THE BALLADS AND SONGS
OF YORKSHIRE,
TRANSCRIBED FROM PRIVATE MANUSCRIPTS, RARE BROADSIDES,
AND SCARCE PUBLICATIONS; WITH NOTES
AND A GLOSSARY.
BY
C. J. DAVISON INGLEDEW, M.A., PH.D., F.G.H.S.
AUTHOR OF "THE HISTORY OF NORTH ALLERTON."
[Illustration]
LONDON:
BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET
1860.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.
This Work
IS, WITH PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY
DEDICATED
BY THE EDITOR.
PREFACE.
The present work is a selection from the Ballads and Songs of my native
county, and I trust the publication may not be deemed an unacceptable
offering. In a polished age like the present, I am sensible that many of
the productions of our county bards will require great allowances to be
made for them. Yet have they, for the most part, a pleasing simplicity,
and artless grace, which, in the opinion of such writers as Addison,
Dryden, Percy, and others, have been thought to compensate for the want
of higher beauties; and, in the words of the latter, "If they do not
dazzle the imagination, they are frequently found to interest the
heart."
Wherever I have had an opportunity, I have collated my copies with the
earliest editions, retaining in the notes, in many places, the different
readings, the text in modern editions being materially changed and
frequently deteriorated. I have omitted pieces from the pens of Scott,
Wordsworth, Rogers, and other modern writers, whose works may be assumed
to be in the reader's possession. Another class, the last dying
confessions of criminals, &c., have been, with few exceptions, left out,
as more appropriate for a separate volume. I trust, however, in what is
retained will be found every variety:--
"From grave to gay, from lively to severe."
And should the reader receive one half the pleasure in perusing the
contents, that has been afforded in collecting, I shall be perfectly
satisfied.
In the notes prefixed to the Ballads and Songs, I have acknowledged my
obligations to the friends who have so kindly assisted me, but cannot
allow this opportunity to pass without again expressing my sincere
thanks to Edward Hailstone, esq., F.S.A., Charles Jackson, esq., and
others who have manifested so great an interest in the work.
North Allerton,
_May, 1860_.
CONTENTS.
Page
The Dirge of Offa 1
Athelgiva 4
The Battle of Cuton Moore 18
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 35
The Jolly Pinder of Wakefield 45
The Noble Fisherman; or, Robin Hood's Preferment 48
Robin Hood and the Curtall Fryer of Fountains Abbey 52
The Bishop of Hereford's Entertainment by Robin Hood and
Little John, in merry Barnsdale 58
Robin Hood's Death and Burial 61
History of Sir John Eland, of Eland, and his Antagonists 66
The Boy of Egremond 86
The Deposing of Richard II. and his Murder in Pomfret Castle 90
The Felon Sew of Rokeby and the Fryers of Richmond 93
The Rising in the North 104
Yorke, Yorke for my Monie 113
The Sisters of Beverley 119
Mother Shipton 123
Bold Nevison, the Highwayman 125
Roseberry Topping 128
The Cruel Step-Mother; or, the Unhappy Son 131
The Bonny Scotch Lad, and his Bonnet so Blue 138
The Child in the Wood; or, the Cruel Unkle 140
Bowes Tragedy; or, a Pattern of True Love 145
The Doncaster Volunteers 152
The Yorkshire Horse-Dealers 160
Bill Brown, the Poacher 162
The Romanby Tragedy 164
Armthorpe Bells 171
Paul Jones, the Cumberland Militia, and Scarbrough Volunteers 184
A New Fox-hunting Song 187
An Honest Yorkshire-man 190
Spence Broughton 191
The Yorkshire Knight; or, the Fortunate Farmer's Daughter 193
The Virgin Race; or, Yorkshire's Glory 202
The Mayor of Doncaster 204
The Crafty Plough Boy 209
The Yorkshire Tragedy; or, a Warning to all Perjur'd Lovers 211
Dolly Dugging 217
Scarboro' Sands 219
The Sheffield 'Prentice 220
The Yorkshire Volunteers' Farewell to the Good Folks of
Stockton 221
Fragment of the Hagmena Song 225
The Fair 226
The Yorkshire Lad in London 227
The Tryal of Patience 229
The Beggar's Bridge 233
The Banks o' Morton o' Swale 235
The Chase of the Black Fox 237
Miss Bailey's Ghost 241
The Two Yorkshire Lovers 242
Natterin Nan 246
The Barber of Thirsk's Forfeits 254
The Yorkshire Irishman; or, the Adventures of a Potato
Merchant 255
When at Hame wi' Dad 257
I'm Yorkshire too 258
The Sweeper and Thieves 259
Howell Wood; or, the Raby Hunt, in Yorkshire 261
The Collingham Ghost 269
The Twea Threshers 273
Dolly's Gaon; or, the Effects of Pride 275
The Widow's Lament 282
Alice Hawthorn 286
Tommy Thumb 288
The Funny Wedding 289
The Flying Dutchman 292
The Yorkshireman in London 294
The Great Exhibition; or, Prince Albert's Curiosity Shop 296
The Lord of Saltaire 298
A Remarkable Circumstance connected with Bretton Hall 300
The Butcher turned Devil 304
Song 306
Colonel Thompson's Volunteers 307
The Sledmere Poachers 308
The Yorkshire Concert 311
The Soldier in Yorkshire 313
Aw nivir can call hur my Wife 315
Glossary 317
THE BALLADS AND SONGS OF
YORKSHIRE.
THE DIRGE OF OFFA.
BY THE REV. MR. BALL.
This ballad is supposed to be written by Mordrid, chief of the bards, in
the reign of Edwin, king of Northumberland, whose son Offa was slain in
the battle of Hatfield Wood, near Doncaster, A.D. 633. It concludes
with the words of the bard. Rapin says, on Hatfield Heath a bloody
battle was fought between Ceadwalla, king of the Britons, and Penda, the
Pagan king of Mercia, against Edwin, the first Christian king of
Northumberland, in which Edwin and Offrido his eldest son were slain.
See my son, my Offa, dies!
He who could chase his father's foes!
Where shall the king now close his eyes?
Where but in the tomb of woes.
'Tis there thy stony couch is laid,
And there the wearied king may rest--
But will not Penda's threats invade
The quiet of the monarch's breast?
No--my son shall quell his rage--
What have I said?--ah me, undone;
Ne'er shall the parent's snowy age
Recall the tender name of son!
O would that I for thee had died,
Nor liv'd to wail thy piteous case!
Who dar'd defy those looks of pride,
That mark the chiefs of Wyba's race!
But, O my son, I little knew
What pow'r was in that arm of might!
That weeds of such a baleful hue
The laurel's beauteous wreath should blight!
Yes, my son, the shaft that thee
Transfix'd, hath drawn thy father's fate!
O how will Hengist weep to see
The woes that on his line await!
To see my Offa's latest pangs,
As wild in death he bites the shore!
A savage wolf, with bloody fangs,
The lamb's unspotted bosom tore!
Who never knew to give offence,
But to revenge his father's wrong!--
Some abler arm convey him hence,
And bear a father's love along!
Alas! this tongue is all too weak
The last sad duties to perform!
These feeble arms their task forsake!
Else should they rise in wrathful storm.
Against the ruthless rebel's head
Who dared such laurels to destroy;
To bid each virtue's hope lie dead!
And crush a parent's only joy!
Inter him by yon ivy tow'r,
And raise the note of deepest dole!
Ne'er should a friend in deathful hour,
Forget the chief of gen'rous soul:
And o'er the grave erect a stone,
His worth and lineage high to tell:
And, by the faithful cross be shown
That in the faith of Christ he fell!
Hail! valiant chiefs of Hatfield Wood!
Ne'er may your blooming honours cease!
That with unequal strength withstood
Th' invader of your country's peace.
Now, round this head let darkness fall!
Descend, ye shafts of thund'rous hail!
Ne'er shall be said, in Edwy's hall
That troubled ghost was heard to wail!--
Then, with his feeble arm, the fire
Into the thickest battle flies,
To die, was all the chiefs desire;
Oppress'd with wounds and grief, he dies.
And let the future soul of rhime,
If chance he cons of Edwy's praise,
As high his quiv'ring fingers climb,
Record, that Mordrid pour'd the lays!
ATHELGIVA.
A LEGENDARY TALE OF WHITBY ABBEY.
BY WILLIAM WATKINS.
Oswy, king of Northumberland, being engaged in war with Penda, the
Pagan king of Mercia, he vowed that, should he come off victorious, his
daughter should dedicate herself to the service of God by a life of
celibacy, and that he would give twelve of his mansions for the erection
of monasteries. Being successful, Oswy, in order to fulfil his vow,
placed his daughter Ethelfleda, then scarcely a year old, as a nun in
the monastery called Hertesie (Stag Island), of which Lady Hilda, niece
of Edwin, first Christian king of Northumberland, was abbess; and having
procured ten hides of land, in the place called Streanshalle (Whitby),
built there in 657, a monastery for men and women of the Benedictine
order, which was dedicated to St. Peter, and Lady Hilda appointed the
first abbess. This lady was so famous for her sanctity that she attained
the name of St. Hilda, and the monastery, though dedicated to St. Peter,
is generally called after her. This abbey continued to flourish till
about the year 867, when a party of Danes, under Hinguar and Hubba,
landed at Dunsley Bay, the _Dunus Sinus_ of Ptolemy, plundered the
country around, and amongst other depredations entirely destroyed the
monastery. About this period the tale is supposed to commence; the
succeeding incidents are all fictitious, and were dictated to the
author, in some measure, by the romantic situation of the abbey,
(magnificent in ruin,) which is exceedingly proper for such events.
This monastery lay in ruins till after the conquest, when king William
assigned Whitby to Hugh de Abrincis, who disposed of the place to
William de Percy, by whom the monastery was refounded about 1074, and
dedicated to St. Peter and St. Hilda. In the reign of Henry VIII. this
house shared the fate of the other monastic establishments; and its
yearly revenues, according to Dugdale, were £437 2_s_. 9_d_; and £505
9_s_. 1_d_., according to Speed.
"Here mayst thou rest, my sister dear,
Securely here abide;
Here royal Edelfleda lived,
Here pious Hilda died.
"Here peace and quiet ever dwell:
Here fear no rude alarms;
Nor here is heard the trumpet's sound,
Nor here the din of arms!"
With voice compos'd and look serene,
(Whilst her soft hand he press'd,)
The maid, who trembled on his arm,
Young Edwy thus address'd.
Blue gleam'd the steel in Edwy's hand,
The warrior's vest he bore:
For now the Danes, by Hubba led,
Had ravaged half the shore.
His summons at the abbey gate
The ready porter hears;
And soon, in veil and holy garb,
The abbess kind appears.
"O take this virgin to thy care,
Good angels be your guard;
And may the saints in heaven above
That pious care reward.
"For we by fierce barbarian hands
Are driven from our home;
And three long days and nights forlorn,
The dreary waste we roam.
"But I must go--these towers to save;
Beneath the evening shade,
I haste to seek Earl Osrick's pow'r,
And call Lord Redwald's aid."
He said--and turn'd his ready foot;
The abbess nought replies;
But, with a look that spoke her grief,
To heaven upcast her eyes.
Then, turning to the stranger dame,
"O welcome to this place;
For never Whitby's holy fane
Did fairer maiden grace."
And true she said--for on her cheek
Was seen young beauty's bloom,
Though grief, with slow and wasting stealth,
Did then her prime consume.
Her shape was all that thought can frame,
Of elegance and grace;
And heav'n the beauties of her mind
Reflected in her face.
"My daughter, lay aside thy fears,"
Again the matron cry'd,
"No Danish ravishers come here--"
--Again the virgin sigh'd.
The abbess saw, the abbess knew,
'Twas love that shook her breast;
And thus, in accents soft and mild,
The mournful maid addrest,
"My daughter dear, as to thy friend
Be all thy care confest;
I see 'tis love disturbs thy mind,
And wish to give thee rest.
"But hark! I hear the vesper bell,
Now summons us to prayer;
That duty done, with needful food
Thy wasted strength repair."
But now the pitying mournful muse
Of Edwy's hap shall tell;
And what amid his nightly walk
That gallant youth befell.
For journeying by the bank of Esk
He took his lonely way;
And now through showers of driving rain
His erring footsteps stray.
At length, from far, a glimmering light
Trembled among the trees:
And entering soon a moss-built hut,
A holy man he sees.
"O father, deign a luckless youth
This night with thee to shield;
I am no robber, though my arm
This deadly weapon wield."
"I fear no robber, stranger, here,
For I have nought to lose;
And thou mayst safely through the night
In this poor cell repose.
"And thou art welcome to my hut,"
The holy man replied;
"Still welcome here is he whom fate
Has left without a guide.
"Whence and what art thou, gentle youth?"
The noble Edwy said,
"I go to rouse Earl Osrick's power,
And seek Lord Redwald's aid.
"My father is a wealthy lord,
Who now with Alfred stays;
And me he left to guard his seat,
Whilst he his duty pays.
"But vain the hope--in dead of night
The cruel spoiler came;
And o'er each neighb'ring castle threw
The wide-devouring flame.
"To shun its rage, at early dawn,
I with my sister fled;
And Whitby's abbey now affords
A shelter to her head.
"Whilst I, to hasten promised aids,
Range wildly through the night,
And, with impatient mind, expect
The morning's friendly light."
Thus Edwy spoke; and wondering, gazed
Upon his hermit host,
For in his form beam'd manly grace,
Untouch'd by age's frost.
The hermit sigh'd and thus he said;--
"Know, there was once a day,
This tale of thine would fire my heart,
And bid me join thy way.
"But luckless love dejects my soul,
And casts my spirits down;
Thou seest the wretch of woman's pride,
Of follies not my own.
"I once amid my sovereign's train
Was a distinguish'd youth,
But blighted is my former fame,
By Sorrow's cankering tooth.
"When Ethelred the crown did hold,
I to this district came;
And then a fair and matchless maid
First raised in me a flame.
"Her father was a noble lord
Of an illustrious race,
Who join'd to rustic honesty
The courtier's gentle race.
"'Twas then I told my artless tale,
By love alone inspired;
For never was my honest speech
In flattering guise attired.
"At first she heard, or seem'd to hear,
The voice of tender love;
But soon, the ficklest of her sex,
Did she deceitful prove.
"She drove me scornful from her sight,
Rejected and disdain'd;
In vain did words for pity plead,
In vain my looks complain'd.
"How could that breast which pity fill'd,
Ever relentless be?
How could that face which smiled on all,
Have ever frowns for me?
"Since that fell hour, I in this cell
Have lived recluse from man;
And twice ten months have pass'd since I
The hermit's life began."
"O stain to honour!" Edwy cry'd;
"O foul disgrace to arms!
What, when thy country claims thy aid,
And shakes with war's alarms!
"Canst thou, inglorious, here remain,
And strive thyself to hide;
Assume the monkish coward life,
All for a woman's pride?"
With louder voice and warmer look,
His hermit host rejoin'd;
"Think'st thou, vain youth, the chains of fear
Could here a warrior bind?
"Know, boy, thou seest Hermanrick here;
Well vers'd in war's alarms;
A name once not unknown to fame,
Nor unrenown'd in arms.
"O, Athelgiva! (yet too dear)
Did I thy danger know:
Yet would I fly to thy relief,
And crush th' invading foe."
With fluster'd cheek, young Edwy turn'd,
At Athelgiva's name;
And, "Gracious powers! it must be he!"
He cries, "it is the same!
"I know full well, I have not now
More of thy tale to learn;
I heard this morn, ere from the wave
You could the sun discern.
"My sister loves thee, gallant youth,
By all the saints on high!
She wept last night, when thy hard fate
She told with many a sigh.
"Forgive her, then, and in her cause
Thy limbs with steel infold:
Was it not Ardolph's daughter, say,
Who late thy heart did hold?"
"It was, it was!" Hermanrick cry'd;
"I heard her brother's name;
"Tis said he was a gallant youth,
Who sought abroad for fame."
Then Edwy sprang to his embrace,
And clasp'd him to his breast;
"And thou shalt be my brother, too,"
He said and look'd the rest.
"But now let honour fill thy mind,
Be love's soft laws obey'd;
'Tis Athelgiva claims thy sword,
'Tis she demands thy aid.
"She, with impatient anxious heart,
Expects my quick return;
And till again she sees me safe,
The hapless maid will mourn.
"Then let us fly to seek these chiefs,
Who promised aid to send;
Earl Osrick was my father's guest,
Lord Redwald is my friend."
Hermanrick said, "First let us go
To cheer yon drooping maid;
Again I'll wear my canker'd arms,
Again I'll draw my blade."
Then from a corner of the cell
His clashing arms appear;
But when he mark'd the growing rust,
The warrior dropt a tear.
Then forth they went--Hermanrick knew
Each pathway of the wood;
And safe before the abbey gate
At break of day they stood.
Now sleep the wearied maiden's eyes
At length had kindly seal'd,
When at the gate the wandering knights
Returning day reveal'd.
"Quick call the abbess," Edwy said,
To him who kept the door,
Who watch'd and pray'd the live-long night,
A pious priest and poor.
The abbess came, with instant haste;
Th' alarming bell was rung;
And from their matted homely beds
The fainted virgins sprung.
Fair Athelgiva first the dame,
Soft speaking, thus addrest;
"My daughter, an important call
Commands me break thy rest.
"Thy brother at the abbey gate,
Appears with features glad;
And with him comes a stranger knight,
In war-worn armour clad."
With falt'ring step and bloodless cheek,
Young Athelgiva went:
Confusion, shame, surprise and joy,
At once her bosom rent,
When in the stranger knight she saw
Hermanrick's much-lov'd face;
Whilst he, by gen'rous love impell'd,
Rush'd to her fond embrace.
Vain would the muse attempt to paint
What joy the lover knew,
Who found his long-disdainful maid
At once fair, kind, and true.
Then Edwy, while entranc'd in bliss
The happy pair remain'd,
Recounted o'er the tale, how he
Hermanrick lost regain'd.
But soon, alas! too soon, was heard,
To damp their new-form'd joys,
The groan of death, the shout of war,
And battle's mingled noise.
For up the hill, with eager haste,
A breathless courier came;
He cries, "Prepare for dire alarms,
And shun th' approaching flame."
"Fierce Hubba, landing on the beach,
Now drives our feeble band;
Who, far too few to stop his force,
Fly o'er the crimson'd sand."
What anguish fill'd the maiden's breast,
What rage the lover knew,
When looking down the steepy hill,
They found the tale was true.
Each warlike youth then grasp'd his spear,
The trembling damsel said,
"O where is now Earl Osrick's power,
And where Lord Redwald's aid?"
"Alas, alas!" the abbess cries,
"Far as my sight is borne,
I cannot see the ruddy cross,
Nor hear Earl Osrick's horn."
Stern Hubba now to direful deeds
Impell'd his savage crew;
And o'er the blood-empurpled strand
The golden raven flew.[1]
"Behold," he cries, and waves his lance,
"Where yon proud turrets rise;
Of those who prove war's glorious toil,
Let beauty be the prize.
"There gold and beauty both are found,
Then follow where I lead;
And quickly know you have not fought
For honour's empty meed."
He said: and press'd to gain the hill,
His shouting train pursue;
And, fir'd by hopes of brutal joys,
Behold the prize in view.
Young Edwy mark'd their near approach,
And rush'd t' oppose their way;
Nor did, with equal ardour fir'd,
Behind Hermanrick stay.
Like mountain boars, the brother chiefs
On Denmark's warriors flew;
And those who held the foremost ranks,
Their fury overthrew.
Soon, pierc'd by Edwy's fatal lance,
Lay valiant Turkil here,
There Hardicanute bit the dust,
Beneath Hermanrick's spear.
But vain is courage, strength, or skill,
Where two oppose an host;
A dart, with sure and deadly aim,
At Edwy Hubba tost.
His sister, who, o'erpower'd by grief,
Had fainted on the floor,
Recover'd by the matron's care,
Now sought the abbey door.
When on the fated carnag'd spot,
She cast her weeping eyes;
"O blessed Mary!" cries the maid,
"My brother bleeds and dies."
Then forth she ran and gain'd the place;
Where, press'd by crowds of foes,
Hermanrick stood--the shades of death
Her brother's eyelids close.
The furious Dane nor pity knew
Nor stay'd his vengeful arm;
Nor aught avails that heavenly face,
Which might a tiger charm.
First on th' unguarded chief he rush'd,
And bore him to the ground;
The helpless damsel's plaint of woe,
In war's loud shout is drown'd.
She saw Hermanrick's quiv'ring lips,
She mark'd his rolling eye;
She faints, she falls; before her sight
Death's visions dimly fly.
"And, O thou dear and much-lov'd youth,"
The dying virgin cried;
"Howe'er in life I wrong'd thy truth,
Yet true with thee I died."
She spoke no more--e'en Hubba felt
The force of love sincere;
Then first his breast confess'd the sigh,
Then first his cheek the tear.
"And, O my friends, the rage of war,"
He cries, "awhile forbear;
And to their weeping kindred straight
These breathless bodies bear.
"Or fear the wrath of Powers Divine--"
Nor could he further say;
But quickly with disorder'd march,
Bent to his ships his way.
For now was heard Earl Osrick's horn,
Shrill sounding through the dale;
And now Lord Redwald's ruddy cross
Was waving to the gale.
His tardy aid Earl Osrick brought
Too late, alas! to save;
And far beyond th' avenging sword
The Dane now rode the wave.
Grief seized the warrior's heart, to see
In dust young Edwy laid;
And stretch'd by brave Hermanrick's side
Fair Athelgiva dead.
But on the holy cross he swore
A brave revenge to take,
On Denmark's proud and bloody sons,
For Athelgiva's sake.
This vow in Kenwurth's glorious field
The gallant earl did pay;
When Alfred's better star prevail'd,
And England had her day.
That day the Dane full dearly paid
The price of lovers' blood:
That day in Hubba's cloven helm
The Saxon javelin stood.
The bodies of the hapless three
A single grave contains;
And in the choir, with dirges due,
Are laid their cold remains.
Lord Ardolph on his children's tomb
Inscribed th' applauding verse;
And long the monks, in gothic rhyme,
Their story did rehearse.
And often pointing to the skies,
The cloister'd maids would cry,
"To those bright realms, in bloom of youth,
Did Athelgiva fly."
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 1: The famous _Reafen_, or enchanted standard, in which the
Danes put great confidence. It contained the figure of a raven, which
had been inwoven, by the three sisters of Hinguar and Hubba, with many
magical incantations, and which, by its different movements,
prognosticated, as the Danes believed, the good or bad success of any
enterprise.]
THE BATTLE OF CUTON MOORE.
In the year 1138, David, king of Scotland, invaded the north of England
with a numerous army, in aid of the claim of the empress Matilda, his
niece, against king Stephen. The fury of his massacres and ravages
enraged the northern barons, who assembled an army and encamped near
Northallerton. On Monday the 22nd of August, 1138, the standard was
raised on Cowton Moor, three miles north of Northallerton, and after a
severe contest the Scots were defeated and ten thousand of their number
slain; the rest, with king David and prince Henry his son, retreated
with difficulty to Carlisle. This engagement is sometimes called the
Battle of Northallerton, but generally the _Battle of the Standard_,
from a long pole,
"Like the mast of some tall ammiral,"
which Thurstan, archbishop of York, brought from the convent of
Beverley. This was drawn on a four-wheeled carriage; and had on the top
of it a silver crucifix, under which were suspended the banners of St.
Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfred of Ripon, and above
all, in a silver pix, the consecrated host. The following ballad was
first printed, by Mr. Evans, in 1784.
The welkin[2] darke o'er Cuton Moore
With drearye cloudes did low're--
The woeful carnage of that daye
Sall Scotlande aye deplore.
The river Tees full oft dyd sighe,
As she roll'd her wynding floode,
That ever her sylver tyde soe cleare
Shoulde bee swell'd with human bloode!
Kyng Davyd hee stode on the rising hille,
And the verdante prospecte view'd;
And hee sawe that sweete river that o'er the moore
Roll'd on her sylver floode.
Oh then bespake that noble kyng,
And with griefe hys hearte was woo'd:
"And ever I mourne that yon fayre streame
Shoulde be swell'd with human bloode!"
Kynge Davyd hee sawe the verdante moore,
With wilde flow'res all bestrow'de:
"And ever I'm griev'd that soe greene a moore
Sholde be stayn'd with human bloode!
"But more am I griev'd, alas!" he cry'd,
"And more my hearte is woo'd,
That soe manye warriours young and brave
Muste thys daye shed theyr bloode!"
As princely a hoste that kyng dyd leade
As ever march'd on playne:
Alas! that soe manye a warriour brave
Should be soe soone yslayne!
And firste march'd forthe the Galloway men,
Of the antiente Picts they sprange;
Theyr speares all soe brighte and bucklers strong
For manye myles yrang.
And then cam on the Norman troopes,
With Englishe them amonge:
For the empresse Maud they cam to fighte,
To righte that ladye's wronge.
And then march'd forthe the Scottish foote,
And then march'd forthe the horse;
In armoure stronge, all those warriours came,
A greate and warlike force.
Kynge Davyd look'd athawart the moore,
And prince Henry hys brave sonne,
And they were aware of the Englishe hoste,
Com merrilye marching on.
Oh then call'd forthe kynge Davyd,
And loudelye called hee,
"And whoo is heare in alle mye campe,
Can descrybe yon hoste to mee?"
Then came a bearne, besyde the tente,
An Englisheman was hee;
'Twas not long since from the Englishe hoste,
That traiterous wighte dyd flee.
"Nowe tell mee yon hostes," the kyng hee cry'd,
"And thou shalte have golde and fee--
And whoo is yon chiefe that rydes along
With hys lockes soe aged greye?"
