovial crew:
For his brass nails were made of metal,
And he swore he’d go and mend a kettle,
Good heart, how his hammer and nails did rattle,
   When Joan’s ale was new!

The next that came in was a tailor,
With his bodkin, shears, and thimble,
He swore he would be nimble
   Among the jovial crew:
They sat and they called for ale so stout,
Till the poor tailor was almost broke,
And was forced to go and pawn his coat,
   While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a ragman,
With his rag-bag over his shoulder,
Sure no one could be bolder
   Among the jovial crew.
They sat and called for pots and glasses,
Till they were all drunk as asses,
And burnt the old ragman’s bag to ashes,
   While Joan’s ale was new.

George Ridler’s Oven

[This ancient Gloucestershire song has been sung at the annual dinners of the Gloucestershire Society, from the earliest period of the existence of that institution; and in 1776 there was an Harmonic Society at Cirencester, which always opened its meetings with George Ridler’s Oven in full chorus.

The substance of the following key to this very curious song is furnished by Mr. H. Gingell, who extracts it from the Annual Report of the Gloucestershire Society for 1835. The annual meeting of this Society is held at Bristol in the month of August, when the members dine, and a branch meeting, which was formerly held at the Crown and Anchor in the Strand, is now annually held at the Thatched House Tavern, St. James’s. George Ridler’s Oven is sung at both meetings, and the late Duke of Beaufort used to lead off the glee in capital style. The words have a secret meaning, well known to the members of the Gloucestershire Society, which was founded in 1657, three years before the Restoration of Charles II. The Society consisted of Royalists, who combined together for the purpose of restoring the Stuarts. The Cavalier party was supported by all the old Roman Catholic families of the kingdom; and some of the Dissenters, who were disgusted with Cromwell, occasionally lent them a kind of passive aid.

First Verse.—By ‘George Ridler’ is meant King Charles I. The ‘oven’ was the Cavalier party. The ‘stwons’ that ‘built the oven,’ and that ‘came out of the Bleakney quaar,’ were the immediate followers of the Marquis of Worcester, who held out long and steadfastly for the Royal cause at Raglan Castle, which was not surrendered till 1646, and was in fact the last stronghold retained for the King. ‘His head did grow above his hair,’ is an allusion to the crown, the head of the State, which the King wore ‘above his hair.’

Second Verse.—This means that the King, ‘before he died,’ boasted that notwithstanding his present adversity, the ancient constitution of the kingdom was so good, and its vitality so great, that it would surpass and outlive every other form of government.

Third Verse.—‘Dick the treble, Jack the mean, and George the bass,’ mean King, Lords, and Commons. The injunction to ‘let every man sing in his own place,’ is a warning to each of the three estates of the realm to preserve its proper position, and not to encroach on each other’s prerogative.

Fourth Verse.—‘Mine hostess’s maid’ is an allusion to the Queen, who was a Roman Catholic, and her maid, the Church. The singer we must suppose was one of the leaders of the party, and his ‘dog’ a companion, or faithful official of the Society, and the song was sung on occasions when the members met together socially; and thus, as the Roman Catholics were Royalists, the allusion to the mutual attachment between the ‘maid’ and ‘my dog and I,’ is plain and consistent.

Fifth Verse.—The ‘dog’ had a ‘trick of visiting maids when they were sick.’ The meaning is, that when any of the members were in distress or desponding, or likely to give up the Royal cause in despair, the officials, or active members visited, counselled, and assisted them.

Sixth Verse.—The ‘dog’ was ‘good to catch a hen,’ a ‘duck,’ or a ‘goose.’—That is, to enlist as members of the Society any who were well affected to the Royal cause.

Seventh Verse.—‘The good ale tap’ is an allusion, under cover of the similarity in sound between the words ale and aisle, to the Church, of which it was dangerous at the time to be an avowed follower; and so the members were cautioned that indiscretion might lead to their discovery and ‘overthrow.’

Eighth Verse.—The allusion here is to those unfaithful supporters of the Royal cause, who ‘welcomed’ the members of the Society when it appeared to be prospering, but ‘parted’ from them in adversity.

Ninth Verse.—An expression of the singer’s wish that if he should die he may be buried with his faithful companion, as representing the principles of the Society, under the good aisles of the church.

