An Excellent Ballad — On the Sickness, Death, and Burial, of Ecky’s Mare
Which Was Made and Composed by the Late Ancient and Famous Northern Poet, Mr Bernard Rumney, a Musician, or Country Fidler, Who Lived and Died at Rothbury, Being About One Hundred Years Old at the Time of His Death
Wold you please to hear of a sang of dule,
Of yea sad chance and pittifow case,
Makes the peur man powt through many a pule,
And leuk on mony an unkend face?
Between the Yule but and the Pasch,
In a private place, where as I lay,
I heard ane sigh, and cry, alas!
What shall I outher dea or say?
A man that’s born of a middle-yeard wight,
For wealth or pelth can no be secure;
For he may have enough at night,
And the next morn he may be fow peur.
I speak this by a Northumberland man,
The proverb’s true proves by himself;
Since the horse-couping he began,
He had great cause to crack of wealth.
Of galloways he was well stockt,
What some part first, what some part last;
But I’ll no speak much to his praise,
For some of them gat o’re lang a fast.
Some of them gat a shrowish cast,
Which was nae teaken of much pelth;
But yet he hopes, if life dea last,
To see the day to crack of welth.
But aye the warst cast still comes last,
He had nae geuds left but a Mear,
There was mair diseases did her attend
Nor I can name in half a year.
If Markham he himself was here,
A famous farrier although he be,
It wad set aw his wits astear
To reckon her diseases in their degree.
But her sicknesses we’ll set aside,
Now tauk we of the peur man’s cost,
And how she lev’d, and how she died,
And how his labour aw was lost.
In the winter-time she took a hoast,
And aw whilk while she was noe weell;
But yet her stomach ne’er was lost,
Although she never had her heal.
Now for her feud she went so yare,
An the fiend had been a truss of hey,
She wad a swallowed him and mickle mare,
Bequeen the night but an the dey.
The peur man cries out Armyes aye,
I see that she’s noe like to mend,
She beggers me with haver and hey,
I wish her some untimous end.
Nae sooner pray’d, but as soon heard,
She touck a fawing down behind,
She wad a thousand men a scar’d,
To have felt her how she fill’d the wind.
Her master he went out at night,
Of whilk he had oft mickle need,
He left her neane her bed to right,
Nor neane for to had up her head.
Next day when he came to the town,
He ran to see his mear with speed,
He thought she had fawn in a swoon,
But when he try’d she was cald dead.
It’s ever alas! but what remeed,
Had she play’d me this at Michaelmas,
It wad a studden me in geud steed,
And sav’d me both yeats, hay and grass.
There’s ne’er an elf in aw the town,
That hardly weell can say his creed,
But he will swear a solemn oath,
Crack o’ wealth Ecky’s mear cau’d dead.
Lad, wilt thou for Hob Trumble run?
I ken he will come at my need;
That seun he may take off her skin,
For I mun leeve though she be dead.
Now straight he came with knife in hand,
He flead her fra the top to th’ tail,
He left nae mare skin on her aw
Then wad been a heudin to a flail.
He seld her haill hide for a groat,
So far I let you understand,
And what he did weed he may well weet,
For he bought neither house nor land.
Now have I cassen away my care,
And hope to live to get another;
And night and day shall be my prayer,
The fiend gae down the loaning with her.
Now shall I draw it near an end,
And tauk nae mare of her at least,
But hoping none for to offend,
You shall hear part of her funeral feast.
To her resorted mony a beak,
And birds of sundry sorts of hue;
There was three hundred at the least,
You may believe it to be true.
Sir Ingram Corby he came first there,
With his fair lady clad in black,
And with him swarms there did appear
Of piots hopping at his back.
The carrion craw she was not slack,
Aw cled into her mourning weed,
With her resorted mony a mack
Of greedy kite and hungry gleede.
When they were aw conven’d compleat,
And every yean had taen their place;
So rudely they fell tea their meat,
But nane thought on to say the grace.
Some rip’d her ribs, some pluck’d her face,
Nae bit of her was to be seen;
Sir Ingram Corby in that place,
Himself he pick’d out baith her eyne.
But wait ye what an a chance befel,
When they were at this jolly chear,
Sir William Bark, I can you tell,
He unexpected lighted there.
Put aw the feasters in sike a fear,
Some hopt away, some flew aside,
There was not ane durst come him near,
Nay not sir Corby, nor his bride.
He came not with a single side,
For mony a tike did him attend,
I wait he was no puft we pride,
As you shall hear before I end.
See rudely they fell to the meat,
But napkin, trencher, salt, or knife;
Some to the head, some to the feet,
While banes geud bare there was na strife.
In came there a tike, they cau’d him Grim,
Sea greedily he did her gripe,
But he rave out her belly-rim,
And aw her puddings he made pipe.
Her lights, her liver, but an her tripe,
They lay all trailing upon the green;
They were aw gane with a sudden wipe,
Not any of them was to be seen.
But suddenly begeud a feast,
And after that begeud a fray;
The tikes that were baith weak and least,
They carried aw the bats away.
And they that were of the weaker sort,
They harl’d her through the paddock-peul,
They leugh, and said it was good sport,
When they had drest her like a feule.
Thus have you heard of Ecky’s mear,
How pitifully she made her end;
I write unto you far and near,
Who says her death is no well penn’d.
I leave it to yoursel’s to mend,
That chance the peur man need again;
If it be ill penn’d it is well kend,
I got as little for my ‘pain.’