"Oh that is Walter de Gaunte[3] you see,
And hee hath beene greye full long,
But manye's the troope that hee dothe leade,
And they are stoute and stronge."
"And whoo is yon chiefe soe brighte of blee,
With hys troopes that beate the playne?"
"Oh that's the younge earle of Albermarle,[4]
Yleading hys gallante trayne.
"A more gallante warrioure than that lorde
Is not yon hostes among;
And the gallante troopes that hee doth leade,
Like hym, are stoute and younge."
"And who yon shynny warriours twoo,
With theyre troopes yclade the same?"
"Oh they're the Bruces,[5] that in thys fighte
Have com t'acquire them fame."
Oh then call'd oute kynge Davyd,
And fulle of woe spake hee:
"And ever I hold those Bruces false,
For muche they owe to mee.
"And who's yon chiefe of giante heighte,
And of bulke so huge to see?"
"Walter Espec[6] is that chiefe's name,
And a potente chiefe is hee.
"Hys stature's large as the mountaine oake,
And eke as strong hys mighte:
There's ne'ere a chiefe in alle the northe
Can dare with hym to fighte."
"And whoo's yon youthe, yon youthe I see,
A galloping o'er the moore?
Hys troopes that followe soe gallantelye
Proclayme hym a youthe of pow're."
"Young Roger de Mowbray[7] is that youthe,
And hee's sprang of the royal line;
Hys wealthe and hys followers, oh kyng,
Are allemost as greate as thyne."
"And who's yon aged chiefe I see
All yclad in purple veste?"
"Oh that's the Bishoppe o' th' Orkney isles,[8]
And hee alle the hoste hath bleste.
"And alle the reste are noblemen,
Of fortune and fame ech one:
From Nottingham and from Derbyeshyre
Those valiante chiefetaynes com."[9]
"But what's yon glitt'ring tow're I see
I' the centre o' the hoste?"
"Oh that's the hallow'd _Standarde_ of whyche
The Englishe make suche boaste.
"A maste of a shipp it is so hie,
Alle bedect with golde soe gaye;
And on the topp is a holye crosse,
That shynes as brighte as the daye.
"Around it hang the holye banners
Of manye a blessed saynte;
Saynte Peter, and John of Beverlye,
And Saynte Wilfred there they paynte.
"The aged folke arounde it throng,
With their old hayres alle so greye;
And manye a chiefetayne there bows ydowne,
And so heart'lye dothe hee praye."
Oh then bespake the kyng of Scotts,
And soe heavylie spake hee:
"And had I but yon holye _Standarde_,
Right gladsom sholde I bee.
"And had I but yon holye _Standarde_,
That there so his doth tow're,
I would not care for yon Englishe hoste,
Nor alle yon chieftaynes pow're.
"Oh had I but yon holie roode,
That there soe brighte doth showe;
I wolde not care for yon Englishe hoste,
Nor the worste that theye colde doe."
Oh then bespake prince Henrye,
And like a brave prince spake hee:
"Ah let us but fighte like valiante men,
And wee'l make yon hostes to flee.
"Oh let us but fighte like valiante men,
And to Christe's wyll ybowe,
And yon hallow'd _Standarde_ shall bee ours,
And the victorie alsoe."
Prince Henrye was as brave a youthe
As ever fought in fielde;
Full many a warrioure that dreade day
To hym hys lyfe dyd yeilde.
Prince Henrye was as fayre a youthe
As the sunne dyd e're espye;
Full manye a ladye in Scottishe lande
For that young prince dyd sighe.
Prince Henrye call'd his young foot page,
And thus to hym spake hee:
"Oh heede my wordes, and serve mee true,
And thou sall have golde and fee.
"Stande thou on yonder rising hylle,
Fulle safe I weene the syte:
And from thence oh marke thee well my creste
In all the thickeste fighte.
"And if, o'ercome with woundes, I falle,
Then take thee a swifte swifte steede,
And from thys moore to Dumfries towne,
Oh ryde thee awaye with speede.
"There to the ladye Alice wende;
(You'll knowe that lovelye fayre,
For the fayreste mayde in all that towne,
Cannot with her compare;)
"And tell that ladye of my woe,
And telle her of my love;
And give to her thys golden ring,
My tender faythe to prove.
"And stryve to cheare that lovelye mayde
In alle her griefe and care:
For well I knowe her gentle hearte
Dyd ever holde mee deare."
And nowe the Englishe hoste drewe neare,
And alle in battle arraye;
Theire shyning swordes and glitt'ring speares
Shot rounde a brilliante raye.
And nowe both valiante hostes cam neare,
Eache other for to slaye;
Whyle watchfulle hovered o'er their heades
Full manye a byrde of preye.
The sun behynde the darke darke cloudes
Dyd hyde each beamy raye,
As fearefulle to beholde the woe
That mark'd that doleful daye.
The thund'ring wyndes of heaven arose,
And rush'd from pole to pole,
As stryving to drowne the groanes and sighes
Of manye a dyeing soule.
Sterne deathe he hearde the shoutes of warre,
That ecchoed arounde soe loude;
And hee rouz'd hym to th' embattled fielde,
To feaste on human bloode.
And fyrste the Pictish race began
The carnage of that daye;
The cries they made were like the storm
That rends the rocks awaye.
Those fierce fierce men of Gallowaye
Began that day of dole;
And their shoutes were like the thunder's roare,
That's hearde from pole to pole.
Nowe bucklers rang 'gainst swordes and speares,
And arrows dimn'd the playne;
And manye a warrioure laye fulle lowe,
And manye a chiefe was slayne.
Oh woeful woeful was that daye,
To chylde and wydowe dreare!
For there fierce deathe o'er human race
Dyd triumphe 'farre and neare.
Dreare was the daye--in darke darke cloudes
The welkin alle endrown'd;
But farre more dreare the woeful scene
Of carnage alle arounde.
Dreare was the sounde of warring wyndes
That foughte along the skyes;
But farre more dreare the woeful sounde
Of dying warriours sighes.
Laden with deathe's unpitying arme,
Swordes fell and arrowes flewe;
The wydow'd wyfe and fatherlesse chylde
That day of dole sall rue.
Ten thousand Scotts who on that morne
Were marching alle soe gaye,
By nighte, alas! on that drearye moore
Poore mangled corps ylaye.
Weepe, dames of Scotlande, weepe and waile,
Let your sighes reecho rounde;
Ten thousande brave Scotts that hail'd the morne,
At night laye deade on grounde.
And yee fayr dames of merrye Englande,
As faste youre teares muste poure;
For manye's the valiante Englisheman
That yee sall see noe more.
Sighe, dames of Englande, and lamente,
And manye a salte teare shed;
For manye an Englisheman hail'd that morne,
That ere the nyghte was deade.
The Scotts they fled; but still their kynge,
With hys brave sonne by hys syde,
Foughte long the foe (brave kynge and prince,
Of Scotlande aye the pryde).
The Scotts they fled; but stille their kynge,
With hys brave sonne, foughte full welle,
Till o'er the moore an arrowe yflewe--
And brave prynce Henrye felle.
Alle thys espy'd his young foote page,
From the hille whereon he stode;
And soone hath hee mounted a swifte swifte steede,
And soone from the moore hath rode.
And hee hath cross'd the Tees fayre streame,
Nowe swell'd with human bloode;
Th' affrighted page he never stay'de,
Tyll to Dumfries hee hath rode.
Fayre Alice was gone to the holye kirke,
With a sad hearte dyd shee goe;
And ever soe faste dyd she crye to heav'n,
"Prynce Henrye save from woe."
Fayre Alice shee hied her to the choire,
Where the priestes dyd chaunte soe slowe;
And ever shee cry'd, "May the holye sayntes
Prynce Henrye save from woe!"
Fayre Alice, with manye a teare and sighe,
To Mary's shrine dyd goe;
And soe faste shee cry'de, "Sweete Mary mylde
Prynce Henrye save from woe!"
Fayre Alice she knelte bye the hallow'd roode,
Whyle faste her teares dyd flowe;
And ever shee cry'd, "Oh sweete sweete Savioure,
Prynce Henrye save from woe!"
Fayre Alice look'd oute at the kirke doore,
And heavye her hearte dyd beate;
For shee was aware of the prynce's page,
Com galloping thro' the streete.
Agayne fayre Alice look'd out to see,
And well nighe did shee swoone;
For nowe shee was sure it was that page
Com galloping thro' the towne.
"Nowe Christe thee save, thou sweete young page,
Nowe Christe thee save and see!
And howe dothe sweete prynce Henrye?
I praye thee telle to me."
The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,
And hys hearte was fulle of woe;
The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,
Tylle hys teares faste 'gan to flowe.
"Ah woe is me!" sad Alice cry'd,
And tore her golden hayre;
And soe faste shee wrang her lilly handes,
Alle woo'd with sad despayre.
"The Englishe keepe the bloodye fielde,
Fulle manye a Scott is slayne,
But lyves prynce Henrye?" the ladye cry'd,
"Alle else to mee is vayne.--
"Oh lives the prynce? I praye thee tell,"
Fayre Alice still dyd calle:
"These eyes dyd see a keen arrowe flye,
Dyd see prynce Henrye falle."
Fayre Alice she sat her on the grounde,
And never a worde shee spake;
But like the pale image dyd shee looke,
For her hearte was nighe to breake.
The rose that once soe ting'd her cheeke,
Was nowe, alas! noe more;
But the whitenesse of her lillye skin
Was fayrer than before.
"Fayre ladye, rise," the page exclaym'de
"Nor laye thee here thus lowe."--
She answered not, but heav'd a sighe,
That spoke her hearte felte woe.
Her maydens came and strove to cheare,
But in vaine was all their care;
The townesfolke wept to see that ladye
Soe 'whelm'd in dreade despare.
They rais'de her from the danky grounde,
And sprinkled water fayre;
But the coldest water from the spring
Was not soe colde as her.
And nowe came horsemen to the towne,
That the prynce had sente with speede;
With tydyngs to Alice that he dyd live,
To ease her of her dreade.
For when that hapless prince dyd falle,
The arrowe dyd not hym slaye;
But hys followers bravelye rescued hym,
And convey'd hym safe away.
Bravelye theye rescued that noble prince,[10]
And to fayre Carlile hym bore;
And there that brave young prynce dyd lyve,
Tho' wounded sad and sore.
Fayre Alice the wond'rous tydings hearde,
And thrice for joye shee sigh'd:
That haplesse fayre, when shee hearde the newes
She rose--she smiled--and dy'd.
The teares that her fayre maydens shed,
Ran free from their brighte eyes;
The ecchoing wynde that then dyd blowe,
Was burden'd with theyre sighes.
The page hee saw the lovelye Alice
In a deepe deepe grave let downe,
And at her heade a green turfe ylade,
And at her feete a stone!
Then with manye a teare and manye a sighe
Hathe hee hy'd hym on hys waye;
And hee hath come to Carlile towne,
All yclad in blacke arraye.
And now hath he com to the prince's halle,
And lowelye bente hys knee;
"And howe is the ladye Alice so fayre,
My page com telle to mee."
"O, the ladye Alice, so lovelye fayre,
Alas! is deade and gone;
And at her heade is a green grass turfe,
And at her foote a stone.
"The ladye Alice is deade and gone,
And the wormes feede by her syde;
And alle for the love of thee, oh prynce,
That beauteous ladye dy'd.
"And where shee's layde the greene turfe growes,
And a colde grave-stone is there;
But the dew-clad turfe, nor the colde colde stone,
Is not soe colde as her."
Oh then prynce Henrye sad dyd sighe,
Hys hearte alle fulle of woe:
That haplesse prince ybeate hys breaste,
And faste hys teares 'gan flowe.
"And art thou gon, my sweet Alice?
And art thou gone?" hee cry'd:
"Ah woulde to heav'n that I with thee,
My faythful love, had dy'd!
"And have I loste thee, my sweet Alice?
And art thou dead and gon?
And at thy deare heade a green grass turfe,
And at thy foote a stone?
"The turfe that's o'er thy grave, deare Alice!
Sall with my teares bee wet;
And the stone at thy feete sall melte, love,
Ere I will thee forget."
And when the newes cam to merrye Englande
Of the battle in the northe;
Oh then kynge Stephen and hys nobles
So merrylie marched forthe.
And theye have had justes and tournamentes,
And have feasted o'er and o'er;
And merrylie merrylie have they rejoic'd,
For the victorye of Cuton Moore.
But manye a sighe adds to the wynde,
And many a teare to the show're,
And manye a bleedyng hearte hath broke,
For the battle of Cuton Moore.
And manye's the wydowe alle forlorne,
And helplesse orphan poore,
And many's the mayden that sall rue
The victorye of Cuton Moore.
The ladye Alice is layd in her grave,
And a colde stone markes the site;
And many's the mayde like her dothe dye,
Cause kynges and nobles wyll fighte.
The ladye Alice is layde full lowe,
And her mayden teares doe poure,
The manye's the wretche with them sall weepe,
For the victorye of Cuton Moore.
The holye prieste doth weepe as he syngs
Hys masses o'er and o'er;
And alle for the soules of them that were slayne,
At the battle of Cuton Moore.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 2: The sky.]
[Footnote 3: Eldest son of Gilbert de Gant, nephew to William, duke of
Normandy. Walter was a person of great humanity and piety; who, when
advanced in years, and near his death, commanded a regiment of Flemings
and Normans in this engagement. He founded the priory of Bridlington,
and added buildings to the abbey of Bardney, which his father had
restored. He married Maud, daughter of Stephen, earl of Brittany and
Richmond, had with her all Swaledale, in Frank-marriage; and died,
fourth Stephen, leaving issue three sons, Gilbert, who succeeded him,
Robert, and Geoffrey.]
[Footnote 4: William le Gros, chief of those gallant barons at the
engagement; and in reward for the great valour displayed by him on that
occasion was forthwith advanced to the earldom of Yorkshire. He was
distinguished among the Anglo-Norman barons for his liberality towards
the various religious orders, having founded a Cistercian abbey at
Edenham, in Lincolnshire, and one at Meux in Yorkshire, not far from his
castle of Skipsey; a monastery of black canons at Thornton-upon-Humber;
and a hospital at Newton. He was also the founder of the castle of
Scarborough. He died in 1179, leaving two daughters, his co-heirs.
Hawyse, married first to William de Mandeville, earl of Essex, secondly
to William de Fortibus; and Amicia, married to Eston.]
[Footnote 5: Robert de Brus, son of Robert who came over with the
Conqueror, by Agnes his wife, daughter of Waltheg, earl of St. Clair. He
had an interview with David, king of Scotland, before the battle, to
endeavour to persuade him to desist. He was no less distinguished for
piety than valour. He founded Guisborough priory; gave the church of
Middlesborough to Whitby; and conferred on the abbey of St Mary, at
York, his lordships of Appleton and Hornby. He died in 1141, and was
buried at Guisborough; leaving issue, by Agnes his wife, Adam and
Robert.
Adam de Brus, lord of Skelton, son and heir of the above, who fought by
the side of his father in this engagement. Having adhered to king
Stephen throughout his stormy and disastrous career, he incurred the
displeasure of Henry II. who deprived him of his castle of Danby in
Cleveland. He died in 1167, and was buried at Guisborough, leaving
issue, by Ivetta, his wife, Adam, commonly called Adam the Second, and
Agnes.]
[Footnote 6: Lord of Helmsley and Kirkham, and one of the principal
commanders in this battle; and, although this is the only battle we find
him engaged in, his address to the soldiers shows him a man of valour in
defence of his country. He founded the abbey of Rievaulx and Kirkham;
and died in 1153, and was buried in the abbey of Rievaulx, where two
years before he had become a monk.]
[Footnote 7: Son of Nigel de Albini, who assumed the name of Mowbray. He
was one of the commanders in this battle, though then in minority; and,
adhering to king Stephen, was with him at the battle of Lincoln, and
there taken prisoner. He was a benefactor to no fewer than thirty-five
religious houses, and founded the abbey of Byland, and the priory of
Newburgh, in the neighbourhood of his castle at Thirsk. So fervent was
his devotion that he twice took upon him the cross, and made journeys to
the Holy Land, and upon his return retired to the calm seclusion of
Byland abbey, where he assumed the monastic habit, and ended his days;
leaving, by his wife Alice de Gant, two sons, Nigel and Robert.]
[Footnote 8: Thurstan, the twenty-eighth archbishop of York, and who was
at this period Lieutenant-Governor of the North, organized the troops
that fought this famous battle, and had the command as far as Thirsk, at
which place he resigned, on account of sickness, his authority to Ralph,
bishop of Orkney, of whom little is known. The archbishop of York used
to ordain bishops with the title of Orkney; but Torffæus is of opinion
that they were merely titulars, to give greater show of authority to the
see of York; and he is positive that this bishop did never reside in the
isles of Orkney, and that Ralph, designated bishop of Orkney, had been a
presbyter of York.]
[Footnote 9: The following were among the "valiante chiefetaynes:"--
_Bernard de Baliol_, nephew to Guy de Baliol. After this battle he
adhered to Stephen, and was taken prisoner with him at the battle of
Lincoln. He is supposed to be the founder of the castle thence called
Bernard castle; was a benefactor to the monks of St. Mary's Abbey, York,
and those of Rievaulx.
_Richard de Curcy_, represented by Hugustald as a valiant commander in
this battle. He was succeeded by William de Curcy, sewer to king Henry
II.
_Robert de Ferrars_, youngest son of Henry de Ferrers, by Berta his
wife. He commanded the Derbyshire men in this battle, and for his
bravery was forthwith advanced to the earldom of Derby, which honour he
did not long enjoy, dying the following year, 1139, leaving Robert
second earl.
_William Fossard_, son of Robert, was taken prisoner with Stephen at the
battle of Lincoln. He left issue Joane, married to Robert de Turnham.
_Ralph Hanselyn_, descended from Goisfrid Alselin. He commanded the
Nottinghamshire men in this battle, and resided principally at Shelford
in that county. He left issue Rose, married to Thomas Bardulf.
_Ilbert de Lacy_, lord of Pontefract. He married Alice, daughter of
Gilbert de Gant, and dying without issue, Henry his brother succeeded
him.
_Gilbert de Lacy_, brother of the above. Hemingford and other historians
inform us that he was the only knight slain.
_William Peverell_, son of Ranulph, had the castle of Nottingham given
him by the Conqueror. He was taken prisoner with Stephen at the battle
of Lincoln; his castle was given by the empress Maud to William Painell;
but in the year following his soldiers recovered it by stratagem in the
night. He was living in 1141.
_William de Percy_, son of Richard. He gave to the monks of Fountains
two oxgangs of land, three to the monks of Whitby, and one to the monks
of Bridlington. He married Adelidis de Tunebrige, and had issue four
sons, Walter, Alan, Richard, and William; and two daughters, Maud and
Agnes. His sons dying, Agnes, who married Joscelaine de Louvaine,
younger son of Godfrey, duke of Brabant, eventually became sole heiress,
and her husband assumed the name of Percy.
_Robert de Stutevile_, son of Robert, was sheriff of Yorkshire in 16
Henry II., and was engaged in the battle fought near Alnwick, 20 Henry
II. He founded a monastery at Keldholme, another at Rosedale, and gave
to the monks of St. Mary's Abbey, York, one carucate of land. He was
succeeded by his son Robert, who gave large possessions to the monks of
Rievaulx.]
[Footnote 10: In 1152, Scotland lost, says Sir Walter Scott, a treasure
by the death of the inestimable prince Henry. He left by Ada, an English
lady of quality, a family of three sons and as many daughters. In the
subsequent year the venerable David followed his son. Having discharged
all his duty as a man and a monarch, by settling his affairs as well as
the early age of his grandchildren would permit, he was found dead, in
an attitude of devotion, 24 May, 1153. He was succeeded by his grandson,
Malcolm IV., then only twelve years of age.]
ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE.
Robin Hood, a celebrated English outlaw, was born at Locksley, in the
county of Nottingham, in the reign of Henry II. about 1160. He is said
to have been of noble extraction, being the son of William Fitzooth by
his wife a daughter of Payn Beauchamp, baron of Bedford, and lady Roisia
de Vere, daughter of Aubrey, earl of Guisnes in Normandy,[11] and is
frequently styled earl of Huntingdon--a title to which, in the latter
part of his life, he actually appears to have had some sort of
pretension. In his youth he is said to have been of a wild and
extravagant turn; insomuch that, his inheritance being consumed, and his
person outlawed for debt,[12] he sought an asylum in the woods of
Barnsdale, in Yorkshire,[13] Sherwood, in Nottinghamshire, and,
according to some, Plumpton-park, in Cumberland.[14] He either found or
was afterwards joined by a number of persons, the principal being Little
John (whose surname is said to have been Nailor), William Scadlock
(Scathelock or Scarlet), George a Green (pinder or pound-keeper of
Wakefield), Much (a miller's son), and a certain monk or friar called
Tuck. "These renowned thieves," says Stowe, "continued in the woods,
despoiling and robbing the goods of the rich. They killed none but such
as would invade them, or by resistance for their own defence. The said
Robin entertained 100 tall men, good archers, with such of the spoils
and thefts as he got, upon whom 400 (were they ever so strong) durst not
give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or
otherwise molested; poor men's goods he spared, abundantly relieving
them with that which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich
old carles." He died in 1247; see _Robin Hood's Death and Burial_, post.
Guy of Gisborne,--the only other memorial which I can find relating to
him is in an old satirical piece by William Dunbar, a celebrated
Scottish poet, of the fifteenth century,[15] on one "Schir Thomas Nory,"
where he is named along with our hero, Adam Bell, and other worthies, it
is conjectured, of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not come to
the knowledge of posterity:--
"Was neuir weild Robeine vnder bewch,
Nor zitt Roger of Clekkinstewch,
So bauld a bairne as he;
Gy of Gysburne, na Allane Bell,
Na Simones sones of Quhynsell,
Off thocht war neuir so slies."
Gisborne, or Gisburne, is a market town in the west-riding of Yorkshire,
on the borders of Lancashire.
The following ballad was first printed in Percy's _Reliques_ in 1765,
from his "folio MS."
When shaws[16] beene sheene, and shraddes[17] full fayre,
And leaves both large and longe,
Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest
To heare the small birdes' songe.
The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Sitting upon the spraye,
Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay.
"Now, by my saye," sayd jollye Robin,
"A sweaven[18] I had this night;
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen
That fast with me can fight.
"Methought they did me beate and binde,
And tooke my bowe me froe;
Iff I be Robin alive in this lande
Ile be wroken on them towe."
"Sweavens are swift," sayd Little John,
"As the wind blowes over the hill;
For iff itt be never so loude this night,
To morrow it may be still."
"Buske[19] yee, bowne[20] yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yon wighty[21] yeoman,
In greenwood where they bee."
Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene,
And tooke theyr bowes each one;
And they away to the greene forrest
A shooting forth are gone;
Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest to bee,
There they were ware of a wighty yeoman,
That leaned agaynst a tree.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Of manye a man the bane:
And he was clad in his capull[22] hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne.
"Stand still, master," quoth Little John,
"Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wighty yeoman,
To know what he doth meane."
"Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
And that I farly finde:
How often send I my men before,
And tarry my selfe behinde?
"It is no cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I thy head wold breake."
As often wordes they breeden bale,[23]
So they parted Robin and John:
And John is gone to Barnesdale;
The gates[24] he knoweth eche one.
But when he came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there he hadd,
For he found tow of his own fellowes
Were slaine both in a slade.[25]
And Scarlette he was flying a-foote
Fast over stocke and stone,
For the proud sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
"One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John,
"With Christ his might and mayne;
Ile make yond sheriffe that wends soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne."
Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fettled him to shoote:
The bowe was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.
"Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ever thou grew on a tree!
For now this day thou art my bale,[26]
My boote when thou shold bee."
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sheriffe's men,
And William a Trent was slaine.
It had been better of William a Trent
To have beene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the greenwood slade
To meet with Little John's arrowe.
But as it is said, when men be mett
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken Little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.
"Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And hanged hye on a hill."
"But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John,
"If it be Christ his will."
Lett us leave talking of Little John,
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
Where under the leaves he stood.
"Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre,
"Good morrowe, good fellow," quo' he:
"Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande,
A good archere thou sholdst bee."
"I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeman,
"And of my morning tyde."
"Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin;
"Good fellow, Ile be thy guide."
"I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd,
"Men call him Robin Hood;
Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
Than fortye pound soe good."
"Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
And Robin thou soone shalt see:
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.
"First let us some masterye make
Among the woods so even,
We may chance to meet with Robin Hood,
Here at some unsett steven."[27]
They cut them down two summer shroggs,[28]
That grew both under a breere,
And sett them threescore rood in twaine,
To shoote the prickes y-fere.[29]
"Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood,
"Leade on, I do bidd thee."
"Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd,
"My leader thou shalt bee."
The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
He mist but an inch it fro;
The yeoman he was an archer good,
But he cold never do soe.
The second shoote had the wighty yeman,
He shot within the garland:
But Robin he shott far better than hee,
For he clave the good pricke-wande.
"A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd,
"Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
Thou wert better than Robin Hood.
"Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he,
"Under the leaves of lyne."
"Nay, by my faith," quoth bold Robin,
"Till thou have told me thine."
"I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee,
"And Robin to take I am sworne;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guy of good Gisborne."
"My dwelling is in the wood," says Robin,
"By thee I set right nought:
I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought."
He that had neyther beene kythe nor kin,
Might have seen a full fayre fight,
To see how together these yeomen went,
With blades both browne and bright.
To see how these yeomen together they fought
Two howres of a summer's day':
Yet neither Robin Hood nor sir[30] Guy
Them settled to flye away.
Robin was reachles on a roote,
And stumbled at that tyde;
And Guy was quicke and nimble withall
And hitt him upon the syde.
"Ah, deere ladye," says Robin Hood tho,
"That art but mother and may,
I think it was never man's destinye
To dye before his day."