The following text has been collated with a version published in Notes and Queries, from the ‘fragments of a MS. found in the speech-house of Dean.’ The tune is the same as that of the Wassailers’ Song, and is printed in Popular Music. Other ditties appear to have been founded on this ancient piece. The fourth, seventh, and ninth verses are in the old ditty called My Dog and I: and the eighth verse appears in another old song. The air and words bear some resemblance to Todlen Hame.]

The stwons that built George Ridler’s oven,
And thauy keam vrom the Bleakney quaar,
And George he wur a jolly old mon,
And his yead it grow’d above his yare.

One thing of George Ridler I must commend,
And that wur vor a notable thing;
He mead his brags avoore he died,
Wi’ any dree brooders his zons zshould zing.

There’s Dick the treble, and John the meean,
(Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace,)
And George he wur the elder brother,
And therevoor he would zing the beass.

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.

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.

The Leathern Bottel

SOMERSETSHIRE VERSION.

[In Chappell’s Popular Music is a much longer version of The Leathern Bottèl. 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 bottèl!

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 bottèl,
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 bottèl,
And the stopper been in, ’twould all have been well!

Now, when this bottèl 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 bottèl!

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.’

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, 206
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, 207 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!

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. 208a
And many are the hardships that I have since gone through.
   And sing wo, my lads, sing wo!
   Drive on my lads, I-ho! 208b
   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.

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 209a ta Claapam town-gate 209b 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 209c 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, 210a
An’ if Tommy I nobbut 210b 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.

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!

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 213 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.

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!

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; 217
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.

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.

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.

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? 221a

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. 221b]

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.

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.

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! 224
         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 225 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 226a 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 226b ne’er the worse,
For ’tis wine makes the man, though ’tis milk makes the nurse.

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.

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.

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-cèd, they ad-van-cèd, they ad-van-cèd, they ad-van-cèd, they ad-van-cèd 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-èd 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 advancèd 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 Hollànders 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.’

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 gazèd upon her,
   His happiness now was complete!
He praisèd 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 despisèd
   By man, as she’s part of himself;
For woman by Adam was prizèd
   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.

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!

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 234 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 callèd the Deadman,
   Next, Ram’shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight;
We passèd 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!

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!

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 askèd 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.

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. 237
      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.

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.

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.]

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.

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.’

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 243 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.

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.

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.

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, 247
That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet,
And in my name do her lovingly greet.’

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 249 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.

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, 250
   Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
A friar he being one of the three,
With pleasure he rangèd 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.

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!

The End

Footnotes

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

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

61 The stall copies read ‘Gamble bold.’

64 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.

72a A tinker is still so called in the north of England.

72b 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.

92 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.

108a The sister of Roger.

108b This gentleman was Mr. Thomas Petty.

111 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.’

125a Added to complete the sense.

125b That is, ‘said he, the wild boar.’

129 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.

130a Went.

130b 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.

130c Scott’s MS. reads Ralph, but Raphe is the ancient form.

130d 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.

130e That is, they were good soldiers when the musters were—when the regiments were called up.

131a Fierce look.

131b Descended from an ancient race famed for fighting.

131c 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!

131d Watling-street, the Roman way from Catterick to Bowes.

132a Lost his colour.

132b 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.

133 The meaning here is obscure. The verse is not in Whitaker.

134 Warlock or wizard.

135a It is probable that by guest is meant an allusion to the spectre dog of Yorkshire (the Barguest), to which the sow is compared.

135b Hired.

137 The monastery of Gray Friars at Richmond.—See Leland, Itin., vol. iii, p. 109.

141 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.

142 A cake composed of oatmeal, caraway-seeds, and treacle. ‘Ale and parkin’ is a common morning meal in the north of England.

149 The popularity of this West-country song has extended even to Ireland, as appears from two Irish versions, supplied by the late Mr. T. Crofton Croker. One of them is entitled Last New-Year’s Day, and is printed by Haly, Hanover-street, Cork. It follows the English song almost verbatim, with the exception of the first and second verses, which we subjoin:—
‘Last New-Year’s day, as I heard say,
Dick mounted on his dapple gray;
He mounted high and he mounted low,
Until he came to sweet Raphoe!
         Sing fal de dol de ree,
         Fol de dol, righ fol dee.
‘My buckskin does I did put on,
My spladdery clogs, to save my brogues!
And in my pocket a lump of bread,
And round my hat a ribbon red.’