Robin thought on our ladye deere,
And soone leapt up again,
And strait he came with an awkwarde stroke
And he sir Guy hath slayne.
He took sir Guy's head by the hayre,
And stuck it upon his bowes end:
"Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an end."
Robin pulled forth an Irish knife,
And nicked sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born
Cold know whose head it was.
Sayes, "Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
And with me be not wrothe;
Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe."
Robin did off his gown of greene,
And on sir Guy did throwe,
And he put on that capull hyde,
That cladd him topp to toe.
"Thy bowe, thy arrowes, and little horne,
Now with me I will beare;
For I will away to Barnesdale,
To see how my men doe fare."
Robin Hood sett Guye's horne to his mouth,
And a loude blast in it did blow:
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he lean'd under a lowe.[31]
"Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe,
"I heare nowe tydings good,
For yonder I hear Sir Guye's horne blow,
And he hath slaine Robin Hood.
"Yonder I heare Sir Guye's horne blowe,
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
Cladd in his capull hide.
"Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy
Aske what thou wilt of mee."
"O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin,
"Nor I will none of thy fee:
"But now I have slaine the master," he says,
"Let me goe strike the knave;
For this is all the mede I aske;
None other rewarde I'le have."
"Thou art a madman," sayd the sheriffe,
"Thou sholdst have had a knight's fee:
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shall bee."
When little John heard his master speake,
Well knewe he it was his steven:
"Now shall I be looset," quoth little John,
"With Christ his might in heaven."
Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John,
He thought to loose him blive;[32]
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him can drive.
"Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin,
"Why draw you mee so neere?
It was never the use in our countrye,
One's shrift[33] another shold heere."
But Robin pulled forth an Irish knife,
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him Sir Guye's bow into his hand,
And bade it be his boote.
Then John he took Guye's bow in his hand,
His boltes and arrowes eche one:
When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
He fettled him to begone.
Towards his house in Nottingham towne,
He fled full fast away;
And soe did all the companye:
Not one behind wold stay.
But he cold neither runne soe fast,
Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
But Little John with an arrowe soe broad,
He shott him into the backe syde.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 11: Stukeley's Palæographia Britannica, No. I. _passim_.
Leland's Collectanea, I. 54. See Ritson's _Robin Hood_.]
[Footnote 12: Grafton's Chron. 85. Fordun, 774.]
[Footnote 13: Leland's Itinerary, v. 101.]
[Footnote 14: Sloane MS.]
[Footnote 15: He is supposed to have died about 1520, at the age of
sixty.]
[Footnote 16: Little woods.]
[Footnote 17: Shrubs. "When the fields are in their beauty."]
[Footnote 18: Dream.]
[Footnote 19: Prepare.]
[Footnote 20: Get ready.]
[Footnote 21: Strong.]
[Footnote 22: Horse.]
[Footnote 23: Mischief.]
[Footnote 24: i. e. ways, paths. Gate is a common word in the north for
"way."]
[Footnote 25: A slip of greensward between plough-lands, woods, &c.]
[Footnote 26: Woe, sorrow.]
[Footnote 27: _Unsett steven_--unlooked for time. Steven, see Glossary.]
[Footnote 28: Thorns, briars.]
[Footnote 29: Together.]
[Footnote 30: The title of "Sir" was not formerly peculiar to knights,
it was given to priests, and sometimes to very inferior personages. Dr.
Johnson thinks this title was applied to such as had taken the degree of
A. B. in the universities.]
[Footnote 31: A little hill.]
[Footnote 32: Immediately, quickly.]
[Footnote 33: Confession.]
THE JOLLY PINDER OF WAKEFIELD;
WITH ROBIN HOOD, SCARLET, AND JOHN.
Several lines of this ballad are quoted in the two old plays of the
"Downfall," and "Death of Robert, earl of Huntington," 1601, 4to., black
letter, but acted many years before. It is also alluded to in
Shakespeare's "Merry Wives of Windsor," Act I. Scene 1; and again, in
his second part of "King Henry IV." Act V. Scene 3.
Sung "_To an excellent tune_."
In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder,
In Wakefield all on a green,
In Wakefield all on a green:
"There is neither knight nor squire," said the pinder,
"Nor baron that is so bold,
Nor baron that is so bold,
Dare make a trespass to the town of Wakefield,
But his pledge goes to the pinfold,
But his pledge goes to the pinfold."
All this be heard three witty young men,
'Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John;
With that they espy'd the jolly pinder,
As he sat under a thorn.
"Now turn again, turn again," said the pinder,
"For a wrong way you have gone;
For you have forsaken the king's highway,
And made a path over the corn."
"O that were a shame," said jolly Robin,
"We being three, and thou but one."
The pinder lept back then thirty good foot,
'Twas thirty good foot and one.
He leaned his back fast unto a thorn,
And his foot against a stone,
And there he fought a long summer's day,
A summer's day so long;
Till that their swords on their broad bucklers
Were broke fast into their hands.
"Hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said bold Robin Hood,
"And my merry men every one;
For this is one of the best pinders
That ever I tryed with sword.
"And wilt thou forsake thy pinder's craft,
And live in the green-wood with me?"
"At Michaelmas next my cov'nant comes out,
When every man gathers his fee;
"Then I'le take my blew blade all in my hand
And plod to the green-wood with thee."
"Hast thou either meat or drink," said Robin Hood,
"For my merry men and me?"
"I have both bread and beef," said the pinder,
"And good ale of the best."
"And that is meat good enough," said Robin Hood,
For such unbidden guests.
"O wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft,
And go to the green-wood with me?
Thou shalt have a livery twice a year,
The one green, the other brown."
"If Michaelmas-day was come and gone,
And my master had paid me my fee,
Then would I set as little by him,
As my master doth by me."[34]
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 34: The above ballad is from an old black-letter copy in
Anthony à Wood's collection, compared with two others in the British
Museum. In 1557 certain "ballets" are entered on the books of the
Stationers' Company, "to John Wallye and Mrs. Toye," one of which is
entitled, "of wakefylde and a grene," meaning probably this ballad.]
THE NOBLE FISHERMAN;
OR, ROBIN HOOD'S PREFERMENT.
From three old black-letter copies; one in the collection of Anthony à
Wood, another in the British Museum, and the third in a private
collection.
In summer time, when leaves grow green,
When they doe grow both green and long,
Of a bold outlaw, call'd Robin Hood,
It is of him I sing this song:--
When the lily leafe, and cowslip sweet
Both bud and spring with a merry cheere,
This outlaw was weary of the wood side,
And chasing of the fallow deere.
"The fishermen brave more mony have
Than any merchants two or three;
Therefore I will to Scarborough go,
That I a fisherman brave may be."
This outlaw called his merry men all,
As they sate under the green-wood tree:
"If any of you have gold to spend,
I pray you heartily spend it with me."
"Now," quoth Robin Hood, "Ile to Scarborough go,
It seems to be a very faire day."
He tooke up his inne at a widdow woman's house,
Hard by upon the water gray.
Who asked of him, "Where wert thou borne?
Or tell to me where dost thou fare?"
"I am a poor fisherman," said he then,
"This day intrapp'd all in care."
"What is thy name, thou fine fellow,
I pray thee heartily tell it to mee?"
"In my own country where I was borne,
Men call me Simon over the Lee."
"Simon, Simon," said the good wife,
"I wish thou mayest well brook thy name."
The outlaw was aware of her courtesie,
And rejoyced he had got such a dame.
"Simon, wilt thou be my man?
And good round wages I'le give thee;
I have as good a ship of my own,
As any sails upon the sea.
"Anchors and planks thou shalt not want,
Masts and ropes that are so long."
"And if you thus do furnish me,"
Said Simon, "nothing shall goe wrong."
They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle,
More of a day then two or three;
When others cast in their baited hooks,
The bare line into the sea cast he.
"It will be long," said the master then,
"Ere this great lubber do thrive on the sea;
I'le assure you he shall have no part of our fish,
For in truth he is no part worthy."
"O, woe is me!" said Simon then,
"This day that ever I came here;
I wish I were in Plompton parke,
In chasing of the fallow deere.
"For every clowne laughs me to scorne,
And they by me set nought at all;
If I had them in Plompton parke,
I would set as little by them all."
They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle,
More of a day then two or three:
But Simon espyed a ship of warre,
That sayled towards them most valorously.
"O, woe is me," said the master then,
"This day that ever I was borne;
For all our fish we have got to day,
Is every bit lost and forlorne.
"For these French robbers on the sea,
They will not spare of us one man,
But carry us to the coast of France,
And ligge us in the prison strong."
But Simon said, "Doe not feare them,
Neither, master, take you no care;
Give me my bent bow in my hand,
And never a Frenchman will I spare."
"Hold thy peace, thou long lubber,
For thou art nought but brags and boast;
If I should cast thee overboard,
There's but a simple lubber lost."
Simon grew angry at these words,
And so angry then was he,
That he took his bent bow in his hand,
And in the ship hatch goe doth he.
"Master, tye me to the mast," saith he,
"That at my mark I may stand fair,
And give me my bent bow in my hand,
And never a Frenchman will I spare."
He drew his arrow to the very head,
And drew it with all might and maine,
And straightway, in the twinkling of an eye,
To the Frenchman's heart the arrow's gane.
The Frenchman fell down on the ship hatch,
And under the hatches down below;
Another Frenchman that him espy'd
The dead corpse into the see doth throw.
"O, master, loose me from the mast," he said,
"And for them all take you no care;
For give me my bent bow in my hand,
And never a Frenchman will I spare."
Then streight they boarded the French ship,
They lyeing all dead in their sight;
They found within their ship of warre,
Twelve thousand pound of money bright.
"The one halfe of the ship," said Simon then,
"Ile give to my dame and [her] children small;
The other halfe of the ship Ile bestow
On you that are my fellows all."
But now bespoke the master then,
"For so, Simon, it shall not be,
For you have won it with your own hand,
And the owner of it you shall be."
"It shall be so, as I have said,
And, with this gold, for the opprest,
An habitation I will build,
Where they shall live in peace and rest."
ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTALL FRYER OF FOUNTAINS ABBEY.
The Curtal Friar here mentioned is undoubtedly the person so frequently
occurring in the ballads, as one of the companions of Robin Hood, under
the name of _Friar Tuck_. He is thus mentioned by Skelton, laureate, in
his "Goodly Interlude of Magnificence," written about the year 1500, and
with an evident allusion to some game now forgotten:--
"Another bade shave halfe my berde,
And boyes to the pylery gan me plucke,
And wolde have made me freer Tucke,
To preche oute of the pylery hole."
The Curtal Friars were named, according to Dr. Stukeley, from the cord
or rope which they wore round their waist, to whip themselves with, and
were of the Franciscan order. Our friar is undoubtedly so called from
his curtal dogs, or curs as we now call them, for in fact he was not a
friar, but a monk of Fountains Abbey, which was of the Cistercian order.
Robin Hood's bow is said by Ray to have been preserved in Fountains
Abbey.[35]
The following ballad is from an old black-letter copy in the collection
of A. à Wood, corrected by a much earlier one in the Pepysian library,
printed by H. Gosson, _circa_ 1610.
In summer time, when leaves grow green,
And flowers are fresh and gay,
Robin Hood and his merry men
Were disposed to play.
Then some would leape, and some would runne,
And some would use artillery;
"Which of you can a good bow draw,
A good archer for to be?
"Which of you can kill a bucke,
Or who can kill a doe;
Or who can kill a hart of Greece,
Five hundreth foot him fro?"
Will Scadlocke he kild a bucke,
And Midge he kild a doe;
And Little John kild a hart of Greece,
Five hundreth foot him fro.
"God's blessing on thy heart," said Robin Hood,
"That hath such a shot for me;
I would ride my horse a hundred miles,
To find one could match thee."
That caused Will Scadlocke to laugh,
He laughed full heartily:
"There lives a curtall fryer in Fountaines Abbey
Will beate both him and thee.
"The curtail fryer in Fountaines Abbey
Well can a strong bow draw,
He will beat you and your yeomen,
Set them all on a row."
Robin Hood he tooke a solemne oath,
It was by Mary free,
That he would neither eate nor drinke,
'Till the fryer he did see.
Robin Hood put on his harnesse good,
On his head a cap of steel,
Broad sword and buckler by his side,
And they became him weele.
He tooke his bow into his hand,
It was made of a trusty tree,
With a sheafe of arrowes at his belt,
And to Fountaine Dale went he.
And comming unto Fountaine Dale,
No further he would ride;
There he was aware of the curtall fryer,
Walking by the water side.
The fryer had on a harnesse good,
On his head a cap of steel,
Broad sword and buckler by his side,
And they became him weele.
Robin Hood lighted off his horse,
And tyed him to a thorne:
"Carry me over the water, thou curtall fryer,
Or else thy life's forlorne."
The fryer tooke Robin Hood on his backe,
Deepe water he did bestride,
And spake neither good word nor bad,
'Till he came at the other side.
Lightly leapt Robin offe the fryer's backe;
The fryer said to him againe,
"Carry me over this water, thou fine fellow,
Or it shall breed thy paine."
Robin Hood took the fryer on his backe,
Deepe water he did bestride,
And spake neither good word nor bad,
'Till he came at the other side.
Lightly leapt the fryer off Robin Hood's backe,
Robin Hood said to him againe,
"Carry me over this water, thou curtall fryer,
Or it shall breede thy paine."
The fryer tooke Robin on's backe againe,
And stept in to the knee,
'Till he came at the middle streame,
Neither good nor bad spake he;
And comming to the middle streame,
There he threw Robin in;
"And chuse thee, chuse thee, fine fellow,
Whether thou wilt sink or swim."
Robin Hood swam to a bush of broome,
The fryer to a wigger[36] wand;
Bold Robin Hood is gone to shore,
And took his bowe in his hand.
One of his best arrowes under his belt,
To the fryer he let fly;
The curtall fryer with his Steele buckler,
Did put that arrow by.
"Shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow,
Shoot as thou hast begun;
If thou shoot here a summer's day,
Thy marke I will not shun."
Robin Hood shot passing well,
'Till his arrows all were gane;
They tooke their swords and steele bucklers,
They fought with might and maine.
From ten o' th' clock that very day,
Till four i' th' afternoon;
Then Robin Hood came to his knees,
Of the fryer to beg a boone.
"A boone, a boone, thou curtall fryer,
I beg it on my knee;
Give me leave to set my horne to my mouth,
And to blow blasts three."
"That I will do," said the curtall fryer,
"Of thy blasts I have no doubt;
I hope thoult blow so passing well,
'Till both thy eyes fall out."
Robin Hood set his horne to his mouth,
He blew out blasts three;
Halfe a hundreth yeomen, with bowes bent,
Came raking over the lee.
"Whose men are these," said the fryer,
"That come so hastily?"
"These are mine;" said Robin Hood,
"Fryer, what is that to thee?"
"A boone, a boone," said the curtall fryer,
"The like I gave to thee;
Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth,
And to whute whues three."
"That will I doe," said Robin Hood,
"Or else I were to blame;
Three whues in a fryer's fist
Would make me glad and faine."
The fryer set his fist to his mouth,
And whuted whues three:
Halfe a hundreth good band-dogs[37]
Came running over the lee.
"Here's for every man a dog,
And I myselfe for thee."
"Nay, by my faith," said Robin Hood,
"Fryer, that may not be."
Two dogs at once to Robin Hood did goe,
The one behind, the other before,
Robin Hood's mantle of Lincolne greene
Off from his backe they tore.
And whether his men shot east or west,
Or they shot north or south,
The curtall dogs so taught they were,
They kept the arrows in their mouth.
"Take up thy dogs," said Little John,
"Fryer, at my bidding be."
"Whose man art thou," said the curtall fryer,
"Comes here to prate with me?"
"I am Little John, Robin Hood's man,
Fryer, I will not lie;
If thou take not up thy dogs soone,
I'le take up them and thee."
Little John had a bow in his hand,
He shot with might and main;
Soon halfe a score of the fryer's dogs
Lay dead upon the plain.
"Hold thy hand, good fellow," said the curtall fryer,
"Thy master and I will agree;
And we will have new orders taken
With all the hast may be."
"If thou wilt forsake fair Fountaines Dale,
And Fountaines Abbey free,
Every Sunday throwout the yeere,
A noble shall be thy fee:
"And every holliday through the yeere,
Changed shall thy garment be,
If thou wilt goe to faire Nottingham,
And there remaine with me."
This curtall fryer had kept Fountaines Dale
Seven long yeeres and more,
There was neither knight, lord, nor earle,
Could make him yield before.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 35: Itineraries, 161.]
[Footnote 36: Willow.]
[Footnote 37: So called from their being tied up at night.]
THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD'S ENTERTAINMENT
BY ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN,
IN MERRY BARNSDALE.
"Along on the lift hond," says Leland, "a iii. miles of betwixt Milburne
and Feribridge, I saw the wooddi and famose forrest of Barnesdale;[38]
wher thay say that Robyn Hudde lyvid like an outlaw."[39] This ballad
is supposed to be modern, from the Aldermary church-yard press, compared
with the York copy.
Some they will talk of bold Robin Hood,
And some of barons bold;
But I'll tell you how he serv'd the bishop of Hereford,
When he robb'd him of his gold.
As it befel in merry Barnsdale,
All under the green-wood tree,
The bishop of Hereford was to come by,
With all his company.
"Come, kill a ven'son," said bold Robin Hood,
"Come, kill me a good fat deer,
The bishop of Hereford is to dine with me to-day,
And he shall pay well for his cheer.
"We'll kill a fat ven'son," said bold Robin Hood,
"And dress it by the highway side;
And we will watch the bishop narrowly,
Lest some other way he should ride."
Robin Hood dress'd himself in shepherd's attire,
With six of his men also;
And, when the bishop of Hereford came by,
They about the fire did go.
"O, what is the matter?" then said the bishop,
"Or for whom do you make this a-do?
Or why do you kill the king's ven'son,
When your company is so few?"
"We are shepherds," said bold Robin Hood,
"And we keep sheep all the year,
And we are disposed to be merry this day,
And to kill of the king's fat deer."
"You are brave fellows!" said the bishop,
"And the king of your doings shall know;
Therefore make haste, and come along with me,
For before the king you shall go."
"O pardon, O pardon," said bold Robin Hood,
"O pardon, I thee pray;
For it becomes not your lordship's coat
To take so many lives away."
"No pardon, no pardon," said the bishop,
"No pardon I thee owe,
Therefore make haste, and come along with me,
For before the king you shall go."
Then Robin set his back against a tree,
And his foot against a thorn,
And from underneath his shepherd's coat
He pull'd out a bugle horn.
He put the little end to his mouth,
And a loud blast did he blow,
'Till threescore and ten of bold Robin's men
Came running all on a row;
All making obeysance to bold Robin Hood,
'Twas a comely sight for to see:--
"What is the matter, master," said Little John,
"That you blow so hastily?"
"O, here is the bishop of Hereford,
And no pardon we shall have."
"Cut off his head, master," said Little John,
"And throw him into his grave."
"O pardon, O pardon," said the bishop,
"O pardon I thee pray;
For if I had known it had been you,
I'd have gone some other way."
"No pardon, no pardon," said bold Robin Hood,
"No pardon I thee owe;
Therefore make haste, and come along with me,
For to merry Barnsdale you shall go."
Then Robin he took the bishop by the hand,
And led him to merry Barnsdale;
He made him to stay and sup with him that night,
And to drink wine, beer, and ale.
"Call in a reckoning," said the bishop,
"For methinks it grows wondrous high."
"Lend me your purse, master," said Little John,
"And I'll tell you by-and-bye."
Then Little John took the bishop's cloak,
And spread it upon the ground,
And out of the bishop's portmantua
He told three hundred pound.
"Here's money enough, master," said Little John,
"And a comely sight 'tis to see;
It makes me in charity with the bishop,
Though he heartily loveth not me."
Robin Hood took the bishop by the hand,
And he caused the music to play;
And he made the bishop to dance in his boots,
And glad he could so get away.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 38: "A. D. 1194, King Richard I. being a hunting in the
forrest of Sherwood, did chase a hart out of the forrest of Sherwood
into Barnesdale in Yorkshire, and because he could not there recover
him, he made proclamation at Tickill in Yorkshire, and at divers other
places, that no person should kill, hurt or chase the said hart, but
that he might safely retorne into forrest againe; which hart was
afterwards called, 'A hart royall proclaimed.'"--MANWOOD'S _Forest
Laws_.]
[Footnote 39: Itinerary, v. 101.]
ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL.
ROBIN HOOD having for a long period, maintained a sort of independent
sovereignty, and set kings, judges, and magistrates at defiance, a
proclamation was published offering a considerable reward for bringing
him either dead or alive; which, however, appears to have been
productive of no greater success than former attempts for that
purpose.[40] At length, the infirmities of old age increasing, and
desirous to be relieved, in a fit of sickness, by being bled, he applied
for that purpose to the prioress of Kirklees nunnery, in the parish of
Dewsbury, W. R. of Yorkshire.[41] From the Sloane MS. we learn "that
being dystempered with could and age, he had great payne in his lymmes,
his bloud being corrupted, therefore, to be eased of his payne by
letting bloud, he repayred to the priores of Kyrkesly, which some say
was his aunt, a woman very skylful in physique and surgery; who,
perceyving him to be Robyn Hood, and waying howe fel an enimy he was to
religious persons, toke revenge of him for her owne howse and all others
by letting him bleed to death." This event happened in the 31st of Henry
III. (1247), and, if the date assigned to his birth be correct, about
the 87th year of his age. He was interred under some trees, at a short
distance from the precinct of the nunnery, a stone being placed over his
grave.[42]
The following inscription over his remains, preserved by Dr. Gale, dean
of York, Thoresby says, was "scarce legible," and Dr. Whitaker seems to
think spurious:--
HEAR UNDERNEAD DIS LAITL STEAN
LAIZ ROBERT EARL OF HUNTINGTUN
NEAR ARCIR VER AZ HIE SA GEUD
AN PIPL KAULD IM ROBIN HEUD
SICK UTLAWZ AZ HI AN IZ MEN
VIL ENGLAND NIVR SI AGEN.
OBIIT 24 KAL. DEKEMBRIS 1247.[43]
A statue of this renowned free-booter, large as life, leaning on his
unbent bow, with a quiver of arrows, and a sword by his side, formerly
stood on one side the entrance into Kirklees Hall.
This ballad is preserved solely in the editions of "Robin Hood's
Garland," printed at York, where it is made to conclude with some
foolish lines, (adopted from the London copy of a ballad, called "Robin
Hood and Valiant Knight,") in order to introduce the epitaph.
When Robin Hood and Little John,
_Down a down, a down, a down,_
Went o'er yon bank of broom,
Said Robin Hood to Little John,
"We have shot for many a pound:
_Hey down, a down, a down_.
"But I am not able to shoot one shot more,
My arrows will not flee;
But I have a cousin lives down below,
Please God, she will bleed me."
Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone,
As fast as he can win;
But before he came there, as we do hear,
He was taken very ill.
And when that he came to fair Kirkley hall,
He knock'd all at the ring,
But none was so ready as his cousin herself
For to let bold Robin in.
"Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said
"And drink some beer with me?"
"No, I will neither eat nor drink,
Till I am blooded by thee."
"Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said,
"Which you did never see,
And if you please to walk therein,
You blooded by me shall be."
She took him by the lily-white hand,
And led him to a private room,
And there she blooded bold Robin Hood,
Whilst one drop of blood would run.
She blooded him in the vein of the arm,
And lock'd him up in the room;
There did he bleed all the live-long day,
Untill the next day at noon.
He then bethought him of a casement door,
Thinking for to be gone,
He was so weak he could not leap,
Nor he could not get down.
He then bethought him of his bugle-horn,
Which hung low down to his knee,
He set his horn unto his mouth,
And blew out weak blasts three.
Then Little John, when hearing him,
As he sat under the tree,
"I fear my master is near dead,
He blows so wearily."
Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone,
As fast as he can dree;
But when he came to Kirkley hall,
He broke locks two or three;
Untill he came bold Robin to,
Then he fell on his knee:
"A boon, a boon," cries Little John,
"Master, I beg of thee."
"What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood,
"Little John, thou begs of me?"
"It is to burn fair Kirkley hall,
And all their nunnery."
"Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood,
"That boon I'll not grant thee;
I never hurt[44] woman in all my life,
Nor man in woman's company.
"I never hurt fair maid in all my time,
Nor at my end shall it be;
But give me my bent bow in my hand,
And a broad arrow I'll let flee;
And where this arrow is taken up,
There shall my grave digg'd be.
"Lay me a green sod under my head,
And another at my feet;
And lay my bent bow by my side,
Which was my music sweet;
And make my grave of gravel and green,
Which is most right and meet.
"Let me have length and breadth enough,
With a green sod under my head;
That they may say, when I am dead,
Here lies bold Robin Hood."
These words they readily promis'd him,
Which did bold Robin please:
And there they buried bold Robin Hood,
Near to the fair Kirkleys.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 40: Grafton, 85. Harl. MS. 1233. 367.]
[Footnote 41: Letter from Jo. Saville, to W. Camden, _Illus. Viro Epis_.
1691.]
[Footnote 42: Collectanea, i. 54. Fuller's Worthies of Eng. 330.]
[Footnote 43: In a work entitled, "Sepulchrorum inscriptiones: or a
curious collection of 900 of the most remarkable epitaphs," Westminster,
1727; this epitaph is not inelegantly paraphrased:--
"Here, underneath this little stone,
Through death's assaults, now lieth one,
Known by the name of Robin Hood,
Who was a thief, and archer good;
Full thirteen (thirty?) years, and something more,
He robb'd the rich to feed the poor;
Therefore, his grave bedew with tears.
And offer for his soul your prayers."
In the "Travels of Tom Thumb over England and Wales," is another
version, though inferior:--
"Here, under this memorial stone,
Lies Robert earl of Huntingdon;
As he, no archer e'er was good,
And people call'd him Robin Hood;
Such outlaws as his men and he
Again may England never see."
See the anecdote respecting the removal of Robin Hood's tombstone in
Gent's "Ancient and Modern History of the Famous City of York," 1730,
12mo. p. 234.]
[Footnote 44: Burnt. This stanza is omitted in one edition.]
HISTORY OF SIR JOHN ELAND, OF
ELAND, AND HIS ANTAGONISTS.
The origin of this quarrel is not very clear, neither is it certain the
time when this ballad was written. It is said that one Exley had killed
the brother's son of sir John Eland, and that a relative, sir Robert
Beaumont, screened him from the resentment of sir John, also that the
affair was, in some measure, made up, sir John Eland having accepted of
a compensation in lieu of justice being done upon the murderer, but that
he afterwards violated the agreement; whereupon sir John got together a
considerable number of armed men, and in one night, in the month of May,
put to death the said sir Robert, and two old gentlemen, his near
relatives, Hugh de Quarmby and John de Lockwood. This is so far
confirmed by the Hopkinson MSS. in the possession of Mrs. Richardson
Currer of Eshton hall, wherein it says, "that with sir Robert Beaumont
were slain his brother William, and ... Exley, who had killed the
brother's son of sir John Eland." This manner of executing private
revenge, according to Brady, in his "History of the Reign of King
Stephen," was brought from Normandy to England:--"If any earl, or great
man, found himself aggrieved by another, they frequently got together
all their men at arms, or knights that held of them, their other tenants
and poor dependants, and as much assistance from their friends and
confederates as they could, and burnt one another's castles and houses,
&c."
No worldly wight can here attain
Always to have their will,
But now in grief, sometimes in pain,
Their course they must fulfil;
For when men live in worldly wealth,
Full few can have that grace,
Long in the same to keep themselves
Contented with their place.
The squire must needs become a knight,
The knight a lord would be,
Thus shall you see no worldly wight,
Content with his degree.
For pride it is that pricks the heart
And moves men to mischief,
All kind of pity set apart
Withouten grudge or grief.
Where pride doth reign within the heart,
And wickedness in will,
The fear of God quite set apart,
Their fruits must needs be ill.
Some cannot suffer for to see
And know their neighbors thrive,
Like to themselves in good degree,
But rather seek their lives.
And some must be possess'd alone,
And such would have no peer,
Like to themselves they would have none
Dwell nigh them any where.
With such like faults was foul infect
One sir John Eland, knight;[45]
His doings make it much suspect
Therein he took delight.
Some time there dwelt at Crossland hall,
A kind and courteous knight,
It was well known that he withal
Sir Robert Beaumont[46] hight.
At Eland sir John Eland dwelt
Within the manor hall,
The town his own, the parish held
Most part upon him all.
The market town was Eland then,
The patent hath been seen,
Under king Edward's seal certain,
The first Edward I ween.[47]
But now I blush to sing for dread,
Knowing mine own country,
So basely stor'd with Cain his seed
There springing plenteously.
Alack, such store of witty men
As now are in these days,
Were both unborn, and gotten then,
To stay such wicked ways.
Some say that Eland sheriff was
By Beaumont disobey'd,
Which might him make for that trespass
With him the worse appaid.
He raised the country round about,
His friends, and tenants all,
And for his purpose picked out
Stout, sturdy men and tall.
To Quarmby hall they came by night,
And there the lord they slew,
At that time Hugh of Quarmby hight,
Before the country knew.
To Lockwood then the self-same night,
They came, and there they slew
Lockwood of Lockwood, that wily wight,
That stirr'd the strife anew.[48]
When they had slain thus suddenly
Sir Robert Beaumont's aid,
To Crossland they came craftily,
Of nought they were afraid.
The hall was water'd well about,
No wight might enter in;
Till that the bridge was well laid out,
They durst not venture in.[49]
Before the house they could invade.
In ambush they did lodge;
And watch'd a wench, with wily trade,
Till she let down the bridge.
A siege they set, assault they made,
Heinously to the hall;
The knight's chamber they did invade,
And took the knight withal.
And this is for most certainly
That slain before he was,
He fought against them manfully,
Unarmed as he was.
His servants rose, and still withstood,
And struck with might and main;
In his defence they shed their blood,
But all this was in vain.
The lady cry'd, and shriek'd withal,
When as from her they led
Her dearest knight into the hall,
And there cut off his head.
But all in vain, the more pity,
For pity had no place,
But craft, mischief, and cruelty,
These men did most embrace.
They had a guide that guided them
Which in their hearts did dwell,
The which to this that moved them,
The very devil in hell.
See here in what uncertainty
This wretched world is led;
At night in his prosperity,
At morning slain, and dead.
I wis a woeful house there was,
The lord lay slain, and dead,
Their foes then eat before their face
Their meat, ale, wine, and bread.
Two boys sir Robert Beaumont had
There left alive unslain;
Sir John of Eland he then bade
To eat with him certain.
The one did eat with him truly,
The younger it was, I think;
Adam, the eldest, sturdily,
Would neither eat nor drink.[50]
"See how this boy," said Eland, "see
His father's death can take;
If any be, it will be he,
That will revengement make.
"But if that he wax wild anon
I shall him soon foresee;
And cut them off by one and one,
As time shall then serve me."
_The first fray here now have you heard,
The second doth ensue;
And how much mischief afterward
Upon these murders grew._
_And how the mischief he contriv'd
His wicked heart within,
Light on himself shall be described,
Mark now, for I begin:--_
The same morning two messengers
Were sent to Lancashire,
To Mr. Townley and Brereton,
Their helps for to require.
Unto the mount beneath Marsden
Now were they come with speed,
But hearing that their friend was slain,
They turn'd again indeed.
When Eland with his wilful ire
Thus Beaumont's blood had shed,
Into the coasts of Lancashire,
The lady Beaumont fled.
With her she took her children all
At Brereton to remain;
Some time also at Townley hall
They sojourned certain.
Brereton and Townley friends they were
To her, and of her blood;
And presently it did appear
They sought to do her good.
They kept the boys 'till they increas'd
In person and in age,
Their father's death to have redrest
Still kindled their courage.
Lacy and Lockwood were with them
Brought up at Brereton green,
And Quarmby, kinsman unto them,
At home durst not be seen.
The feats of fence they practiced
To wield their weapons well,
Till fifteen years were finish'd,
And then it so befel,
Lockwood, the eldest of them all,
Said, "Friends, I think it good,
We went into our country all,
To venge our fathers' blood.
"If Eland have this for well done
He will slay me indeed,
Best were it then we slew him soon,
And cut off Cain his seed.
"I saw my father Lockwood slain,
And Quarmby in the night,
And last of all they slew certain,
Sir Robert Beaumont, knight.
"O Lord, this was a cruel deed,
Who could their hands refrain;
For to pluck out such wicked weed,
Tho' it were to their pain!"
To this the rest then all agreed,
Devising day by day,
Of this their purpose how to speed,
What was the readiest way.
Two men that time from Quarmby came,
Dawson and Haigh, indeed,
Who then consulted of the same,
Of this how to proceed.
These countrymen, of course only,
Said Eland kept alway,
The Turn at Brighouse certainly,
And you shall know the day.
To Cromwelbottom you must come,
In the wood there to wait;
So you may have them all and some,
And take them in a strait.
The day was set, the Turn was kept,
At Brighouse by sir John;
Full little wist he was beset
Then at his coming home.
Dawson and Haigh had play'd their parts,
And brought from Brereton green,
Young gentlemen with hardy hearts,
As well were known and seen.
Adam of Beaumont there was laid,
And Lacy with him also,
And Lockwood, who was nought afraid
To fight against his foe.
In Cromwelbottom woods they lay,
A number with them mo,
Armed they were in good array,
A spy they had also.
To spy the time when Eland came,
From Brighouse Turn that day,
Who play'd his part, and show'd the same
To them there as they lay.
Beneath Brookfoot a hill there is
To Brighouse in the way,
Forth came they to the top of this,
There prying for their prey.
From the lane end then Eland came
A spied these gentlemen,
Sore wonder'd he who they could be,
And val'd his bonnet then.
"Thy court'sy 'vails thee not, sir knight,
Thou slew my father dear,
Some time sir Robert Beaumont hight,
And slain thou shalt be here."
Said Adam Beaumont, with the rest,
"Thou hast our fathers slain,
Whose deaths we mind shall be redrest,
Of thee, and thine certain."
To strike at him still did they strive,
But Eland still withstood,
With might and main, to save his life,
But still they shed his blood.
They cut him from his company,
Belike at the lane end;
And there they slew him certainly,
And thus he made his end.
Mark here the end of cruelty,
Such fine hath falshood, lo!
Such end forsooth himself had he,
As he brought others to.
But Beaumont yet was much to blame,
Tho' here he play'd the man,
The part he play'd not in the same
Of a right Christian.
A pure conscience could never find
An heart to do this deed;
Tho' he this day should be assign'd
His own heart's blood to bleed.
But kind, in these young gentlemen,
Crept where it could not go,
And in such sort enforced them
Their fathers' bane to slo.
_The second fray now here you have,
The third now shall you hear;
Of your kindness no more I crave,
But only to give ear._
When sir John Eland thus was slain,
Indeed the story tells,
Both Beaumont and his fellows then
Fled in Furness fells.
O cruel Mars, why wert thou nought
Contented yet with this;
To shed more blood, but still thou sought,
For such thy nature is.
Their young conscience corrupt by thee,
Indeed could never stay,
'Till into extreme misery
They ran the readiest way.
For Cain his seed on ev'ry side,
With wicked hearts disgrac'd;
Which to show mercy hath denied,
Must needs be now displac'd.
In Furness fells long time they were,
Boasting of their misdeed,
In more mischief contriving there,
How yet they might proceed.
They had their spies in this country,
Nigh Eland, who then dwell'd
Where sir John Eland liv'd truly,
And there his household held.
Mo gentlemen then were not there
In Eland parish dwell'd,
Save Savile half part of the year
His house at Rushworth held.
He kept himself from such debate,
Removing thence withal,
Twice in the year by Savile gate
Unto the Bothom hall.
Adam of Beaumont then truly,
Lacy and Lockwood eke,
And Quarmby came to their country
Their purpose for to seek.
To Cromwelbottom wood[51] they came,
There kept them secretly,
By fond deceit there did they frame,
Their crafty cruelty.
This is the end in sooth to say,
On Palm Sun. e'en at night,
To Eland miln they took the way,
About the mirke midnight.
Into the miln house there they brake,
And kept them secretly,
By subtilty thus did they seek,
The young knight for to slay.
The morning came, the milner sent
His wife for corn in haste,
These gentlemen in hands her hent,
And bound her hard and fast.
The milner sware she should repent,
She tarried there so long,
A good cudgel in hand he hent
To chastise her with wrong.
With haste into the miln came he,
And meant with her to strive,
But they bound him immediately,
And laid him by his wife.
The young knight dreamt, the selfsame night
With foes he was bested,
That fiercely fettled them to fight
Against him in his bed.
He told his lady soon of this,
But as a thing most vain,
She weigh'd it light, and said, "I wis
We must to church certain,
"And serve God there this present day."
The knight then made him bown.
And by the miln house lay the way
That leadeth to the town.
The drought had made the water small,
The stakes appeared dry;
The knight, his wife, and servants all,
Came down the dam thereby.
When Adam Beaumont this beheld,
Forth of the miln came he,
His bow in hand with him he held,
And shot at him sharply.
He hit the knight on the breast plate,
Whereat the shot did glide;
William of Lockwood wroth thereat,
Said, "Cousin, you shoot wide."
Himself did shoot and hit the knight,
Who nought was hurt with this,
Whereat the knight had great delight,
And said to them, "I wis
"If that my father had been clad
With such armour certain,
Your wicked hands escaped he had,
And had not so been slain.
"O Eland town, alack," said he,
"If thou but knew of this,
These foes of mine full fast would flee,
And of their purpose miss.
"By stealth to work must needs they go,
For it had been too much,
The town knowing, the lord to slo
For them, and twenty such."
William of Lockwood was adread
The town should rise indeed;
He shot the knight quite thro' the head,
And slew him then with speed.
His son and heir[52] was wounded there,
But yet not dead at all;
Into the house convey'd he were,
And died in Eland hall.
A full sister forsooth had he,
An half brother[53] also;
The full sister his heir must be,
The half brother not so.
The full sister his heir she was,
And Savile[54] wed the same;
Thus lord of Eland Savile was,
And since in Savile name.
Lo here the end of all mischief,
From Eland, Eland's name
Dispatch'd it was to their great grief,
Well worthy of the same.
What time these men such frays did frame
Deeds have I read, and heard
That Eland came to Savile's name
In Edward's days the third.
But as for Beaumont, and the rest,
They were undone utterly;
Thus simple virtue is the best,
And chief felicity.
By Whittle-lane end they took their flight,
And to the old Earth-gate;
Then took the wood, as well they might,
And spy'd a privy gate.
Themselves conveying craftily
To Annely-wood that way,
The town of Eland manfully
Pursued them that day.
The lord's servants throughout the town,
Had cry'd with might and main,[55]
"Up, gentle yeomen, make you bown,
This day your lord is slain."
Whittle, and Smyth, and Rimmington,
Bury with many mo;
As brimme as boars they made them bown,
Their lord's enemies to slo.
And, to be short, the people rose
Throughout the town about;
Then fiercely following on their foes.
With hue and cry, and shout.
All sorts of men show'd their good wills,
Some bows and shafts did bear;
Some brought forth clubs, and rusty bills,
That saw no sun that year.
To church now as the parish came,
They join'd them with the town,
Like hardy men to stand all sam,
To fight now were they bown.
Beaumont and Quarmby saw all this,
And Lockwood where they stood;
They fettled them to fence, I wis,
And shot as they were wood,
Till all their shafts were gone and spent,
Of force then must they flee;
They had dispatch'd all their intent,
And lost no victory.
The hardiest man of them that was,
Was Quarmby, this is true;
For he would never turn his face
Till Eland men him slew.
Lockwood, he bare him on his back,
And hid him in Annely-wood;[56]
To whom his purse he did betake,
Of gold and silver good.
"Here take you this to you," said he,
"And to my cousins here;
And in your mirth remember me,
When you do make good cheer.
"If that my foes should this possess,
It were a grief to me;
My friends welfare is my riches,
And chief felicity.
"Give place with speed, and fare you well,
Christ, shield you from mischief;
If that it otherwise befel,
It would be my great grief."
Their foes so fiercely follow'd on,
It was no biding there;
Lockwood, with speed, he went anon,
To his friends where they were.
With haste then towards Huddersfield,
They held their ready way;
Adam of Beaumont the way he held,
To Crossland hall that day.[57]
When Eland men returned home,
Through Annely-wood that day;
There found they Quarmby laid alone,
Scarce dead, so some men say.
And then they slew him out of hand,
Dispatch'd him of his pain;
The late death of their lord Eland
Inforced them certain.
"Learn, Savile, here, I you beseech,
That in prosperity
You be not proud, but mild and meek,
And dwell in charity;
"For by such means your elders came
To knightly dignity;
Where Eland then forsook the same,
And came to misery.
"Mark here the breach of charity,
How wretchedly it ends;
Mark here how much felicity
On charity depends.
"A speech it is to ev'ry wight
Please God who may or can;
It wins always with great delight,
The heart of every man.
"Where charity withdraws the heart
From sorrow and sighs deep;
Right heavy makes it many a heart,
And many an eye to weep.
"You gentlemen, love one another,
Love well the yeomanry;
Count ev'ry Christian man his brother,
And dwell in charity.
"Then shall it come to pass truly,
That all men you shall love;
And after death then shall you be
In heav'n with God above.
"To whom always, of ev'ry wight,
Throughout all years and days;
In heav'n and earth, both day and night,
Be honour, laud, and praise."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 45: Son of sir Thomas de Eland, of Eland hall in the parish of
Halifax, knight of the shire for Yorkshire, 14 Edward III. and sheriff
of Yorkshire, 15 Edward III., in which year it is supposed the quarrel
took place. Sir John married, 1st, Alice, daughter of sir Robert Lathom,
(who bore, or, on a chief daucette, az. three plates,) by whom he had
issue sir John Eland, who had a son, name unknown, and Isabel. Thomas,
Henry, Margery, Isabel, and Dionysia; 2ndly, Ann, daughter of ---- Rygate,
by whom he had no issue; and 3rdly, Olive ---- by whom he had Robert, who
married Alice, daughter of Fitz-Eustace, and James, who died young. In
the quire of the church of Eland, in a window, are painted the arms of
Eland, viz. Gules, two barrulets between eight martlets argent, three,
two and three.]
[Footnote 46: Son of William de Beaumout, of Whitley, in the parish of
Kirkeaton. He married, _circa_ 20 Edward II., Grace, daughter and
heiress of sir Edward Crossland, of Crossland, co. Yorkshire, knight, by
whom he had Adam, named hereafter Thomas, who died _s. p._, and John,
who married Alice, daughter of John Soothill, esq., by whom he had
Richard, from whom descended a race who lived in splendour to the reign
of Charles I.]
[Footnote 47: The market appears to have been granted by charter, 10
Edward II. (_Harl MS. No. 797._), and for some time held a rivalship
with Halifax; but for many ages the market has been discontinued.]
[Footnote 48: Lockwood appears to have been a quarrelsome person, for in
the court rolls at Wakefield, 35 Edward I., John de Lockwood, of
Lockwood, was presented and afterwards found guilty of having forcibly
ejected one Matthew de Linthwaite from his free tenement, and when the
earl's grave and bailiff came to take possession thereof, he made an
attempt, with others unknown, to have slain them, so that they barely
escaped with their lives.]
[Footnote 49: "The remains of a wet ditch surrounding Crossland hall are
visible to this day; but neither Quarmby nor Lockwood houses had the
same advantage."--WATSON'S _Hist. of Halifax_.]
[Footnote 50: It is stated in Hopkinson's MSS. "that when sir John Eland
gave bread to Adam Beaumont, he threw it at him with disdain; on which
sir John said he would weed out the offspring of his blood, as they weed
out the weed from corn;" but this threatening was so far from being
verified that sir John's male issue were entirely cut off, whilst that
of Beaumont continued in John the third son. The preceding verse
mentions only "two boys;" but the pedigree of the family gives a third,
who probably was an infant at the time, and therefore too young to be
noticed. Adam appears to have only been about five years of age; this
may account for the different behaviour of the two boys.]
[Footnote 51: Some copies read Cromwelbottom hall; the residence of
Lacy.]
[Footnote 52: "This verse," says Watson, "cannot be explained, for no
authority which I have seen shows the name of sir John's son and heir."]
[Footnote 53: The half brother mentioned was a son of sir John's lady,
who was daughter of Gilbert Umfravile, and widow of Robert Coniers of
Sockburn, in the county of Durham.]
[Footnote 54: After the death of sir John Eland, and his son and heir,
sir John Savile of Tankersley, purchased, in 1350, the wardship of
Isabel Eland, daughter of the said sir John, from the lord of the honour
of Pontefract, for 200_l_. See _Comput. Seneschall honoris de
Pontfrete_, p. 17. After this purchase he married her, and in her right
became possessed of the estates belonging to that family.]
[Footnote 55: Hopkinson's MSS. says "that the town and neighbourhood
were raised by sound of horn, and ringing the bells backways."]
[Footnote 56: "In an ivy tree, with an intent to have been
saved."--HOPKINSON'S _MSS_.]
[Footnote 57: The subsequent history of these gentlemen is given in "A
relation of the lives and deaths of Wilkin (or William) Lockwood, and
Adam Beaumont, esqrs. and what adventures happened to them after the
battle with the Eland men, in Anely wood;" from which we learn that
Lockwood retired to a solitary place called Camel hall, near Cawthorn
(now Cannon hall), where he was subsequently taken by the sheriff and
his men, after a desperate resistance, and cruelly put to death, to the
utter extirpation of the ancient family of Lockwood, of Lockwood, in the
West Riding of Yorkshire.
_Adam Beaumont_, upon hearing of the death of Lockwood, and that
precepts were sent from London to the sheriff to arrest him, resolved to
leave the country; and having landed in France, by some means or other
got into the service of the knights of Rhodes. Some years after, his
friends received an account of his life and death; from which it appears
he resided sometimes at Rhodes, amongst the knights there, and sometimes
in Hungary, where, in one of the engagements against the Turks, he
honourably ended his life.]
THE BOY OF EGREMOND.
BY JOHN BIRD.
William de Meschines and Cecily de Romille his wife, founders of Embsay
Priory, (says Dr. Whitaker,) were now dead, and had left a daughter,
Alice, who adopted her mother's name, Romille, and was married to
William Fitz-Duncan, nephew of David, king of Scotland. They had issue a
son, commonly called the _Boy of Egremond_,[58] who, surviving an elder
brother, became the last hope of the family.
In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden, in Craven,
four miles up the river, the Wharfe suddenly contracts itself to a rocky
channel, little more than four feet wide, and pours through the
tremendous fissure with a rapidity proportioned to its confinement. The
place was then, as it is yet, called _the Strid_, from a feat often
exercised by persons of more agility than prudence, who stride from
brink to brink, regardless of the destruction which awaits a faltering
step. Such was the fate of young Romille, who inconsiderately bounded
over the chasm, with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back and
drew his unfortunate master into the torrent. The misfortune is said to
have occasioned the translation of the priory from Embsay to Bolton,
which was the nearest eligible site to the place where it happened.
This priory existed upwards of four hundred years, when it was
surrendered by Richard Moon, the prior, and fourteen of his brethren, on
the 26th Jan. 1540. On the 3rd April, 1542, the site was granted to
Henry Clifford, first earl of Cumberland, but nineteen days before his
death, for the sum of 2,490_l_; from him it has descended to the present
owner, the duke of Devonshire.
"Rise up, rise up, my noble boy,
The morn is fresh and fair;
The laughing rays look out with joy,
Rich balm is on the air:--
Rise up, rise up, my gallant son,
Nor let there story be,
That hawk was flown, or heron won,
Unseen, unheard, of thee!"
The boy rose up, that noble boy,
He knelt down at her knee;--
And, oh, it was a sight of joy,
That lady's joy to see!
She parted back his golden hair,
She kist his bonny brow--
"I would each mother's heart might share
Thy mother's gladness now!
"For thou art fair, and more than fair,
Gentle in word and thought;--
Yet, oh, my son, brave boy, beware
Of dangers love hath taught!"
"Trust me," he cried, and smiling went
To range the valleys green;
And many as fair and fond intent
As dark an end hath seen.
Bright on his path the dewdrops lay--
Rich gems of nature's court;
The foot that chased their light away,
Seem'd but to fall in sport--
Seem'd but the joy of him whose bound
Forgot its speed, to hear
The warbling lark, or win the hound
From his own wild career.
And never shone fair Bolton's vale
So beautiful as now,
And ne'er beneath the sportive gale
Did Wharfe so calmly flow.
"Hark! hark! on Barden-fell the horn
Of the blithe hunter rings,
Buscar! they rouse a stag this morn;
Oh, sweet the bugle sings."
Away, away, they speed with joy,
The frolic hound and he,
Proud Egremond's far boasted boy,
That gallant chase to see.
Why pause they in their course?--'tis where
The stream impetuous flows
Through the dark rocks, that, meeting there,
Its onward path oppose!
Yet, oh, the gush, the fearful gush,
Of the wild water's strife!
On that loud eddying flood to rush,
Were but to sport with life!
Yet one true gaze--one gallant bound--
And the dread gulf is past!
"Be firm and fleet, my faithful hound!"
That spring--it was his last!
Held in a leash, that craven hound,
Faltered in fear, and gave
His master to the gulf profound--
A swift and sudden grave!
One flash of light--one look that tells
Of late and vain remorse--
And a dark mass the current swells
Far on its rapid course!
Still beautiful is Bolton's vale,
Still Wharfe's bright waters there
Trace through long years the mournful tale,
That bids rash youth beware.
There through its chasm the fatal flood
Still pours the ceaseless wave,
Where the bright boy one moment stood,
And sprang--to find a grave!
Fair Bolton's Abbey yet records
The lady's sorrowing part,
And silent walls, e'en more than words,
May wake the slumbering heart.
Ye, then, who mourn her gentle son,
Whelm'd in the fearful Strid,
Think on a mother's love, and shun
The paths her lips forbid!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 58: This incident has called forth the poetical effusions of
Wordsworth and Rogers. See their respective works; also Wordsworth's
_Hart Leap Well_, the scene of which is laid near Richmond, and _White
Doe of Rylstone_.]
THE DEPOSING OF RICHARD II. AND HIS
MURDER IN POMFRET CASTLE.
Richard II., son of the Black Prince, was born in 1366, and succeeded
his grandfather Edward III., on the throne of England, 1377; murdered in
1392. Historians differ with regard to the manner in which he was
murdered. It was long the prevailing opinion that sir Piers Exton, and
others of his guards, fell upon him in Pontefract castle, and that the
king, wresting a pole-axe from one of the murderers, soon laid four of
their number dead at his feet; but at length being overpowered, he was
struck dead with a blow of a pole-axe.
"O Pomfret, Pomfret, O thou bloody prison!
Fatal and ominous to noble Peers!
Within the guilty closure of thy walls,
Richard the Second here was hack'd to death."
SHAKSPEARE'S _Richard III_.
But it is more probable that he was starved to death; and after all
sustenance was denied him, he prolonged his unhappy life, it is said,
for a fortnight, before he reached the end of his miseries. This account
is more consistent with the story that his body was exposed in public,
and that no marks of violence were found upon it.
When Richard the Second in England was king,
And reign'd with honour and state,
Six uncles he had, his grandfather's sons,
King Edward that ruled of late;
All counsellors noble and sage;
Yet would he not hear
Their precepts dear,
So wilful he was, in this his young age.