The other version is entitled Dicky of Ballyman, and a note informs us that ‘Dicky of Ballyman’s sirname was Byrne!’ As our readers may like to hear how the Somersetshire bumpkin behaved after he had located himself in the town of Ballyman, and taken the sirname of Byrne, we give the whole of his amatory adventures in the sister-island. We discover from them, inter alia, that he had found ‘the best of friends’ in his ‘Uncle,’—that he had made a grand discovery in natural history, viz., that a rabbit is a fowl!—that he had taken the temperance pledge, which, however, his Mistress Ann had certainly not done; and, moreover, that he had become an enthusiast in potatoes!

DICKY OF BALLYMAN.

‘On New-Year’s day, as I heard say,
Dicky he saddled his dapple gray;
He put on his Sunday clothes,
His scarlet vest, and his new made hose.
         Diddle dum di, diddle dum do,
         Diddle dum di, diddle dum do.

‘He rode till he came to Wilson Hall,
There he rapped, and loud did call;
Mistress Ann came down straightway,
And asked him what he had to say?

‘‘Don’t you know me, Mistress Ann?
I am Dicky of Ballyman;
An honest lad, though I am poor,—
I never was in love before.

‘‘I have an uncle, the best of friends,
Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends;
And many other dainty fowl,
To please my life, my joy, my soul.

‘‘Sometimes I reap, sometimes I mow,
And to the market I do go,
To sell my father’s corn and hay,—
I earn my sixpence every day!’

‘‘Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your mark,—
You only wander in the dark;
Sixpence a day will never do,
I must have silks, and satins, too!

‘‘Besides, Dicky, I must have tea
For my breakfast, every day;
And after dinner a bottle of wine,—
For without it I cannot dine.’

‘‘If on fine clothes our money is spent,
Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent?
He’ll expect it when ’tis due,—
Believe me, what I say is true.

‘‘As for tea, good stirabout
Will do far better, I make no doubt;
And spring water, when you dine,
Is far wholesomer than wine.

‘‘Potatoes, too, are very nice food,—
I don’t know any half so good:
You may have them boiled or roast,
Whichever way you like them most.’

‘This gave the company much delight,
And made them all to laugh outright;
So Dicky had no more to say,
But saddled his dapple and rode away.
         Diddle dum di, &c.’

151 We have heard a Yorkshire yeoman sing a version, which commenced with this line:—

‘It was at the time of a high holiday.’

153 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.

154 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.

165a The common modern copies read ‘St. Leger’s Round.’

165b 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.

167 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.

171 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.’

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

175 ‘Helicon,’ as observed by Sir C. Sharp, is, of course, the true reading.

177 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.’

179 Probably the disease here pointed at is the sweating sickness of old times.

180 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!’

181 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.

182 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.

183 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.

189 The ‘swearing-in’ is gone through by females as well as the male sex. See Hone’s Year-Book.

193 A fig newly gathered from the tree; so called to distinguish it from a grocer’s, or preserved fig.

[206] This line is sometimes sung—

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

[207] Three cabbage-nets, according to some versions.

208a This is a common phrase in old English songs and ballads. See The Summer’s Morning, post, p. 229.

208b See ante, p. 82.

209a Near.

209b The high-road through a town or village.

209c 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.’

210a Alive, quick.

210b Only.

213 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.

217 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.’

221a 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.’

221b 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.

224 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.

225 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.

226a 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.

226b No doubt the original word in these places was sack, as in Chappell’s copy—but what would a peasant understand by sack? Dryden’s receipt for a sack posset is as follows:—
‘From fair Barbadoes, on the western main,
Fetch sugar half-a-pound: fetch sack, from Spain,
A pint: then fetch, from India’s fertile coast,
Nutmeg, the glory of the British toast.’

Miscellany Poems, v. 138.

234 Corrupted in modern copies into ‘we’ll range and we’ll rove.’ The reading in the text is the old reading. The phrase occurs in several old songs.

237 We should, probably, read ‘he.’

243 Peer—equal.

247 The road or street.

249 This is the only instance of this peculiar form in the present version. The miners in the Marienberg invariably said ‘for to’ wherever the preposition ‘to’ occurred before a verb.

250 Three is a favourite number in the nursery rhymes. The following is one of numerous examples:—
There was an old woman had three sons,
Jerry and James and John:
Jerry was hung, James was drowned,
John was lost and never was found;
And there was an end of her three sons,
Jerry, and James, and John!