A sort of brave gallants he kept in his court,
That train'd him to wanton delights,
Which parasites pleased him better in mind,
Than all his best nobles and knights:
Ambition and avarice grew
So great in this land,
That still from his hand
A mass of rich treasure his parasites drew.
His peers and his barons dishonoured were;
And upstarts thus mounted on high;
His commons sore tax'd, his cities oppress'd,
Good subjects were nothing set by;
And what to his coffers did come,
He wantonly spent,
To please with content
His flattering upstarts, still sporting at home.
When thus unto ruin this kingdom began,
To fall from the highest estate,
The nobles of England their prince's amiss,
By parliament soon did rebate;
And likewise those flatterers all,
They banish'd the court,
That made but a sport
To see this so famous a kingdom to fall.
But after these gallants degraded were thus,
King Richard himself was put down,
And Bullinbrook, Lancaster's noble-born duke
By policy purchased his crown.
Thus civil wars here begun,
That could have no end,
By foe nor by friend,
Till seven kings' reigns, with their lives were out-run.
But Richard, the breeder of all these same broils,
In prison was wofully cast,
Where long he complain'd, in sorrowful sort,
Of kingly authority past:
No lords nor no subjects had he,
No glory, no state,
That early and late
Upon him attending had wont for to be.
His robes were converted to garments so old,
That beggars would hardly them wear;
His diet no comfort at all to him brought,
For he fed upon sorrow and care.
And from prison to prison was sent,
Each day, and each night,
To work him despight,
That, wearied with sorrows, he still might lament.
Poor king, thus abused, he was at the last
To Pomfret in Yorkshire convey'd,
And there in a dungeon, full low in the ground,
Unpitied, he nightly was laid:
Not one for his misery grieved,
That late was in place
Of royallest grace,
Where still the distress'd he kindly relieved.
King Henry usurping then all his estate,
Could never in heart be content,
Till some of his friends in secresy sought
To kill him by cruel consent;
Who soon to Pomfret hied,
Whereas the fear,
That touch'd him so near,
They finish'd as soon as king Richard there died.
There dy'd this good king, for murther'd he was,
That might well have lived full long,
Had not ill counsel betray'd his best good,
And done his high fortunes this wrong:
But blood for blood still calls,
No bloody-stain'd hand
Can long in this land
Stand surely, but soon into misery falls.
Lancaster thus the diadem gain'd,
And won his title by blood,
Which afterwards by heaven's high power,
Not three generations stood,
But yielded to York again:
Thus fortune shows
Their proud overthrows,
That cunningly climb an imperial reign.
THE FELON SEW OF ROKEBY AND THE
FRYERS OF RICHMOND.
This curious ballad was first published in Dr. Whitaker's "History of
Craven," in 1805, but, from an inaccurate manuscript, not corrected very
happily. It was transferred by Mr. Evans to the new edition of his
Ballads, with some well-judged conjectural improvements. Sir Walter
Scott, in "Rokeby," has given a more authentic and full, though still
an imperfect, edition of this humoursome composition, from being
furnished with a copy from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. Rokeby,
of Northamptonshire, descended of the ancient barons of Rokeby. It has
three or four stanzas more than that of Dr. Whitaker, and the language
seems, where they differ, to have the more ancient and genuine readings.
Ralph Rokeby, esq. who bestowed this intractable animal on the convent
of Richmond, seems to have flourished in the time of Henry VII., which,
since we know not the date of Friar Theobald's wardenship, to which the
ballad refers us, may indicate that of the composition itself.
Ye men that will of aunters[59] winne,
That late within this land hath beene,
Of one I will you tell;
And of a sew that was sea strang,
Alas! that ever she lived sae lang,
For fell[60] folk did she whell.[61]
She was mare than other three,
The grisliest beast that ere might be,
Her head was great and gray:
She was bred in Rokeby wood,
There were few that thither goed,
That came on live[62] away.
Her walk was endlong[63] Greta side;
There was no bren that durst her bide,
That was froe heaven or hell;
Nor never man that had that might,
That ever durst come in her sight,
Her force it was so fell.
Ralph[64] of Rokeby, with good will,
The fryers of Richmond gave her till,[65]
Full well to garre[66] them fare
Fryer Middleton by his name,
He was sent to fetch her hame,
That rued him sine full sare.
With him tooke he wicht men two,
Peter Dale was one of thoe,
That ever was brim as beare,[67]
And well durst strike with sword and knife,
And fight full manly for his life,
What time as mister ware.[68]
These three men went at God's will,
This wicked sew while they came till,
Liggan under a tree;
Rugg and rusty was her haire;
She raise up with a felon fare,[69]
To fight against the three.
She was so grisley for to meete,
She rave the earth up with her feete,
And bark came fro the tree;
When fryer Middleton her saugh,
Weet ye well he might not laugh,
Full earnestly look'd hee.
These men of aunters that was so wight,[70]
They bound them bauldly for to fight,
And strike at her full sare:
Until a kiln they garred her flee,
Wold God send them the victory,
The wold ask him noa mare.
The sew was in the kiln hole down,
As they were on the balke aboon,
For hurting of their feet;
They were so saulted with this sew,
That among them was a stalworth stew,
The kiln began to reeke.
Durst noe man neigh her with his hand,
But put a rape down with his wand,
And haltered her full meete;
They hurled her forth against her will,
Whiles they came into a hill,
A little fro the street.[71]
And there she made them such a fray,
If they should live to doomes-day,
They tharrow[72] it ne'er forgett;
She braded[73] upon every side,
And ran on them gaping full wide,
For nothing would she lett.[74]
She gave such brades[75] at the band,
That Peter Dale had in his hand,
He might not hold his feet.
She chafed them to and fro,
The wight men was never soe woe,
Their measure was not so meete.
She bound her boldly to abide;
To Peter Dale she came aside,
With many a hideous yell;
She gaped soe wide, and cried soe hee,
The fryer said, "I conjure thee,[76]
Thou art a feind of hell!
"Thou art come hither for some traine,[77]
I conjure thee to go againe
Where thou wast wont to dwell."
He sayned[78] him with crosse and creede,
Took forth a book, began to reade
In St. John his gospell.
The sew she would not Latin heare,
But rudely rushed at the frear,
That blinked all his blee;[79]
And when she would have taken her hold,
The fryer leaped as Jesus[80] wold,
And bealed him[81] with a tree.
She was as brim as any beare,
For all their meete to labour there,[82]
To them it was no boote:
Upon trees and bushes that by her stood,
She ranged as she was wood,[83]
And rave them up by roote.
He sayd, "Alas, that I was frear!
And I shall be rugged[84] in sunder here,
Hard is my destinie!
Wist my brethren in this houre,
That I was sett in such a stoure,[85]
They would pray for me."
This wicked beast that wrought this woe,
Tooke that rape from the other two,
And then they fled all three;
They fled away by Watling-street,
They had no succour but their feet,
It was the more pity.
The feild it was both lost and wonne,[86]
The sew went hame, and that full soone,
To Morton[87] on the greene;
When Ralph of Rokeby saw the rape,[88]
He wist that there had been debate,
Whereat the sew had beene.
He bade them stand out of her way,
For she had had a sudden fray,--
"I saw never sew so keene;
Some new things shall we heare,
Of her and Middleton the frear,
Some battell hath there beene."
But all that served him for nought.
Had they not better succour sought,
They were served therefore loe.
Then Mistress Rokeby[89] came anon,
And for her brought shee meate full soone,
The sew came her unto.
She gyve her meate upon the flower,
* * * *[90]
[_Hiatus valde deflendus._]
When fryer Middleton came home,
His brethren was full fain ilkone,[91]
And thanked God for his life;
He told them all unto the end,
How he had foughten with a fiend,
And lived through mickle strife.
"We gave her battell half a day,
And sithin[92] was fain to fly away,
For saving of our life;[93]
And Peter Dale would never blinn,[94]
But as fast as he could ryn,[95]
Till he came to his wife."
The warden said, "I am full of woe,
That ever ye should be torment so,
But wee with you had beene!
Had wee been there your brethren all,
Wee should have garred the warle[96] fall,
That wrought you all this teyne."[97]
Fryer Middleton said soon, "Nay,
In faith you would have fled away,
When most mister[98] had beene;
You will all speake words at hame,
A man would ding you every ilk ane,[99]
And if it be as I weine."
He look't so griesly all that night,
The warden said, "Yon man will fight
If you say aught but good;
Yon guest[100] hath grieved him so sare,
Hold your tongues, and speake noe mare,
He looks as he were woode."
The warden waged[101] on the morne,
Two boldest men that ever were borne,
I weine, or ever shall be;
The one was Gilbert, Griffin's son,
Full mickle worship has he wonne,
Both by land and sea.
The other was a bastard son of Spaine,
Many a Sarazin hath he slain,
His dint hath gart them die.
These two men the battle undertooke,
Against the sew, as says the booke,
And sealed security.
That they should boldly bide and fight,
And skomfit her in maine and might,
Or therefore should they die.
The warden sealed to them againe,
And said, "In feild if ye be slain,
This condition make I:
"We shall for you pray, sing, and read,
To doomes-day with hearty speede,
With all our progeny."
Then the letters well was made,
Bands bound with seales brade,
As deedes of armes should be.
These men of armes that weere so wight,
With armour and with brandes bright,
They went this sew to see;
She made on them slike a rerd,[102]
That for her they were sare afer'd
And almost bound to flee.
She came roveing them egaine;
That saw the bastard son of Spaine,
He braded[103] out his brand;
Full spiteously at her he strake,
For all the fence that he could make,
She gat sword out of hand;
And rave in sunder half his shielde,
And bare him backward in the feilde,
He might not her gainstand.
She would have riven his privich geare,
But Gilbert with his sword of werre,
He strake at her full strong,
On her shoulder till she held the swerd;
Then was good Gilbert sore afer'd,
When the blade brake in throng.[104]
Since in his hands he hath her tane,
She tooke him by the shoulder bane,
And held her hold full fast;
She strave so stiffly in that stower,[105]
That through all his rich armour
The blood came at the last.
Then Gilbert grieved was sea sare,
That he rave off both hide and haire,
The flesh came fro the bone;
And with all force he felled her there,
And wann her worthily in werre,
And band her him alone.
And lift her on a horse sea hee,
Into two paniers well-made of a tre,
And to Richmond they did hay:[106]
When they saw her come,
They sang merrily Te Deum,
The fryers on that day.[107]
They thanked God and St. Francis,[108]
As they had won the best of pris,[109]
And never a man was slaine:
There did never a man more manly,
Knight Marcus, nor yett sir Gui,
Nor Loth of of Louthyane.[110]
If ye will any more of this,
In the fryers of Richmond 'tis
In parchment good and fine;
And how fryer Middleton that was so kend,
At Greta bridge conjured a feind,
In likeness of a swine.
It is well known to many a man,
That fryer Theobald was warden than,
And this fell in his time;
And Christ them bless both farre and neare,
All that for solace list this to heare,
And him that made the rhime.
Ralph Rokeby with full good will,
The fryers of Richmond he gave her till,
This sew to mend their fare:
Fryer Middleton by his name,
Would needs bring the fat sew hame
That rued him since full sare.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 59: Both the MS. and Dr. Whitaker's copy read _ancestors_,
evidently a corruption of _aunters_, adventures, as corrected by Mr.
Evans.]
[Footnote 60: A Saxon word for many. See _fell_ in Glossary.]
[Footnote 61: A corruption of quell, to kill.]
[Footnote 62: Alive.]
[Footnote 63: Along the side of the river Greta.]
[Footnote 64: Dr. Whitaker reads Raphe, which is undoubtedly the ancient
form.]
[Footnote 65: To.]
[Footnote 66: Make.]
[Footnote 67: Fierce as a bear. Dr. Whitaker's copy reads, perhaps in
consequence of mistaking the MS., "T'other was Bryan of Bear."]
[Footnote 68: Need were. Whitaker reads _musters_.]
[Footnote 69: A fierce countenance or manner.]
[Footnote 70: Brave. The Rokeby MS. reads _incounters_, and Dr.
Whitaker, _auncestors_.]
[Footnote 71: Watling-street, the Roman way from Catterick to Bowes.]
[Footnote 72: Dare.]
[Footnote 73: Rushed.]
[Footnote 74: Leave it.]
[Footnote 75: Pulls.]
[Footnote 76: This line is wanting in Dr. Whitaker's copy, whence it has
been conjectured that something is wanting after this stanza, which now
there is no occasion to suppose.]
[Footnote 77: Evil device.]
[Footnote 78: Blessed.]
[Footnote 79: Lost his colour.]
[Footnote 80: Some copies have the letters I.H.S., but both Whitaker and
Scott write Jesus.]
[Footnote 81: Sheltered himself.]
[Footnote 82: The MS. reads, _to labour weere_. The text seems to mean
that all their labour to obtain their intended meat was of no use to
them. Dr. Whitaker reads:--
"She was brim as any boar.
And gave a grisly hideous roar,
To them it was no boot."
Besides the want of connection between the last line and the two former,
the second has a very modern sound, and the reading in the Rokeby MS.,
with the slight alteration in the text, is much better.]
[Footnote 83: Mad.]
[Footnote 84: Torn, pulled.]
[Footnote 85: Combat, perilous fight.]
[Footnote 86: This stanza, with the two following, and a fragment of a
fourth, are not in Dr. Whitaker's edition.]
[Footnote 87: The residence of this facetious baron. Leland says, that
"Mr. Rokeby hath a place called Mortham, a little beneath
Grentey-bridge, almost on the mouth of Grentey." "This place and
Rokeby," says Hutchinson, "were, in very distant ages, in the possession
of the Rokebies; Robert de Rokeby lived in the time of the Conqueror. By
the arms and date on Mortham tower, it appears that it was built in 1166
by the Rokebies."]
[Footnote 88: The rope about the sow's neck.]
[Footnote 89: Ralph Rokeby married Margery, eldest daughter and co-heir
of Robert Danby, esq., of Yafforth near Northallerton, by a daughter of
sir Richard Conyers, knt. Her will is dated 27 Sep. 1540.--See Richmond
Wills by Surtees Soc.]
[Footnote 90: This line is illegible according to Scott; but Bell in his
Ballads gives the verse:--
Scho gav her meete upon the flower
[Scho made a bed beneath a bower,
With moss and broom besprent;
The sewe was gentle as mote be,
Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e'e,
Scho seemèd wele content.]
]
[Footnote 91: Each one.]
[Footnote 92: Since then, after that.]
[Footnote 93: The above lines are wanting in Dr. Whitaker's copy.]
[Footnote 94: Cease, stop.]
[Footnote 95: Run.]
[Footnote 96: Warlock, or wizard.]
[Footnote 97: Harm.]
[Footnote 98: Need.]
[Footnote 99: Dr. Whitaker's copy reads, perhaps better:--
"The fiend would ding you down ilk one."
]
[Footnote 100: "Yon guest" may be yon _gest_, i. e. that adventure; or
it may mean yon _ghaist_, or apparition, which in old poems is applied
sometimes to what is supernaturally hideous. The printed copy
reads,--"The beast hath," &c.]
[Footnote 101: Hired.]
[Footnote 102: Such like a roar.]
[Footnote 103: Drew out.]
[Footnote 104: In the combat.]
[Footnote 105: Meeting, battle.]
[Footnote 106: Hie, to hasten.]
[Footnote 107: The MS. reads, mistakenly, every day.]
[Footnote 108: At the back of French-gate, in Richmond, a little without
the walls, stood the monastery of the Grey Friars, founded, in 1258, by
Ralph Fitz-Randolph, lord of Middleham, and, after flourishing nearly
three centuries, was surrendered, in 1539, by Robert Sanderson, the last
warden, and fourteen brethren. Several of the families of Scroop,
Plessey, and Frank, were buried here. In the time of Leland, the house,
garden, orchard, and meadow, were walled in, and the edifice existed
unimpaired; but there now remains only a solitary steeple, majestic and
beautiful in ruins, to mark the residence and the sanctuary of that
order of mendicants called Franciscans from their founder St. Francis.]
[Footnote 109: Prize.]
[Footnote 110: The father of sir Gawain, in the "Romance of Arthur and
Merlin." The MS. is thus corrupted:--
"More loth of Louth Ryme."
]
THE RISING IN THE NORTH.
The subject of this ballad is the great Northern Insurrection in the
12th of Elizabeth, 1569. It happened thus:--
The zealous adherents of the Romish religion being dissatisfied at the
change, formed the design of re-establishing that faith, restoring Mary
of Scotland to her liberty, and placing her on the throne of England.
The earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, who possessed great power
in the north, having held together several conferences, orders were
despatched by Elizabeth to these noblemen to appear at court, and
answer for their conduct. This order from the queen precipitated the
rising before they were fully prepared, for the leaders had already
proceeded so far that they dare not trust themselves in the queen's
hands. They determined to begin the insurrection without delay; and
committed themselves irrevocably by entering Durham in arms, on the 14th
November, 1569. This rising was speedily suppressed, and martial law
having been proclaimed, great severity was exercised. The earl of
Northumberland and many gentlemen were executed; sixty-six petty
constables were hanged; and not less than eight hundred persons are said
to have suffered by the hands of the executioner. Between Newcastle and
Wetherby, a district of sixty miles in length by forty in breadth, there
was not a town or village in which some of the inhabitants did not
expire on the gibbet.
The following was first printed by Dr. Percy, in 1765, from two MS.
copies.
Listen, lively lordings all,
Lithe and listen unto me,
And I will sing of a noble earle,
The noblest earle in the north countrie.
Earle Percy[111] is into the garden gone,
And after him walkes his faire ladie:[112]
"I heard a bird sing in mine eare,
That I must either fight, or flee."
"Now heaven forfend, my dearest lord,
That ever such harm should hap to thee:
But goe to London to the court,
And faire full truth and honestie."
"Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay,
Alas! thy counsell suits not mee;
Mine enemies prevail so fast
That at the court I may not bee."
"O goe to the court yet, good my lord,
And take thy gallant men with thee:
If any dare to doe you wrong,
Then your warrant they may be."
"Now nay, now nay, thou lady faire,
The court is full of subtiltie;
And if I goe to the court, lady,
Never more I may thee see."
"Yet goe to the court, my lord," she sayes,
"And I myselfe will ryde wi' thee:
At court then for my dearest lord,
His faithfull borrowe[113] I will be."
"Now nay, now nay, my lady deare,
Far lever[114] had I lose my life,
Than leave among my cruell foes
My love in jeopardy and strife.
"But come thou hither, my little foot-page,
Come thou hither unto mee,
To maister Norton[115] thou must goe,
In all the haste that ever may bee.
"Commend me to that gentleman,
And beare this letter here fro' mee;
And say that earnestly I praye,
He will ryde in my companie."
One while the little foot-page went,
And another while he ran;
Untill he came to his journey's end;
The little foot-page never blan.[116]
When to that gentleman he came,
Down he kneeled on his knee;
And took the letter betwixt his hands,
And lett the gentleman it see.
And when the letter it was redd
Affore that goodlye companye,
I wis, if you the truth wold know,
There was many a weeping eye.
He sayd, "Come thither, Christopher Norton,[117]
A gallant youth thou seemst to bee;
What doest thou counsell me, my sonne,
Now that good earle's in jeopardy?"
"Father, my counselle's fair and free;
That earle he is a noble lord,
And whatsoever to him you hight,
I wold not have you break your word."
"Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne,
Thy counsell well it liketh mee,
And if we speed and scape with life,
Well advanced shalt thou bee.
"Come you hither, my nine good sonnes,
Gallant men I trowe you bee;
How many of you, my children deare,
Will stand by that good earle and mee?"
Eight of them did answer make,
Eight of them spake hastilie,
"O father, till the daye we dye
We'll stand by that good earle and thee."
"Gramercy now, my children deare,
You showe yourselves right bold and brave;
And whethersoe'er I live or dye,
A father's blessing you shall have.
"But what sayst thou, O Francis Norton,[118]
Thou art mine eldest sonne and heire:
Somewhat lyes brooding in thy breast;
Whatever it bee, to mee declare."
"Father, you are an aged man,
Your head is white, your bearde is gray;
It were a shame at these your years
For you to ryse in such a fray."
"Now fye upon thee, coward Francis,
Thou never learnedest this of mee:
When thou wert yong and tender of age,
Why did I make soe much of thee?"
"But, father, I will wend with you,
Unarm'd and naked will I bee;
And he that strikes against the crowne,
Ever an ill death may he dee."
Then rose that reverend gentleman,
And with him came a goodlye band
To join with the brave earle Percy,
And all the flower o' Northumberland.
With them the noble Nevill[119] came
The earle of Westmoreland was hee;
At Wetherbye they mustred their host,
Thirteen thousand faire to see.
Lord Westmoreland his ancyent[120] raisde,
The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye,
And three Dogs with golden collars
Were there sett out most royallye.[121]
Earle Percy there his ancyent spred,
The Halfe-Moone shining all soe faire:[122]
The Norton's ancyent had the crosse,
And the five wounds our Lord did beare.
Then sir George Bowes[123] he straitways rose
After them some spoyle to make:
Those noble earles turn'd backe againe,
And aye they vowed that knight to take.
That baron he to his castle fled,
To Barnard castle then fled hee,[124]
The uttermost walles were eathe[125] to win,
The earles have wonne them presentlie.
The uttermost walles were lime and bricke;
But thoughe they won them soon anone,
Long e'er they wan the innermost walles,
For they were cut in rocke of stone.
Then newes unto leeve[126] London came
In all the speede that ever might bee,
And word is brought to our royall queene
Of the rysing in the north countrie.
Her grace she turned her round about,
And like a royall queene she swore,[127]
I will ordayne them such a breakfast,
As never was in the north before.
Shee caus'd thirty thousand men berays'd,
With horse and harneis[128] faire to see;
Shee caus'd thirty thousand men berays'd
To take the earles i' th' north countrie.
Wi' them the false earle Warwick[129] went,
Th' earle Sussex[130] and the lord Hunsdon;[131]
Untill they to Yorke castle came
I wis, they never stint ne blan.
"Now spred thy ancyent, Westmoreland,
Thy Dun Bull faine would we spye;
And thou, the earle o' Northumberland,
Now rayse thy Halfe-Moone up on hye."
But the Dun Bull is fled and gone,
And the Halfe-Moone vanished away:
The earles, though they were brave and bold,
Against soe many could not stay.
"Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes,
Thy donn'd to dye, alas! for ruth![132]
Thy reverend lockes thee could not save,
Nor them their faire and blooming youthe."
Wi' them full many a gallant wight
They cruellye bereav'd of life:
And many a childe made fatherlesse,
And widowed many a tender wife.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 111: Thomas Percy, seventh earl of Northumberland, K. G; after
the failing of this insurrection he fled into Scotland, but was betrayed
by the earl of Moreton, viceroy of Scotland, and lord Hunsdon, governor
of Berwick. He was brought to York, and beheaded on a scaffold, erected
for the purpose, in the Pavement, near St. Crux church, 22nd August,
1572; in which church his body was buried, and his head placed over
Micklegate bar, where it remained about two years.]
[Footnote 112: Anne, daughter of Henry Somerset, earl of Worcester.]
[Footnote 113: Surety.]
[Footnote 114: Rather.]
[Footnote 115: Richard Norton, esq., of Norton Conyers, co. York, mar.
Susan, daughter of Richard Nevill, lord Latimer, by whom he had nine
sons, all of man's estate, and all engaged in the rebellion, though only
seven occur in the list of attainders. Old Norton escaped along with
some of his sons over seas, where he died. In the Lansdowne MSS. is a
paper addressed to Lord Burleigh, containing a pedigree of the families
of Morton of Bawtry (Nicholas Morton, priest, being engaged in this
rebellion) and Norton of Norton Conyers, interspersed with strange
personal reflections on almost every individual of the two families, and
endorsed, "A trybe of wicked people."]
[Footnote 116: Lingered.]
[Footnote 117: Christopher and Marmaduke are mentioned as prisoners in
Sadler, II. 136, and the former appears to have been executed.]
[Footnote 118: After the failure of this enterprise he escaped to
Flanders, where, after several attempts in vain to secure a pardon, he
died in exile, a pensioner of the king of Spain. Mr. Surtees says he
saved a part of the estate, and left descendants. The estate of Norton
Conyers, however, was granted to a Musgrave, who sold it to an ancestor
of sir B. R. Graham, bart., the present owner.]
[Footnote 119: Charles Nevill, sixth earl of Westmoreland, attainted for
the share he took in this rebellion, when all his honours became
_forfeited_. In the reign of James I., Edmond Nevill, the lineal
descendant of George, youngest son of Ralph 1st earl, and next heir male
of Charles the last earl, claimed the earldom of Westmoreland; but it
was decided against him, on the ground that the attainder had caused all
the honours possessed by the same Charles to be _forfeited_ to the crown
as an estate of inheritance. A copy of Edmond Nevill's claim, which is
curious, may be found in Lansdowne MSS. 254, p. 376, and Surtee's
Durham, iv. 164.]
[Footnote 120: Standard.]
[Footnote 121: The supporters of the Nevills, earls of Westmoreland,
were two bulls, argent, ducally collared gold, armed or, &c. But I have
not discovered the device mentioned in the ballad among the badges, &c.
given by that house. This, however, is certain, that among those of the
Nevills, lords Abergavenny (who were of the same family), is a dun cow
with a golden collar; and the Nevills of Chyte, in Yorkshire (of the
Westmoreland family) gave for their crest, in 1513, a dog's (greyhound)
head erased. So that it is not unlikely that Charles Nevill, earl of
Westmoreland, here mentioned, might on this occasion use the above
device on his banner.]
[Footnote 122: The silver crescent is a well-known crest or badge of the
Northumberland family.]
[Footnote 123: Of Streatlam, co. Durham, received knighthood from the
earl of Shrewsbury, being then marshal of Berwick, in 1558. He married
1st, Dorothy, daughter of sir William Mallory of Studley, co. York; and
2ndly, Jane, daughter of sir John Talbot, of Grafton, co. Worcester. Sir
George is styled of South Cowton, co. York, 1 July, 4 Eliz; of Aske, co.
York, 7 April, 1 Eliz. During this rebellion sir George was one of the
most faithful as well as powerful supporters of Elizabeth and of the
Protestant interest in the north; and, in consequence of his services,
was created, by special patent, Provost Marshal north of the Trent, and
is said, after the rebellion was quelled, to have exercised his office
with stern severity. He died in 1580, and was succeeded by his eldest
son of his first marriage, sir William Bowes, knighted in 1586.]
[Footnote 124:
"Coward, a coward, of Barney castell,
Dare not come out to fight a battell."
_Popular Rhyme._
]
[Footnote 125: Easy.]
[Footnote 126: Dear.]
[Footnote 127: This is quite in character; her majesty would sometimes
swear at her nobles, as well as box their ears.]
[Footnote 128: Armour.]
[Footnote 129: Ambrose Dudley, created earl of Warwick, 26 Dec. 1561,
with remainder, failing his issue male, to Robert Dudley, earl of
Leicester, and the heirs male of his body, K. G., _ob_. 1589, _s. p._,
and his brother Robert having died the year previous _s. p._, all his
honours became extinct.]
[Footnote 130: Thomas Ratcliffe, 3rd earl, summoned to Parliament v. p.
in his father's barony of Fitz-Walter, 1 and 2 Philip and Mary, 1554, K.
G; _ob_. 1583, _s. p._, and was succeeded by his brother Henry, K. G.]
[Footnote 131: Henry Carey, (s. and h. of William Carey, by Mary,
daughter of Thomas, earl of Wiltshire, sister of queen Anne Boleyn,
mother of queen Elizabeth,) created baron Hunsdon of Hunsdon, co. Herts,
13 Jan. 1558-9, K. G; _ob_. 1597, and was succeeded by his s. and h.
George, K. G.]
[Footnote 132: Two only appear to have suffered death, according to a
rare tract of seven leaves, in verse, by Sampson Davie, entitled, "The
several Confessions of Thomas Norton and Christopher Norton, two of the
Northern Rebels, who suffered at Tyburn, and were drawn, hanged, and
quartered for treason May 27 (1570). Imprinted by William How for
Richard Jones." See _Notes and Queries_, 2nd S. vol. viii. 388; Strype's
_Annals_, vol. ii. part i. pp. 577-8; and Wordsworth's _White Doe of
Rylstone_.]
YORKE, YORKE FOR MY MONIE.[133]
BY W. E. (WILLIAM ELDERTON), A.D. 1584.
Yorke, Yorke for my monie:
Of all the citties that ever I see,
For mery pastime and companie,
Except the cittie of London.
As I came through the north countree,
The fashions of the world to see,
I sought for my mery companie,
To go to the cittie of London:
And when to the cittie of Yorke I came,
I found good companie in the same,
As well disposed to every game,
As if it had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And in that cittie what saw I then?
Knightes, squires, and gentlemen,
A shooting went for matches ten
As if it had been at London.
And they shot for twentie poundes a bowe,
Besides great cheere they did bestowe,
I never sawe a gallanter showe,
Except I had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
These matches you shall understande,
The earle of Essex took in hande,
Against the good earle of Cumberlande,
As if it had been at London.
And agreede these matches all shall be
For pastime and good company,
At the cittie of Yorke full merily
As if it had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
In Yorke there dwells an alderman, which
Delights in shooting very much,
I never heard of any such
In all the cittie of London.
His name is Maltbie,[134] mery and wise,
At any pastime you can devise,
But in shooting all his pleasure lyes,
The like was never in London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
This Maltbie for the cittie sake,
To shoot (himself) did undertake,
At any good match the earls would make,
As well as they do at London.
And he brought to the fields with him,
One Specke, an archer, proper and trim,
And Smith, that shoote about the pin,
As if it had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
Then came from Cumberlande archers three,
Best bowmen in the north countree,
I will tell you their names what they be
Well known to the cittie of London.
Walmsley many a man dothe knowe,
And Bolton how he draweth his bowe,
And Ratcliffe's shooting long agoe,
Well knowne to the cittie of London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And the noble earle of Essex came
To the fielde himselfe to see the same,
Which shal be had for ever in fame,
As soone as I come at London.
For he showed himself so diligent there,
To make a marke and keepe it faire:
It is worthie memorie to declare
Through all the cittie of London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And then was shooting out of crye,
And skantling at a handfull nie,
And yet the winde was very hie,
As it is sometimes at London.
They clapt the cloutes so on the ragges,
There was such betting and such bragges,
And galloping up and down with nagges,
As if it had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And never an archer gave regarde
To halfe a bowe and halfe a yarde,
I never see matches goe more harde
About the cittie of London.
For fairer play was never plaide,
For fairer layes was never laide
And a week together they kept this trade,
As if it had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
The maior of Yorke,[135] with his companie,
Were all in the fields, I warrant ye,
To see good rule kept orderly,
As if it had been at London.
Which was a dutifull sight to see,
The maior and alderman there to bee,
For setting forth of archerie,
As well as they do at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And there was neither fault nor fray,
Nor any disorder any way,
But every man did pitch and pay,
As if it had been at London.
As soon as every match was done,
Every man was paid that won,
And merily up and downe dide ronne,
As if it had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And never a man that went abroade,
But thought his monie well bestowde,
And monie laide in heap and loade,
As if it had been at London.
And gentlemen there so franke and free,
As a mint at Yorke again should bee;
Like shooting did I never see,
Except I had been at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
At Yorke were ambassadours three,
Of Russia--lordes of high degree,
This shooting they desirde to see,
As if it had been at London.
And one desirde to draw a bowe,
The force and strength thereof to knowe,
And for his delight he drew it so
As seldom seen in London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And they did marvaile very much,
There could be any archer such,
To shoote so farre the cloute to tutch,
Which is no news to London.
And they might well consider than,
An English shaft will kill a man,
As hath been proved, where and whan,
And chronicled since in London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
The earle of Cumberlande's archers won
Two matches cleare, ere all was done,
And I made haste a pace to ronne,
To carrie these news to London.
And Walmsley did the upshot win,
With both his shafts so near the pin,
You could scant have put three fingers in,
As if it had been in London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
I passe not for my monie it cost,
Though some I spent and some I lost,
I wanted neither sod nor roast,
As if it had been in London.
For there was plentie of every thing,
Redd and fallowe deere, for a king,
I never saw so mery shooting,
Since first I came from London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
God save the cittie of Yorke, therefore,
That hath such noble friends in store,
And such good aldermen send them more,
And the like good luck at London.
For it is not little joye to see,
When lords and aldermen so agree,
With such according cummunaltie,
God send us the like in London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
God save the good earle of Cumberlande,
His praise in golden lines shall stande,
That maintains archerie through the land,
As well as they do at London.
Whose noble minde so courteously
Acquaintes himself with the communaltie,
To the glory of his nobilitie,
I will carie the praise to London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
And tell the good earle of Essex thus,
As he is now young and prosperus,
To use such properties vertuous,
Deserves great praise in London.
For it is no little joy to see,
When noble youths so gracious bee,
To give their good willes to their countrie,
As well as they do at London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
Farewell good cittie of Yorke to thee,
Tell alderman Maltbie this from mee,
In print shall this good shooting bee,
As soone as I come at London.
And many a song will I bestow,
On all the musitians that I know,
To sing the praises where they goe,
Of the cittie of Yorke, in London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
God save our queen, and keep our peace,
That our good shooting may increase,
And praying to God let us not cease,
As well at Yorke as at London.
That all our countree round about
May have archers good to hit the cloute,
Which England cannot be without,
No more than Yorke or London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
God graunt that (once) her majestie
Would come, her cittie of Yorke to see,
For the comfort great of that countree,
As well as she doth at London.
Nothing shall be thought too deare,
To see her highness' person there,
With such obedient loue and feare,
As ever she had in London.
Yorke, Yorke, &c.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 133: From a broadside (black letter) in the Roxburgh
collection in the British Museum. It is a favourite chap-book history.]
[Footnote 134: Christopher Maltby, draper, Lord Mayor in 1583.]
[Footnote 135: Thomas Appleyard, Lord Mayor in 1584.]
THE SISTERS OF BEVERLEY.[136]
The tapers are blazing, the mass is sung,
In the chapel of Beverley,
And merrily too the bells have rung;
'Tis the eve of our Lord's nativity;
And the holy maids are kneeling round,
While the moon shines bright on the hallow'd ground.
Yes, the sky is clear, and the stars are bright,
And the air is hush'd and mild;
Befitting well the holy night,
When o'er Judah's mountains wild,
The mystic star blazed bright and free,
And sweet rang the heavenly minstrelsy.
The nuns have risen through the cloister dim,
Each seeks her lonely cell;
To pray alone till the joyful hymn
On the midnight breeze shall swell;
And all are gone save two sisters fair
Who stand in the moonlight silent there.
Now hand in hand, through the shadowy aisle,
Like airy things they've past,
With noiseless step, and with gentle smile,
And meek eyes heavenward cast;
Like things too pure upon earth to stay,
They have fled like a vision of light away.
And again the merry bells have rung,
So sweet through the starry sky;
For the midnight mass hath this night been sung,
And the chalice is lifted high,
And the nuns are kneeling in holiest pray'r,
Yes, all, save these meek-eyed sisters fair.
Then up rose the abbess, she sought around,
But in vain, for these gentle maids;
They were ever the first at the mass bell's sound,
Have they fled these holy shades?
Or can they be numbered among the dead?
Oh! whither can these fair maids be fled?
The snows have melted, the fields are green,
The cuckoo singeth aloud,
The flowers are budding, the sunny sheen
Beams bright through the parted cloud,
And maidens are gathering the sweet breath'd May,
But these gentle sisters, oh, where are they?
And summer is come in rosy pride,
'Tis the eve of the blessed Saint John,
And the holy nuns after vespertide,
All forth from the chapel are gone;
While to taste the cool of the evening hour
The abbess hath sought the topmost tower.
"Gramercy, sweet ladye! and can it be,
The long lost sisters fair
On the threshold lie calm, and silently,
As in holiest slumber there!
Yet sleep they not, but entranced they lie,
With lifted hands and heavenward eye.
"O long lost maidens, arise! arise!
Say when did ye hither stray."
They have turn'd to the abbess with their meek blue eyes,
"Not an hour hath passed away
But glorious visions our eyes have seen;
Oh sure in the kingdom of heaven we've been!"
There is joy in the convent of Beverley,
Now these saintly maidens are found,
And to hear their story right wonderingly,
The nuns have gathered around--
The long lost maidens, to whom was given,
To live so long the life of heaven.
And again the chapel bell is rung,
And all to the altar repair,
And sweetly the midnight lauds are sung,
By the sainted sisters there;
While their heaven-taught voices softly rise
Like an incense cloud to the silent skies.
The maidens have risen, with noiseless tread
They glide o'er the marble floor;
They seek the abbess with bended head,--
"Thy blessing we would implore,
Dear mother! for ere the coming day
Shall burst into light, we must hence away."
The abbess hath lifted her gentle hands,
And the words of peace hath said,
_O vade in pacem_, aghast she stands,
Have their innocent spirits fled?
Yes, side by side lie these maidens fair,
Like two wreaths of snow in the moonlight there.
List! List! the sweet peal of the convent bells,
They are rung by no earthly hand,
And hark how the far off melody swells
Of the joyful angel band,
Who hover around surpassingly bright,
And the chapel is bathed in rosy light.
'Tis o'er! side by side in the chapel fair,
Are the sainted maidens laid;
With their snowy brow, and their glossy hair,
They look not like the dead;
Fifty summers have come and passed away,
But their loveliness knoweth no decay!
And many a chaplet of flowers is hung,
And many a bead told there,
And many a hymn of praise is sung,
And many a low breathed pray'r;
And many a pilgrim bends the knee,
At the shrine of the sisters of Beverley.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 136: In the south aisle of the nave of Beverley Minster is an
altar tomb, covered with a slab of Purbeck marble, placed under a
groined canopy, adorned with pinnacles, and surmounted with figures,
without inscription or indeed anything to lead to a knowledge of its
occupant. Tradition assigns it to two maiden sisters (daughters of earl
Puch, of Bishop Burton, and in whose household St. John of Beverley is
said, on the authority of Bede, to have effected a miraculous cure) who
are said to have given two of the common pastures to the freemen of
Beverley.--POULSON'S _Beverlac_, 704.]
MOTHER SHIPTON.
Tradition tells us that near the Dropping Well, at Knaresborough, this
famous Yorkshire Sybil was born, about the year 1487; she married Tobias
Shipton, a carpenter of Shipton, near York; and from this match derived
the name of Mother Shipton. Many tales of her skill in futurity are
still related in the county; the whole of which, including a series of
succeeding events, are stated to have been delivered to the abbot of
Beverley, as in the following:--
"A maiden queen full many a year,
Shall England's warlike sceptre bear."
Spoken of queen Elizabeth, that was beloved by her subjects, and dreaded
by her enemies, above forty years.
"The western monarch's wooden horses,
Shall be destroy'd by Drake's forces."
The king of Spain's mighty armada, in 1588, was destroyed by the English
fleet.
"Triumphant death rides London thro',
And men on tops of houses go."
The first line points to the great sickness in London, in 1665; the
second to the dreadful fire in the following year.
This famous prophetess died in the fifty-ninth year of her age,
fulfilling her own prediction, even to the day and hour. On her tomb was
placed this epitaph:--
_Here lies she who seldom ly'd,
Whose skill so often has been try'd.
Her Prophecies shall still survive,
And ever keep her name alive._
To the tune of "_Nancy Dawson_."
I.
Of all the pretty pantomimes
That have been seen or sung in rhimes,
Since famous Johnny Rich's times,
There's none like Mother Shipton.
She pleases folks of every class,
She makes her swans and ducklings pass;
She shows her hog, she shows her ass,[137]
Oh, charming Mother Shipton!
II.
Near to the famous dropping well
She first drew breath, as records tell,
And had good beer and ale to sell,
As ever tongue was tipt on;
Her dropping well itself is seen,
Quaint gobblins hobble round their queen,
And little fairies tread the green,
Call'd forth by Mother Shipton.
III.
Oh, London is a charming place!
Yet grumble not ye critick race,
Tho' mansion house is seen to grace
The streets in Mother Shipton!
You think a blunder you descry:
Yet you might see with half an eye
'Tis Mother Shipton's prophecy--
Oh, charming Mother Shipton!
IV.
Come, jolly tars and sailors staunch,
Oh, come with us and see the launch!
'Twill feast your eyes, and fill your paunch,
As done by Mother Shipton.
The shores give way the hulk that prop--
Huzza! the ship is launch'd--and pop!
'Tis turn'd into a baker's shop--
Oh, charming Mother Shipton!
V.
Then after several wonders past,
To Yorkshire all return at last,
And in a coal pit they are cast--
Oh, won'ous Mother Shipton!
Yet she redeems them every soul:
And here's the moral of the whole--
'Tis Mother Shipton brings the cole:
Oh, charming Mother Shipton!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 137: Exhibited in the Pantomime which was performed Covent
Garden in the year 1770.]
BOLD NEVISON, THE HIGHWAYMAN.[138]
William Nevison was born in Yorkshire, though the place is uncertain;
some say at Nevison hall, in Upsall, near Thirsk, others, at Pontefract
and Wortley. He was notorious during the reign of Charles II., and was
named by the "merry monarch" _Swift Nick_. After committing a robbery in
London, about sunrise, he rode his mare to York in the course of the
day, and appeared upon the Bowling-green of that city before sunset.
From this latter circumstance, when brought to trial for the offence, he
established an _alibi_ to the satisfaction of the jury, though he was in
reality guilty. But, though he escaped this time, he was afterwards
apprehended in a public-house at Sandal-three-Houses, near Wakefield,
for another offence, convicted and hanged at York, May 4th, 1685. "Thus
it was related," says lord Macaulay in his "History of England," "of
William Nevison, the great robber of the north of Yorkshire, that he
levied a quarterly tribute on all the northern drovers, and in return
not only spared them himself, but protected them against all other
thieves; that he demanded purses in the most courteous manner; that he
gave largely to the poor what he had taken from the rich; that his life
was once spared by the royal clemency, but that he again tempted his
fate, and at length died, in 1685, on the gallows at York."
Did you ever hear tell of that hero,
Bold Nevison that was his name?
He rode about like a bold hero,
And with that he gained great fame.
He maintained himself like a gentleman,
Besides he was good to the poor;
He rode about like a bold hero,
And he gain'd himself favour therefore.
Oh the Twenty-first day of last month,
Proved an unfortunate day;
Captain Milton was riding to London,
And by mischance he rode out of his way.
He call'd at a house by the road-side,
It was the sign of the Magpie,
Where Nevison he sat a drinking,
And the captain soon did he espy.
Then a constable very soon was sent for,
And a constable very soon came;
With three or four more in attendance,
With pistols charged in the king's name.
They demanded the name of this hero,
"My name it is Johnson," said he,
When the captain laid hold of his shoulder,
Saying, "Nevison thou goeth with me."
Oh! then in this very same speech,
They hastened him fast away;
To a place call'd Swinnington bridge,
A place where he used to stay.
They call'd for a quart of good liquor,
It was the sign of the Black Horse,
Where there was all sorts of attendance,
But for Nevison it was the worst.
He call'd for a pen, ink, and paper,
And these were the words that he said,
"I will write for some boots, shoes, and stockings,
For of them I have very great need."
'Tis now before my lord judge,
Oh! guilty or not do you plead;
He smiled into the judge and jury,
And these were the words that he said,
"I've now robb'd a gentleman of two pence,
I've neither done murder nor kill'd,
But guilty I've been all my life time,
So gentlemen do as you will.
"Its when that I rode on the highway
I've always had money in great store;
And whatever I took from the rich
I freely gave it to the poor.
"But my peace I have made with my Maker,
And with you I'm quite ready to go;
So here's adieu! to this world and its vanities,
For I'm ready to suffer the law."
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 138: To Edward Hailstone, esq., F. S. A., F. G. S., &c. of
Horton hall, Bradford, I am greatly indebted for the above, and also for
the following _broadsides_, from his valuable collection of Yorkshire
lore:--The Sheffield 'Prentice, The Great Exhibition, Bill Brown, The
Funny Wedding, The Crafty Plough Boy, Miss Bailey's Ghost, The Yorkshire
Lad in London, Spencer Broughton, and The Bonny Scotch Lad.]
ROSEBERRY TOPPING.
Roseberry, or Rosebury Topping, originally, it is said, called
"Ottenberg," is a conical hill, situated at the north-west angle of the
Eastern moorlands known as the Cleveland hills, near the village of
Newton, about one mile to the east of the road from Guisbro' to
Stokesley. It is about 1488 feet above the level of the sea, and, by its
detatched position and superior elevation, it commands in all directions
a prospect at once extensive and interesting, and serves as a land-mark
to navigators.
Upon the top of the hill issues, from a large rock, a fountain of very
clear water, to which the following very ancient tradition is connected.
When king Oswald of Northumberland's son, Oswald, was born, the wise men
and magicians were sent for to court, to predict and foretell the life
and fortune of the newborn prince; they all agreed that he would when
half a year old be drowned. The indulgent maternal queen would have
carried him to Chiviot, a remarkable hill in their own county, but for
the troubles then subsisting in the north; she, therefore, for his
better security, brought him to a lofty hill in peaceful Cleveland,
called Roseberry, and caused a cell or cave to be made near the top
thereof, in order to prevent his foretold unhappy death. But, alas! in
vain; for the fates, who spare nobody, dissolved the rugged rocks into a
flowing stream, and, by drowning the son, put a period to all the
mother's cares, though not her sorrows; for ordering him to be interred
in Tivotdale (Osmotherley) church, she mourned with such inconsolable
grief that she soon followed him, and was, according to her fervent
desire, laid by her tenderly-beloved, darling child. The heads of the
mother and son, cut in stone, may be seen at the east end of the church;
and from a saying of the people, "Os by his mother lay," Tivotdale got
the name of Osmotherley.
Ah! why do the walls of the castle to-day,
No longer resound with the strains of delight?
And why does the harp of the minstrel so gay,
Now rest in the gloom and the stillness of night?
But late as I travers'd these vallies long,
How high 'mid the air stream'd the banners of joy!
While the birth of prince Oswin, the boast of the song,
Gave mirth to each heart, as it beam'd in each eye.
What stranger art thou, who, in Cleveland so fair,
Of the fate of prince Oswin canst yet be untold?
How an old hoary sage had foreshown the young heir
By water should die when but half a year old!
His mother, all eager her offspring to save,
To Ottenberg high, with the morn did repair,
Still hoping to rescue her son from the grave,
For well did she know that no water was there.
But how powerless and vain is a mortal's design,
Opposed to that will which can never recede;
Who shall pull down the bright orb of heaven divine,
And raise up a meteor his rays to exceed?
Fatigued, and by ceaseless exertion opprest,
At length they arrive near the brow of the hill,
In whose shades on the moss they resign them to rest,
Now fearless of fate as unconscious of ill.
Not long in soft slumbers the fond mother lay,
Ere arous'd by a dream which dire horrors betide,
But, O God, who can paint her wild grief and dismay,
When she saw her lov'd baby lie drown'd by her side!
On the proud steep of Ottenberg still may be found,
That spring which arose his sad doom to complete;
And oft on its verge sit the villagers round,
In wonder recording the fiat of fate.
For this do the walls of the castle to-day,
No longer resound with the strains of delight;
And for this does the harp of the bard once so gay,
Now rest in the gloom of the stillness of night.[139]
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 139: "The editor is indebted for a copy of the above ballad
to the obliging kindness of Dr. Rooke, of Scarborough." YORKSHIRE
ANTHOLOGY, by James O. Halliwell, esq., F. R. S., F. S. A. _Printed for
private circulation only_. London, 1851. To which work I am much
indebted.]
THE CRUEL STEP-MOTHER; OR, THE
UNHAPPY SON.
Giving 1, an account of squire Brown, of York, who had one only son; and
how his lady fell sick, and on her death-bed begged of him not to marry
for the sake of her child.
2. How he soon married a rich widow, who was very cruel to his son; and
how his uncle died, and left him an estate of two hundred pounds a year.
3. How his step-mother sent him away for the sake of his money, by
taking a ring from his father and putting it in the boy's pocket; for
which his father sent him to sea, and the ship was taken by the
Spaniards, and he made a slave of.
4. How the ghost of his mother came to this cruel wretch, and told his
father of the ring; and how afterwards his father fell into despair, and
hanged himself; and his son came home again, went to law with his
step-mother, got five hundred pounds from her, which broke her heart.
To the tune of "_Aim not too high_."
I.
You most indulging parents, lend an ear,
And you a dismal tragedy shall hear;
A story strange, but certain true, indeed,
Enough to make a stony heart to bleed.
In York, that famous city of renown,
There lived a gentleman, one squire Brown,
Whose wealth and riches was exceeding great,
But yet he had no heir to his estate.
He had a virtuous, kind, and loving wife,
With whom he liv'd a very happy life;
The want of children was their only grief,
But to their relief,--
She was with child, and with a son we hear;
Great was the joy when she delivered were;
Much feasting, which for many days did last,
Both rich and poor did of their bounty taste.
It pleased God the child did live and thrive,
Until it came to be the age of five;
At five years old its sorrows first begun,
And so continued many years to run.
The greatest pleasure that we here can boast,
Soon fades away, and very short at most;
When death approaches, who can shun the dart?
He has command, and strikes us to the heart.
Th' squire's lady was took very ill,
The doctors used in vain their best of skill;
All wou'd not do, the fatal stroke death gave,
And now no mortal here her life can save.
Her husband then she call'd for out of hand,
Her weeping friends around her bed do stand;
Her husband came, she said to him, "My dear,
The time is short I have to tarry here.
"Be careful of my darling child, your son,
See that in virtuous paths he strives to run;
That I in Heaven may see him once again,
And there in endless joys with him remain.
"For my child's sake, O marry not, my dear,
For if you do I shall not rest, I fear;
Let no step-mother my dear child abuse,
Whom I so tenderly have used.
"My jointure, which is fifty pounds a year,
I leave it to my child I love so dear;
Be you a tender father to my son;
Think on my words when I am dead and gone."
He said, "My dear, your words I'll keep in mind,
I to my child will be a father kind,
To wrong my child, I wrong myself you know,
I love my child too well to serve him so."
Then for her child she straight did call,
While the tears down her cheeks did fall,
And kissing of him with lips like clay,
The child did to its dying mother say:
"Mammy, what makes you kiss me so and cry?
I hope you'll be better by-and-bye."
"I hope I shall, my dear," to him she cry'd,
Then turn'd herself and instantly she dy'd.
II.
His wife scarce two months in the grave was laid,
Ere he forgot the promises he made,
Which makes this proverb true we find,
That out of sight, is quickly out of mind.
For to a rich and wealthy widow old,
He went a courting days and nights, we're told:
No rest or quiet would he let her have,
Till her consent to wed with him she gave.
She told him, ere with him she would engage,
She had a daughter fair ten years of age;
And therefore, for her only daughter's sake,
She was resolved a widow's will to make.
He gave his consent the will to make,
And in great joy and triumph they were wed;
But during of the time these things were done,
He quite forgot his former wife and son.
His new wife she was very cross and proud,
And this poor child must never be allow'd
With them to dine, but at her chair must stand,
Just like a footboy to obey command.
Her daughter, she must at the table sit,
And pick and cut the best of meat;
Besides a waiting maid, too, miss must have,
While the poor boy is made a drudge to slave.
Altho' he was neglected, so we find,
Yet fortune unto him did prove so kind;
His own dear mother's brother died, we hear,
And left this boy two hundred pounds a year.
His father was the interest for to have,
That he might keep this boy both fine and brave;
But if he died before to age he came,
His father then was to enjoy the same.
His step-mother found things were order'd so,
She was resolv'd to work his overthrow:
Said she when he is put aside and gone,
What's left him will quickly be my own.
III.
She with the devil then did straight think,
And to her husband gave a sleepy drink,
And as in the garden he sleeping lay,
These treacherous words to the boy did say:
"Go watch your father as he sleeping lies,
And if you see him wake and go to rise,
Come in and tell me, make all haste you can."
And so she did this harmless boy trapan.
The child, with watching long, did fall asleep;
Then softly to his father she did creep,
From off his finger she a ring did take.
On purpose of this boy a thief to make.
For as this harmless child there sleeping lay,
She in his pocket did the ring convey;
Then with great joy unto the house did come,
And said, I hope his business I have done.
The boy soon after wak'd and rubb'd his eyes,
But seeing his father going for to rise,
To tell his mother he did straightway run;
Meanwhile his father into doors did come.
And missing of his ring, to her did say,
"My dear, why did you take my ring, I pray?"
She said, "I took it not, upon my life;
You may believe me as I am your wife.
"But if you'd know what's of the ring become,
I'd have you to examine well your son;
As in the garden you did sweetly dose,
I saw him fumbling then about your cloathes."
He went to search his son, the ring he found,
Then hand and foot this harmless child he bound,
And lashed him till the blood did run,
While she, hard-hearted wretch, look'd on.
She said, "Send this wicked rogue to sea,
Least that he should disgrace our family;
I'll get a master for him soon," she cry'd,
"For he no longer shall with me abide."
He gave consent, and she a master got,
And he was sent away, hard was his lot,
Where we will leave him for to sail the main,
And turn unto this cruel wretch again.
IV.
But God, who sees our actions here below,
He would not let this wretch unpunish'd go;
For this boy's mother to them did appear
One night, as they in bed together were.
The apparition told them of the ring,
And how she serv'd the boy in everything;
Then sadly shook the bed wherein they lay,
And instantly it vanish'd quite away.
The squire he was very much surpriz'd,
And finding that his wife had told him lies
To make him send this harmless boy away,
He fell to grief and sad despair, they say.
To add unto his grief, we understand,
A letter from him came to hand;
He at Jamaica was, the letter told,
And to a captain there was basely sold.
And as they sailing were upon the main,
They by a Spanish privateer was ta'en;
The ship condemn'd and all made slaves,
This is my wretched case, dear sir, he says.
His father, hearing this, he swoon'd away,
And calling of his wife both night and day,
Saying, "Cursed wretch, what have you done,
To make a father thus abuse his son?"
From home, in grief, he rambled one day,
And to a lawyer went without delay;
His will he made, and left his son his store,
Then went and hang'd himself before his door.
The lawyer finding what he had done,
Did straightway send a letter to his son,
For him to return home with all speed,
And money sent to ransom him, indeed.
The letter by good fortune he receiv'd,
His ransom paid, and quickly was reliev'd;
He got a ship and home with speed he came;
None but the lawyer yet knew of the same.
He soon came home, to the great surprize
Of his base mother, who, with flattering lies,
Would fain excuse herself, but all in vain;
To law with her he went, and did obtain--
The cause, and five hundred pounds beside,
Because by her he basely was deny'd,
Which vex'd her sore, and almost broke her heart,
To think she with her ill-got gain must part.
Her darling daughter being left alone,
Despised by all, but pitied by none,
She sold off what she had, and went away,
And never has been heard of since that day.
To step-mothers let this a warning be,
Never to use poor children cruelly;
For Heav'n will help the widow in distress,
And be a Father to the fatherless.
Let parents all beg of the Lord to see,
Their children brought up to maturity,
'Till for themselves they're able to provide;
Lord send that they may be their careful guide!
THE BONNY SCOTCH LAD, AND HIS
BONNET SO BLUE.
At Kingston upon Hull, a town in Yorkshire,[140]
I lived in splendour, and free from love's care;
I roll'd in riches and had sweethearts not a few,
I'm wounded by a bonny lad, and his bonnet so blue.
There came a troop of soldiers, and soon you shall hear,
From Scotland to Woolwich, abroad for to steer;
There is one among them I wish I'd ne'er knew,
He's a bonny Scotch lad, and his bonnet so blue.
His cheeks are like the roses, his eyes like the sloes,
He is handsome and proper, and kills where he goes,
He is handsome and proper, and comely for to view,
He's a bonny Scotch lad, and his bonnet so blue.
When I go to my bed I can find no rest,
The thoughts of my true love still runs in my breast;
The thoughts of my true love still runs in my view,
He's a bonny Scotch lad, and his bonnet so blue.
Early in the morning, when I rose from my bed,
I call'd upon Sally, that is my waiting maid,
To dress me as fine as her two hands could do;
I'll away and see the lad, and his bonnet so blue!
She was instantly dress'd, and parade did attend,
Where she stood impatient to hear her love nam'd;
Charles Stuart they do call him, my love did renew,
Once a prince of that name wore a bonnet so blue.
My love he pass'd by me with his gun in his hand,
I strove to speak to him, but all was in vain;
I strove to speak to him, but away quite he flew,
My heart it went with him, and his bonnet so blue.
She says, "My dear laddie, I'll buy your discharge,
I'll free you from the soldiers and set you at large;
I'll free you from the soldiers, if your heart be true,
And you'll ne'er wear a stain on that bonnet so blue."
He says, "My dear lady, you'll buy my discharge,
You'll free me from the soldiers and set me at large;
For your kind offer I'm obliged to you,
And I'll ne'er wear a stain on that bonnet so blue.
"I have a dear lass in my own country,
I'll ne'er forsake her for her poverty;
To the girl that I love I will always prove true,
And I'll ne'er wear a stain on that bonnet so blue."
I'll send for a limner from London to Hull,
To draw my love's picture out in the full,
Set it in my chamber, keep it close in my view,
And I'll think on the lad, for his heart it is true.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 140: Mr. Halliwell's copy reads, "Kingston upon Woolwich, a
town in Yorkshire." The above copy is from Mr. Hailstone's collection,
and reads throughout more correctly.]
THE CHILD IN THE WOOD; OR THE
CRUEL UNKLE.
In the town of Beverley, in Yorkshire, about two years ago [1703], there
lived one squire Somers, a very honest gentleman of about three hundred
per ann.; his wife dying, by whom he had one little daughter, about two
years of age, he continued some months a sorrowful widower; he could not
well enjoy himself after the loss of his dear spouse. And it so happened
that, partly out of grief, partly from a violent fever, he was brought
to his bed of sickness, where he continued not long, for he died within
a fortnight after he was taken by that fever. He expressed a great
concern for his little girl, and therefore called his brother, a
gentleman that lived about fourteen miles from him, and begged him to
take the care of his daughter upon him. "Brother," said he, "I leave
with you the dearest thing that I have in the world--my little daughter,
and with her to you I intrust my estate; manage it for her use, and take
care of her education in virtue and religion; use her as if she were
your own, and, for my sake, see her married to an honest country
gentleman." All which was faithfully promised by the brother. Thus, when
all things were settled, the gentleman dies, and the brother takes home
the child to his house, and for some time used her kindly. But at the
last, the devil of covetousness possessed him; nothing run in his mind
so much as making away with the child, and so possess the estate. After
many ways, he at last concluded to take her with him, and hide her in a
hollow tree; which one morning he effected, and left the poor infant
with her mouth stopped that she might not cry. For he had so much grace
not actually to murder her, therefore he left her alive in the hollow of
the tree; and, the better to hide the matter, gave out that the child
was dead, and, therefore, caused an effigy of wax to be made, laid it in
a coffin, and a shroud, and made a great funeral for the child. Thus the
effigy was buried, and no notice at all taken of the matter. At the same
time, a neighbouring gentleman dreamed that that day he should see
something that would sufficiently astonish him. He told it to his lady,
who dissuaded him from going a hunting that day; but he was resolved,
not giving any credit to dreams, and so takes horse in the morning. As
he was a hunting, he happened to be in the wood where the child was, and
as he was riding by the tree his horse gave a great start, so that he
had liked to have fallen down; and turning about, to see what was the
matter, he saw something stir in a hole, and being inquisitive to know
the cause, his dream presently came in his head, and therefore he calls
his man, and bids him examine what was in the hole; who, having searched
the tree, discovers the child in the tree. He took it out, and his
master carried it to his lady almost dead; he told her his dream was
out, declaring how he found the child, and begged her to take care of
it. The child was revived, and in a little time brought to itself again;
but they could not imagine whose it was; till at last it happened that
some woman came to the gentleman's house, a singing at Christmas, and
seeing the child, knew it, and declared whose it was, and that it was
supposed to be dead and buried. The gentleman goes and prevails with the
minister of the parish to have the grave opened, and found the waxen
effigy of the child in the grave. He went to the justice of the peace,
to whom he declared the matter; who sent his warrant for the child's
trustee, who, being convicted of the matter, was not able to deny it,
but confessed all the business. But seeing the child was alive, it is
supposed he will not be tried for his life, but it is thought a severe
punishment will be inflicted on him; and the justice appointed the
gentleman that found the child to be its trustee till the assizes. The
child is now at the gentleman's house, who loves it as if it was his
own, for he has no children himself, and is a man of a good estate, and
is likely to augment very much the child's fortune.
Tune "_Forgive me if your looks I thought_."
I.
A wealthy squire in the north,
Who left an infant daughter
All his estate of mighty worth;
But mark what follow'd after.
As he lay on his dying bed,
He call'd his brother to him,
And unto him these words he said:
"I from the world am going;
II.
"Therefore, dear brother, take my child,
Which is both young and tender,
And for my sake be kind and mild,
And faithfully defend her.
Three hundred pounds a year I leave
To bring her up in fashion;
I hope you will not her deceive,
But use her with compassion."
III.
To which the brother then replied,
"I'll sooner suffer torture,
Than e'er become a wicked guide,
Or wrong your only daughter."
The father then did seem content,
And like a lamb expired,
As thinking nothing could prevent
What he had thus desir'd.
IV.
The father being dead and gone,
The unkle then contrived
To make the child's estate his own,
And of its life deprive it.
A wicked thought came in his head,
And thus concludes to serve it;
He takes it up out of the bed
And then resolves to starve it.
V.
With wicked mind, into a wood
He then the infant carries;
And tho' he would not shed her blood,
Yet there alive he buries
Within a hollow oaken tree;
He stop'd the mouth from crying,
That none might hear and come to see
How the poor child was dying.
VI.
Then gave he out the child was dead,
And did pretend some sorrow,
And caus'd the shape in wax be made,
To bury on the morrow;
Some mourning, too, he bought beside,
All to avoid suspicion,
But yet, alas! this would not hide
The guilt of his commission.
VII.
For happy fate and providence
Did keep the child from dying,
Whose chiefest guard was innocence,
On which is best relying;
For when the breath was almost spent,
A gentleman did spy her,
As he and 's man a hunting went
And so approach'd nigh her.
VIII.
He took the wrong'd infant home,
And to his lady gave it;
Quoth he, "This child from fatal doom
I happily did save it;
Therefore I'll keep it as my own,
Since I have none beside it;
Tho' such a thing is seldom known,
I will support and guide it."
IX.
But as the lady and her spouse
Did to the neighbours show it,
A woman came into the house
That presently did know it.
And soon discover'd all the cheat
The unkle had intended,
To get the poor young child's estate
Who promis'd to defend it.
X.
The wicked unkle being seized,
And charged with his transgression,
His mind and conscience was so teazed,
He made a full confession.
The justice sent him to the jail,
Where he is closely guarded,
And next assizes will not fail
Of being well rewarded.
BOWES TRAGEDY;[141] OR, A PATTERN OF
TRUE LOVE.
Roger Wrightson, at the sign of the King's Head, in Bowes, in the N. R.
of Yorkshire, courted widow Railton's daughter, at the sign of the
George in the same town, and has done more than a year. On Shrove
Tuesday, 1715, he fell sick, and languished till Sunday next but one
following, and after saying three times, "Martha, Martha, come away,"
then died.
Poor Martha (for that was the maid's name whom he courted) Railton,
though privately, took heavily on all that time, and only had declared
to her sister and mother that if he died she could not live. An honest
friend is unworthily blamed for doing what I[142] would have done myself
had I known it; for Martha Railton begged of him to go and see young
Roger, and tell him she would gladly come and see him, if he thought fit
(knowing all his father's family was against her). Roger answered, "Nay,
nay, T--my, our folks will be mad; but tell her I hope I shall
recover." Well, the poor lass, almost dead in sorrow, first sent an
orange, but Roger's mother sent it back; yet about three days before his
death Martha went. His mother was so civil as to leave her by his
bedside, and ordered her daughter Hannah to come away, but she would
not. Poor Martha wanted only to speak three words to him, and (although
she stayed two hours) yet Hannah would not let her have an opportunity,
and so, in a sorrowful manner, she left him. Her book was her constant
work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; and she would oft say to herself,
"Oh! you Hannah! if he dyes my heart will burst." So on the same Sunday
se'night, at five o'clock in the afternoon, the bell was tolled for him,
and upon the first toll, Martha lay by her book, got her mother in her
arms, with, "Oh! dear mother, he's dead, I cannot live." About three
minutes after Thomas Petty went in and desired her to be more easy. Her
answer was, "Nay, now my heart is burst!" And so, in mournful cries and
prayers, was fainter and fainter, for about three hours, and seemed to
breathe her last; but her mother and another girl of the town shrieked
aloud, and so called her back again (as they term it), and, in amazed
manner, distorted with convulsion fits (just as it is described in Dr.
Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying"), stayed her spirit ten or twelve hours
longer, and then she died.
At last things was brought to this issue, to be buried both in one
grave, and the corpse met at the church gate, but Hannah objected
against their being buried together, as also she did at her being laid
first in the grave; but was answered that a bride has to go first to
bed. She, being asked why she should be so proud and inhumane, answered,
that she said, "Martha might have taken fairer on, or have been hanged."
But oh, the loud mourning of friends on both sides at the corpse
meeting, and more at the grave; wherein first she was decently laid,
and then he. In the parish register of Bowes is the following
entry:--"Rodger Wrightson, junr., and Martha Railton, both of Bowes,
buried in one grave. He died of a Fever, and upon tolling his passing
Bell, she cry'd out 'My heart is broke,' and in a Few hours expired,
purely (or supposed, _interlined in a different hand_) thro' Love. March
15, 1714-5, aged about 20 years each."
Tune of "_Queen Dido_."
Good Christian people, pray attend
To what I do in sorrow sing,
My bleeding heart is like to rend,
At the sad tydings which I bring;
Of a young couple, whom cruel fate
Designed to be unfortunate.[143]
Let Carthage Queen be now no more
The subject of your mournful song;
Nor such odd tales which heretofore,
Did so amuse the teeming throng;
Since the sad story which I'll tell,
All other tragedys excel.
Yorkshire, the ancient town of Bowes,[144]
Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell,
He courted Martha Railton, who[145]
In virtuous works did most excel;
Yet Roger's friends would not agree,
That he to her should married be.
Their love continued one whole year,
Full sore against their parents' will;
But when he found them so severe,
His royal heart began to chill;
And last Shrove Tuesday took his bed,
With grief and woe encompassed.
Thus he continued twelve days space,
In anguish and in grief of mind;
And no sweet rest in any case,
This ardent lover's heart could find;
But languish'd in a train of grief,
Which pierced his heart beyond relief.
Martha, with anxious thoughts possest
A private messuage to him sent,
Acquainting him she could not rest,[146]
Until she had seen her loving friend;
His answer was, "Nay, nay, my dear,
Our folks will angry be I fear."
Full frought with grief, she took no rest,
But spent her time in pain and fear,
Until few days before his death,
She sent an orange to her dear;
But 's cruel mother, in disdain,
Did send the orange back again.
Three days before her lover dy'd,
Poor Martha, with a bleeding heart,
To see her dying lover hy'd,
In hopes to ease him of his smart;
Where she's conducted to the bed,
In which this faithful young man laid.
Where she with doleful cries beheld,
Her fainting lover in despair;
Which did her heart with sorrow fill,[147]
Small was the comfort she had there;
Tho' his mother show'd her great respect,
His sister did her much reject.
She staid two hours with her dear,
In hopes for to declare her mind;
But Hannah Wrightson stood so near,
No time to do it she could find:
So that being almost dead with grief,
Away she went without relief.
Tears from her eyes did flow amain,
And she full oft wo'd sighing say,
"My constant love, alas! is slain,
And to pale death become a prey;
Oh! Hannah, Hannah, thou art base;
Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace."
She spent her time in godly prayers,
And quiet rest from her did fly,
She to her friends full oft declares,
She could not live if he did dye;
Thus she continued till the bell,
Began to sound his fatal knell.
And when she heard the dismal sound,
Her godly book she cast away,
With bitter cries would pierce the ground,
Her fainting heart began to decay;
She to her pensive mother said,
"I cannot live now he is dead."
Then after three short minutes' space,
As she in sorrow groaning lay,
A gentleman[148] did her embrace,
And mildly unto her did say,
"Dear melting soul, be not so sad,
But let your passions be allayed."
Her answer was, "My heart is burst,
My span of life is near an end;
My love from me by death is forced,
My grief no soul can comprehend."
Then her poor heart did soon wax faint,
When she had ended her complaint.
For three hours' space, as in a trance,
This broken-hearted creature lay,
Her mother wailing her mischance,
To pacify her did essay;
But all in vain, for strength being past,
She seemingly did breathe her last.
Her mother, thinking she was dead,
Began to shriek and cry amain,
And heavy lamentations made,
Which call'd her spirit back again,
To be an object of hard fate,
And give to grief a longer date.
Distorted with convulsions, she
In dreadful manner gasping lay,
Of twelve long hours no moment free,
Her bitter groans did all dismay;
Then her poor heart being sadly broke,
Submitted to the fatal stroke.
When things were to this issue brought,
Both in one grave were to be laid;
But flinty-hearted Hannah thought,
By stubborn means for to persuade,
Their friends and neighbours from the same,
For which she surely was to blame.
And being ask'd the reason why,
Such base objections she did make;
She answered thus scornfully,
In words not fit for Billingsgate:
"She might have taken fairer on,
Or else be hang'd." Oh, heart of stone!
What hell-born fury had possest,
Thy vile inhumane spirit thus?
What swelling rage was in thy breast,
That could occasion this disgust,
And make thee show such spleen and rage,
Which life can't cure nor death assuage?
Sure some of Satan's minor imps
Ordained were to be thy guide;
To act the part of sordid pimps,
And fill thy heart with haughty pride;
But take this caveat once for all,
Such dev'lish pride must have a fall.
But when to church the corpse was brought,
And both of them met at the gate,
What mournful tears by friends were shed,
When that, alas! it was too late!
When they in silent grave were laid,
A constant youth and constant maid.[149]
You parents all, both far and near,
By this sad story warning take,
Not to your children be severe,
When they their choice in love do make;
Let not the love of cursed gold,
True lovers from their loves withhold!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 141: Mallet's _Edwin and Emma_ is founded on this ballad. See
his "Ballads and Songs," edited by F. Dinsdale, esq., LL.D., F.S.A.]
[Footnote 142: The author of the ballad, whom the late Mr. Denham, of
Piersebridge, learnt from his father, was the then master of Bowes
grammar-school. His name does not appear.]
[Footnote 143: This verse is not in Mr. Bell's copy, in his "Ballads and
Songs of the Peasantry of England."]
[Footnote 144: "Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bowes."--BELL.]
[Footnote 145: Bell has "whose;" and the following line reads thus:--
"Repute for virtue did excel."
]
[Footnote 146:
"Now anxious Martha sore distress'd,
A private message did him send,
Lamenting that she could not rest."--BELL.
]
[Footnote 147:
"At which her heart with sorrow filled."--BELL.
]
[Footnote 148: Thomas Petty, previously mentioned.]
[Footnote 149:
"Instead of pleasing marriage-bed."--BELL.
]
THE DONCASTER VOLUNTEERS.[150]
WRITTEN, ABOUT A.D. 1757, BY
JOHN ELLERKER, ESQ.
TO RICHARD TURBUTT, ESQ.
Worthy Sir,--He who sits down to write anything for the public benefit,
without fixing on the person to whom he shall dedicate it, knows little
of the art of authorizing, for perhaps when he has finished his work he
may not know any person to whom the subject may be agreeable, or that
has generosity enough to pay for washing the clean ruffles he is obliged
to put on when he waits on him to implore his protection. But I
generally take another way, and make my Patron before I begin my work,
and suit the subject according to his capacity and genius. As, for
example, if I write a book of History and Politics, I have Mr. Alderman
Smith[151] for that; if of Love and Gallantry, who can be so good a
judge as your neighbour Mr. Taylor; if of Wit and Humour, I have Mr.
Alderman Cave[152] in my eye; if of Sobriety and Temperance, no one can
be so proper as the Rev. Mr. Willatts;[153] if I write in praise of and
recommend the practice of Generosity, Public Spirit, and Patriotism, and
urge the indispensable duty of a good subject, not only to hazard his
fortune, but even his person, for the good of his country, no man can be
so proper as RICHARD TURBUTT, esq.,[154] as all those virtues are
conspicuous in him in the highest degree. It is for this reason I humbly
lay the inclosed lines at your feet, and implore your patronage of them.
Should I say any more in your praise it would offend your known modesty,
which has always been remarkably impatient at hearing yourself praised,
even for those things for which some people (otherwise greedy of praise)
would think they deserved no praise at all. But, to be serious with you,
I wish this trifle may divert you during your unhappy confinement. To
make you and your young ladies laugh, it will more than answer the most
sanguine expectations of, &c. &c. JOHN ELLERKER.[155]
Non tali auxilio, nec defensoribus istis
Tempus eget.
When Britain's arms by War's fell chance
Were baffled by the arms of France,
And LOUIS threat'ned in bravado,
T' invade us with a huge armado,
Not of your men-of-war, but floats
Of lighters and flat-bottom'd boats,
To fill the land with blood and slaughter,
And ravish ev'ry wife and daughter;
Of our Religion to deprive us,
And send us to their priests to shrive us,
To change our leather shoes for wood ones,
(For heretics, like us, too good ones,)
To carbonade our pigs and ducklings,
And fricasee our babes and sucklings,
To make us keep a scarlet whore,
Who kept so many whores before;
To make our parsons mend their lives,
And leave their own for laymen's wives;
Nay, more, (the worst of papist bands)
To re-assume the abbeylands:
When all our military Hectors
(Well paid to be the land's protectors)
For all their vapouring and boasts,
Dreaded to see them on our coasts;
When ev'ry man was sore amaz'd,
And on each other hurried gaz'd;
When ev'ry fearful thing was fear'd,
And not one glimpse of hope appear'd,
To save us from impending ruin,
Which these French scoundrels were a brewing,
At DONCASTER a troop stepp'd forth,
All men of dignity and worth,
With wrath and indignation fir'd,
(By Mars himself, no doubt, inspir'd,)
With minds most valorous and willing,
Regardless of their pay--a shilling,
Offer'd themselves to fight our battles,
And to protect our goods and chattels.
To four times four their number mounted,[156]
Tho' each a thousand shou'd be counted;
Soon as 'twas known they were assembled,
The king of France look'd pale and trembled,
Recall'd his army from the strand,
And drew his lighters all to land.
This, soon as mighty FRED'RICK knew,
(For quick their fame to Prussia flew,)
That king, who all the world must own
Has soldiers good as most are known,
Said, "Give me sixteen such as these,
I'll sack Vienna when I please."
O Doncaster! blest corporation,
Whose sons add glory to the nation,
May Peace and Plenty still attend you,
And neighbouring lords their venison send you.
But hark! I hear the beat of drum,
See here with links[157] the heroes come.
Lo, in the front three men of laws,
All stedfast for the good old cause.
And first see STOVIN,[158] best of men,
Equal to brandish sword or pen,
Ready, for our defence, to shed
His dearest blood, or black, or red.
Whilom, commission'd to maintain
Fair lady Peace in counties twain,
But leaves her now and Themis' bench,
To volunteer against the French.
His rival next in either skill,
See waddling master JOSEPH GILL![159]
With no less martial rage inspir'd,
Nor yet with tedious marches tir'd,
His aid may be depended on;
None will suspect he'll ever run,
Three times the courage he possesses
Of common men, who three times less is,
And reason good, for he affords
Three times the mark for guns or swords.
Happy the man in an attack
Who safe shall stand behind his back.
BOWER,[160] the third, not least in fame,
Though last the Muse records his name;
Where's the attorney that can wear
Cockade with a more graceful air?
See how the maids' and widows' glances
Centre in him, as he advances.
Tho' with his manly beauteous face
He captivates each wishing lass,
Heedless he slights her painted charms,
Nothing his heart but glory warms,
Nor stickles[161] he for filthy riches
From scouring drains or emptying ditches,
Nor hates the pope and all his power
More firmly does his namesake Bower.[162]
Of surgeons next a valiant pair
Practised in blood and wounds appear.
Or say we shou'd their titles vary
And call each an apothecary.
As both they're fam'd for equal skill,
Licenc'd as both to cure or kill.
To specify each doughty wight,
This MIDDLETON, that FARRER[163] hight,
But when invasion or rebelling
Shall call them from their peaceful dwelling,
From gun-shot wounds good heav'n defend 'em!
And to their shops back quickly send 'em.
For, when they're absent, who shall draw
A rotten stump from aching jaw?
Who can from cholic pains relieve us?
Who purges or who clysters give us?
When fevers burn and agues shake us,
Who then shall febrifuges make us?
And when the itch invades each joint,
With brimstone who so well anoint?
If either pox should then assail us,
Who have we left then can avail us?
Who then will with a grave oration
Prognosticate a suppuration?
Or, when it comes, can right discuss
The laudability of pus?
Who then luxations shall reduce?
Who bathrum, or who vectis use?
And who the poor deluded maid
With hand obstetric timely aid?
That hand devoted to oppose
Great GEORGE'S[164] and his country's foes?
For there's no man, I'm sure, in all
The town, can shake an urinal,
Or know, like them, by Galen's rules,
The consequence of fetid stools.
Think not physicians I despise,
Doctors indeed I duly prize;
Doctors so call'd are those I drive at,
Their ignorance I can't connive at.
Kind reader pardon this digression,
And I will shorten the procession.
But say, what youth is he that follows?
Oh! he's a favourite of Apollo's,
Who, for our good, in time of need,
Forsakes his fav'rite Muse and reed;
And boldly owning Britain's quarrels,
Tho' crown'd with bays will gather laurels.
Say, MILLER,[165] why did'st thou supplant
Me of that fame I so much want?
Had'st thou not wrote I might have worn
Those laurels which thy head adorn.
Say, dost thou not thy castor grace
With a cockade as well as lace?
Adorn thy active feet so curious
With buckles set with diamonds spurious?
And by Euterpe's influence
With flute traverse[166] pick up the pence?
Have you not for the fall of France
Now introduc'd the Pyrrhic dance,
Which e'en our girls to arms will train,
And make them fight like modern men?
Nay, in York News most fairly worded
I've read you, gentlemen, recorded.
Could not emoluments like these
Thy mind, ambitious minstrel, please?
O! be thy song for ever curst,
You've gain'd the prize by starting first.
To equal thee let me aspire,
For tho' I envy, I admire.
Ten worthies yet remain unsung,
Fit subjects for the pen or tongue
Of Homer's self, had he been living.
But now of any bard surviving,
To sound their fame in lofty verse,
And sound his own by sounding their's.
Go on, great souls, and never flinch,
Your leader[167] ne'er will fly an inch.
Be active in your country's cause,
Protect her freedom, guard her laws.
Fight for the honour of your country,
Nor once forget his honor's bounty:
Let the remembrance of his claret,[168]
In each engagement rouse you spirit;
Support yourselves, in each attack,
With hopes of more frontiniac.
If broken, rally quick again,
Your sure reward is more champagne.
Never forgetting once to boast
That you're his beauteous lady's toast;[169]
But let it be your chief support
To think what sway he bears at court.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 150: From a MS. _penes_ James Falconar, esq., F. S. A.,
Doncaster.]
[Footnote 151: William Smith, alderman; buried, Nov. 13, 1760.]
[Footnote 152: Peter Cave, mayor 1748-9; buried, June 4, 1782.]
[Footnote 153: The Rev. Lionel Willatts, rector of Sprotbrough, son of
Charles Willatts, rector of Plumtree, Notts, and Castiliana his wife,
daughter of Lionel Copley, esq., of Wadworth and Sprotbrough; buried, at
Doncaster, May 20, 1760.]
[Footnote 154: Mr. Turbutt was of a family at Mount St. John, near
Thirsk, Yorkshire. He resided for several years at Doncaster, where he
died, 3 Sept. 1758, æt. 68. He was the great grandfather of Gladwin
Turbutt, esq., now (1860) of Ogston hall, Derbyshire. His "young ladies"
were Frances, afterwards wife of John Woodyeare, esq., of Crookhill,
near Doncaster, and Eleanor, who became the wife of Lieut. General
Sowerby.]
[Footnote 155: Mr. Ellerker was of a good family, descended from Ralph
Ellerker, of Youlton, Yorkshire. He was some time a solicitor in the
Inner Temple, London, and died, at Doncaster, March 25, 1774, aged 82.
(JACKSON'S _Hist. St. George's Church, Doncaster_, pp. 76, 77.)]
[Footnote 156: 1757. "The militia raised.--Sixteen inhabitants of
Doncaster entered as volunteers."--MILLER'S _Hist. Doncaster_, p. 183.]
[Footnote 157: Alluding to their exercising by torchlight.]
[Footnote 158: James Stovin, esq., of Whitgift, a justice of the peace
for the counties of York and Lincoln, died at Sprotbrough hall, where he
then resided, 26 July, 1789, and was buried at Rossington. He was son of
George Stovin, of Crowle and Winterton, the Lincolnshire antiquary. On
the 11 Dec. 1771, he was appointed town-clerk of Doncaster, an office
which he resigned on the 12 Jan. 1778. He was also clerk of the court of
sewers from 1757 to 1775.]
[Footnote 159: Probably, "Mr. Joseph Gill, Gent.," who was buried, March
19, 1763.]
[Footnote 160: Freeman Bower, esq., of Bawtry and Maltby, co. York, born
15 Nov. 1732; died 29 July, 1786; a justice of the peace for the West
Riding of Yorkshire, &c; was educated for the law, and practised for a
few years as an attorney, but on inheriting some family property he
discontinued that profession. On several occasions he acted as marshal
to his uncle Mr. Baron Perrott, when on circuit. He is said to have been
a handsome man, and of an hospitable, convivial disposition.]
[Footnote 161: Contends, strives for. Alluding to the contest between
Mr. Stovin and Mr. Gill for the office of clerk to the commissioners of
sewers for the level of Hatfield chace, which had become vacant by the
death of Mr. Burden, and to which Mr. Stovin was elected, 5 Feb. 1757.]
[Footnote 162: Alluding to Bower, once a popish priest, the author of
the "Lives of the Popes."]
[Footnote 163: Henry Farrer, of Doncaster, a surgeon and apothecary in
extensive practice for nearly fifty years, son of John Farrer, A.M.,
rector of Hemsworth, descended from the Farrers of Ewood, co. York, died
7 June, 1789, aged 69. (See _Mon. Ins_. JACKSON'S _St. George's Church_,
p. 107.)]
[Footnote 164: George II.]
[Footnote 165: Mr., afterwards Dr., Edward Miller, the organist of
Doncaster, and author of the History of that Town. He composed a song to
a warlike tune, and a dance to the same tune, in which were introduced
several parts of a soldier's manual exercise. He died Sept. 13, 1807,
aged 72. See account of him in JACKSON'S _St. George's Church_, pp.
58-96.]
[Footnote 166: Flauta Traversa, the Italian name for a German flute.]
[Footnote 167: The marquess of Rockingham.]
[Footnote 168: The marquess of Rockingham invited them all to his
residence, Wentworth house, where they drank French wine till they were
unable to get home.]
[Footnote 169: The marchioness of Rockingham drank their healths by the
name of _her_ volunteers.]
THE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALERS.
Bane ta Claapam town-end lived an oud 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 oud Tommy Towers[170] (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's opinion he'd dee on himsel!
Well! yan Abey Muggins,[171] a neighborin cheat,
Thowt ta diddle oud Tommy wad be a girt treat;
Hee'd a horse, too, 'twor war than oud Tommy's, ye see,
Fort' neet afore that hee'd thowt proper to dee!
Thinks Abey, t' oud codger'll nivver smoak t' trick,
I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,
An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen ta trap,
'Twill be a fine feather i' Aberram cap!
Soa ta 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 preached 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 ta choose,
Yet Tommy war richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.[172]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 170: The descendants of Tommy Towers were resident at Clapham
till within a very recent period, and used to take great pleasure in
relating the adventure of their progenitor. The village of Clapham is in
the West Riding of Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and
Kendal.]
[Footnote 171: Abey Muggins is thought to be a _sobriquet_ for a then
Clapham innkeeper.]
[Footnote 172: This song obtained great popularity a few years ago from
the admirable singing of Emery, and is still a favourite. Mr.
Hailstone's copy concludes each verse with "Derry down, &c."]
BILL BROWN, THE POACHER.
In seventeen hundred and sixty-nine
As plainly doth appear then,
A bloody scene was felt most keen
Till death it did draw near then;
Of poor Bill Brown, of Brightside Town,
A lad of well known fame then,
Who took delight, both day and night,
To trace the timid hare then.
With wires strong they march'd along,
Unto brave Thriberg town then,
With nut-brown ale that ne'er did fail,
And many a health went round then;
Bright luna bright did shine that night,
To the woods they did repair then,
True as the sun their dogs did run,
To trace the lofty hare then.
A lofty breeze amongst the trees,
With shining he came on them,
Like Cain he stood seeking for blood,
With his bayonet and his gun then;
Then he did charge with shot quite large,
George Miller did him spy then;
This rogue's intent was fully bent,
One of us poor lads should die then.
His cruel hand he did command
That instant for to fire then,
And so with strife took poor Brown's life,
Which once he thought entire then.
His blood aloud for vengeance cried,
The keeper he came on then,
Like cruel Cain up to him came,
And so renew'd his wounds then.
Now this dear soul ne'er did control,
Nor think that man no ill then;
But to Dalton Brook his mind was struck,
While his clear blood did spill then;
For help he cried, but was denied,
No one there nigh him stood then;
And there he lay till break of day,
Dogs licking his dear blood then.
Farewell dear heart, now we must part,
From wife and children dear then;
Pity my doom, it was too soon,
That ever I came here then;
Farewell unto the brave dear lads
Whoever range the fields then,
This cruel man's murdering hand,
Has caused me for to yield then.
In grief and pain till death it came,
To embrace his dear soul then,
Who took its flight to heaven straight,
Where no man can control them.
The country round heard of the sound,
Of poor Brown's blood being spilt then,
'Twas put in vogue to find the rogue,
That justice might be done then.
With irons strong they march'd along
Unto York castle fair then;
In a dark cell was doom'd to dwell,
Till the judge he did appear then;
George Miller bold, as I've been told,
Deny it here who can then,
He ne'er was loth to take his oath,
Brown was a murder'd man then.
There was a man who there did stand,
Whose heart did shake amain then;
But gold did fly they can't deny,
Or at Tyburn he'd been hung then.
They'd ne'er been bold to hear it told
To hear of Shirtly's doom then.
The judge put it off to God on high,
Or they might have judged him soon then.
There was brave Ned Greaves never did fail,
To crown poor Bill Brown's name then,
George Miller brave defies each knave,
That travels o'er the plain then;
With sword and gun now we will run,
Though the law it doth maintain them,
Yet poor Brown's blood lost in the wood
For vengeance cries amain then.
THE ROMANBY TRAGEDY.
The remorseless tragedy on which this ballad is founded took place
upwards of a century ago. In the village of Romanby, near Northallerton,
there resided a desperate band of coiners, whose respectability and
cunning concealment precluded all possibility of suspicion as to their
proceedings. The victim of their revenge was Mary Ward, the servant of
one of those ruffians. Having obtained an accidental view of some
secret apartments appropriated to their treasonable practices, she
unguardedly communicated her knowledge to an acquaintance, which
reaching her master's ears, he determined to destroy her. The most
plausible story, time, and means were selected for this purpose. On a
Sunday evening, after sunset, an unknown personage on horseback arrived
at her master's mansion, half equipped, to give colour to his alleged
haste, and stated that he was dispatched for Mary, as _her mother was
dying_. She lingered to ask her master's permission, but he feigned
sleep, and she departed without his leave. On the table of her room was
her Bible, opened at these remarkable words in Job, "They shall seek me
in the morning, and shall not find me; and where I am, they shall not
come." Her home was at the distance of eight miles from Romanby, and
Morton bridge, hard by the heath where she was murdered, is the
traditionary scene of her nocturnal revisitings. The impression of her
re-appearance is only poetically assumed, for there is too much of what
Coleridge would term "the divinity of nature" around Morton bridge, to
warrant its association with supernatural mysteries.
Oh! sights are seen, and sounds are heard,
On Morton bridge, at night,
When to the woods the cheerful birds
Have ta'en their silent flight.
When through the mantle of the sky
No cheering moonbeams delve,
And the far village clock hath told
The midnight hour of twelve.
Then o'er the lonely path is heard
The sigh of sable trees,
With deadly moan of suff'ring strife
Borne on the solemn breeze--
For Mary's spirit wanders there,
In snowy robe array'd,
To tell each trembling villager
Where sleeps the murder'd maid.
It was a Sabbath's eve of love,
When nature seem'd more holy;
And nought in life was dull, but she,
Whose look was melancholy.
She lean'd her tear-stain'd cheek of health
Upon her lily arm;
Poor, hapless girl! she could not tell
What caus'd her wild alarm.
Around the roses of her face
Her flaxen ringlets fell;
No lovelier bosom than her own
Could guiltless sorrow swell!
The Holy Book before her lay,
That boon to mortals given,
To teach the way from weeping earth
To ever-glorious heaven;
And Mary read prophetic words,
That whisper'd of her doom:--
"Oh! they will search for me, but where
I am, they cannot come!"
The tears forsook her gentle eyes,
And wet the sacred lore;
And such a terror shook her frame,
She ne'er had known before.
She ceas'd to weep, but deeper gloom
Her tearless musing brought;
And darker wan'd the evening hour,
And darker Mary's thought.
The sun, he set behind the hills,
And threw his fading fire
On mountain, rock, and village home,
And lit the distant spire.
(Sweet fane of truth and mercy! where
The tombs of other years
Dis-course of virtuous life and hope,
And tell of by-gone tears!)
It was a night of nature's calm,
For earth and sky were still;
And childhood's revelry was o'er,
Upon the daisied hill.
The alehouse, with its gilded sign
Hung on the beechen bough,
Was mute within, and tranquilly
The hamlet-stream did flow.
The room where sat this grieving girl
Was one of ancient years;
Its antique state was well display'd
To conjure up her fears;
With massy walls of sable oak,
And roof of quaint design,
And lattic'd window, darkly hid
By rose and eglantine.
The summer moon now sweetly shone
All softly and serene;
She clos'd the casement tremblingly
Upon the beauteous scene.
Above that carved mantle hung,
Clad in the garb of gloom,
A painting of rich feudal state,--
An old baronial room.
The Norman windows scarcely cast
A light upon the wall,
Where shone the shields of warrior knights
Within the lonely hall.
And, pendent from each rusty nail,
Helmet and steely dress,
With bright and gilded morion,
To grace that dim recess.
Then Mary thought upon each tale
Of terrible romance;--
The lady in the lonely tower--
The murderer's deadly glance--
And moon-lit groves in pathless woods,
Where shadows nightly sped;
Her fancy could not leave the realms
Of darkness and the dead.
There stood a messenger without,
Beside her master's gate,
Who, till his thirsty horse had drunk,
Would hardly deign to wait.
The mansion rung with Mary's name,
For dreadful news he bore--
A dying mother wish'd to look
Upon her child once more.
The words were, "Haste, ere life be gone;"
Then was she quickly plac'd
Behind him on the hurrying steed
Which soon the woods retrac'd.
Now they have pass'd o'er Morton bridge,
While smil'd the moon above
Upon the ruffian and his prey--
The hawk and harmless dove.
The towering elms divide their tops;
And now a dismal heath
Proclaims her "final doom" is near
The awful hour of death!
The villain check'd his weary horse,
And spoke of trust betray'd;
And Mary's heart grew sick with fright,
As, answering, thus she said--
"Oh! kill me not until I see
My mother's face again!
Ride on, in mercy, horseman, ride,
And let us reach the lane!
"There slay me by my mother's door,
And I will pray for thee;
For she shall find her daughter's corse"--
"No, girl, it cannot be.
"This heath thou shalt not cross, for soon
Its earth will hide thy form;
That babbling tongue of thine shall make
A morsel for the worm!"
She leap'd upon the ling-clad heath,
And, nerv'd with phrensied fear,
Pursued her slippery way across,
Until the wood was near.
But nearer still two fiends appear'd,
Like hunters of the fawn,
Who cast their cumb'ring cloaks away,
Beside that forest lone;
And bounded swifter than the maid,
Who nearly 'scap'd their wrath,
For well she knew that woody glade,
And every hoary path.
Obscur'd by oak and hazel bush,
Where milk maid's merry song
Had often charm'd her lover's ear,
Who blest her silv'ry tongue.
But Mary miss'd the woodland stile--
The hedge-row was not high;
She gain'd its prickly top, and now
Her murderers were nigh.
A slender tree her fingers caught--
It bent beneath her weight;
'Twas false as love and Mary's fate!
Deceiving as the night!
She fell--and villagers relate
No more of Mary's hour,
But how she rose with deadly might,
And, with a maniac's power,
Fought with her murd'rers till they broke
Her slender arm in twain;
But none could e'er discover where
The maiden's corse was lain.
When wand'ring by that noiseless wood,
Forsaken by the bee,
Each rev'rend chronicler displays
The bent and treach'rous tree.
Pointing the barkless spot to view,
Which Mary's hand embrac'd,
They shake their hoary locks, and say,
"It ne'er can be effac'd!"
ARMTHORPE BELLS.[173]
I.
I sing the church of ARMTHORPE town,[174]
That stands upon a hill,
And all who in the Fly[175] come down
May see it if they will.
II.
But there to them it doth appear
An humble barn, tho' neat,
I wish the rector every year
Had it choke full of wheat.
III.
I only mean, supposing it
A very barn indeed;
I'm sure he'd give thereof what's fit
To them who stand in need.
IV.
The steeple then, you may presume,
Is not like that of GRANTHAM,
For bells and chimes there was no room,
And now they do not want them.
V.
In vain the Quakers it abuse,
And with their canting flout it,
Calling this church a steeple-house,
There's no such thing about it.
VI.
Altho' no steeple doth appear,
Yet bells they're not without,
High hung in air, aloft they are,
But where? Ah! there's the doubt.
VII.
How this can be, for you to tell
Requires somewhat to think on;
And yet they serve the folks as well
As would Great Tom of Lincoln.
VIII.
The architect, a silly man,
(And artist too--God wot;)
Some say, when up he drew his plan,
The steeple he forgot.
IX.
But that was not the cause of it,
Our wiser rector fancies;
'Twas not the builder's lack of wit,
But want of the finances.
X.
To rectify this great neglect,
Before the cash was spent all,
An useful thing he did erect,
Both cheap and ornamental.
XI.
For he a simple wall did raise
Upon the west-end gable,
And I must own, unto his praise,
It stands yet firm and stable.
XII.
And of his skill to give some proof,
Which he'd not done before:
He built it up above the roof,
Some six feet high or more.
XIII.
Of this, from north to south th' extent
Was full as long as high,
For doing which his wise intent
I'll tell you bye and bye.
XIV.
Two holes quite thro' this wall were seen
Like windows in a garret,
That two small bells might hang therein,
For passengers to stare at.
XV.
But how to get these bells--alas!
Much jangling did create,
Much ale, and much tobacco, was
Consum'd in the debate.
XVI.
One wiser than the rest propos'd
To draw up a petition,
Begging SIR GEORGE[176] would be dispos'd
To pity their condition.
XVII.
That he would kindly grant this boon,
Unto his tenants all,
The dinner-bell that calls at noon
The vassals to his hall.
XVIII.
When to sir George they did impart,
How much they stood in need,
He said he'd give't, with all his heart,
And sent it them with speed.
XIX.
Their need by this being half supply'd,
They wanted now but one,
But that, with judgment great, they cried,
Should have a shriller tone.
XX.
One thought upon a tavern bell,
Another on a miller's,
A third thought one would do as well
That tinkles on a thill-horse.
XXI.
"A fine one's in the Angel bar,"[177]
Says one, "and I can steal it,
If on the bible you'll all swear
You never will reveal it."
XXII.
The clerk, a simple tailor, cry'd
He'd never touch the string,
Or whatsoever else they ty'd
To the accursed thing.
XXIII.
The tailor's speech did for some time
Put all in great combustion,
They said it was no greater crime
To steal a bell than fustian.
XXIV.
Here they had stuck, had it not been
For what I shall relate,
A gift to them quite unforeseen
Which was decreed by fate.
XXV.
A neighb'ring corp'rate town,[178] who found
Their crier's bell too small,
To get one with a deeper sound
Had call'd a common-hall.
XXVI.
The mayor, for th' honor of the place,
Commendably was zealous,
And of whate'er might it disgrace
Was equally as jealous.
XXVII.
Said, "Gentlemen and brethren dear,
You need not now be told
That this here town for many a year
Look'd very mean and old.
XXVIII.
"But so magnificent is grown,
As know ye all full well;
That quality from London town
Choose here to come and dwell.
XXIX.
"Our Mansion-house, inside and out,
So elegant doth rise,
That, in the nation round-about,
'Tis mention'd with surprize.
XXX.
"Of precious time 'twould be a loss,
Should I make long preambles
Of pavements, lamps, and butter-cross,
And of our butchers' shambles.
XXXI.
"But here the new-built gaol, I own,[179]
Ought not to be forgotten,
A sweeter place in all the town
No one would choose to rot in.
XXXII.
"Yet notwithstanding all our pains,
Our judgment and expence,
Yet wanting much, one thing remains
Of weighty consequence.
XXXIII.
"For what avails our large gilt mace,
Our full-furr'd purple gowns?
Our scarlet fiddlers' noted race,
And lord-like pack of hounds?[180]
XXXIV.
"What, tho' our huntsman's clothed well,
In coat of grass-green plush,[181]
Whene'er I see our crier's bell,
I vow it makes me blush.
XXXV.
"Whene'er we're sitting in this hall,
The sound on't makes me sick,
For 'tis a great burlesque on all
Our body politic.
XXXVI.
"No dignity's thereby convey'd,
No harmony decorous,
I marvel much no order's made
It shan't be rung before us.
XXXVII.
"Then, gentlemen, with decent pride,
At this our solemn sitting,
Let us agree that we provide
A bell our town befitting."
XXXVIII.
The court agreed; a bell was bought,
With more melodious tongue,
How much it cost I have forgot,
But to this day 'tis rung.
XXXIX.
Th' offensive bell was laid aside,
Like statesmen when discarded,
And in a stable did reside,
Entirely disregarded.
XL.
Soon did the news of this event,
Reach Armthorpe you may swear.
From whence two leading men were sent
To treat with Mr. Mayor.
XLI.
Whom they approach'd with awkward bow,
And then with sly address
They told his worship, "That as how--
They were in great distress."
XLII.
Said,--"A great work we have in hand,
In which we've been too rash,
For now it all is at a stand,
Only for want of cash.
XLIII.
"A bell we want, a small one too.
Would make our business right,
A second-handed bell would do,
Did we know where to buy't."
XLIV.
By this time he smelt out their drift,
And gen'rous as a king,
Said,--"We have one--to you we'll giv't,--
'Twill be the very thing.
XLV.
"And I'm well pleased, I do protest,
To save you so much charge,
But, I suppose, tho' you know best,
Our bell will be too large."
XLVI.
The bell was fetch'd at his command,
(A sight to them most pleasing,)
Of which to them, with but one hand,
He livery gave and seizin.
XLVII.
The joy they did at this conceive
They could not well conceal,
For as they bow'd, and took their leave,
They rang a tingling peal.
XLVIII.
Full fast then homeward they did hie,
(Almost as quick as thought,)
Nor was their speed retarded by
The weight of what they brought.
XLIX.
But when the town they did descry,
They rung their bell aloud,
Which their success did signify
To the desponding crowd.
L.
The townsmen bless'd at the event,
And at their hearts full glad,
Quickly return'd the compliment,
By ringing that they had.
LI.
So when a ship a fort salutes,
No sooner have they done,
The fort, to obviate all disputes,
Returns them gun for gun.
LII.
Jason, who brought the golden fleece
Upon the good ship Argo,
Was not more welcom'd home than these,
Tho' they did not so far go.
LIII.
Both bells were in triumphant state,
With many a rustic grin,
Conducted to the church-yard gate
And introduc'd therein.
LIV.
Where in the shade of two spread yews,
Like Baucis and Philemon,
Was told at large the joyful news,
To many a listning yeoman.
LV.
There wanted not to mount them high
A windlass or a gable,
For any lad that stood thereby
To run them up was able.
LVI.
The bells, at last, were safely hung
In their respective holes,
At weddings, where they both are rung,
At deaths, the largest tolls.
LVII.
At first they various ways did try
In vain, to make them speak,
At last they did succeed, and by
_Un tour de mechanique_.
LVIII.
The clerk right wisely did foresee.
By virtue of his post,
That he of their good company
Was like to have the most.
LIX.
To keep society alive,
And that they still might please,
Wish'd that some way he could contrive,
T' enjoy the same with ease.
LX.
For this he cudgelled his brains,
At length this happy thought
Occurr'd,--which, with small cost and pains,
He to perfection brought.
LXI.
He found two yard-long sticks would do,
Which might from westward come,
When each had been well fixed to
It's _tintinabulum_.
LXII.
Two strings, for ropes,[182] a name too great,
From these sticks might depend,
And by two holes made thro' the slate,
Into the church descend.
LXIII.
That he, when sitting on his breech,
(In either hand a string)
By giving an alternate twitch,
With ease might make them ring.
LXIV.
A great example here is seen,
Of the mechanic-power,
Nor has there yet adopted been
A better to this hour.
LXV.
Here critics may cry out with spite,
Lord! how these verses jingle!
But, otherwise, how could I write
On bells that only tingle?
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 173: From a MS. _penes_ Rev. H. J. Branson, M. A., Rector of
Armthorpe. It is not now known with certainty to whom we are to
attribute the authorship of these lines. They appeared in the
"_Yorkshire Journal_," of Saturday January 19, 1788, a newspaper at that
period printed and published at Doncaster, by Thomas Sanderson. In
introducing the subject he says, "The following Ballad on Armthorpe
Bells was wrote some years ago, supposed by a gentleman of this town,
sometime since deceased, and were sent to Mr. Anstey, author of the
_Bath Guide_, nephew to the Rev. Christopher Anstey, the then rector of
Armthorpe. They were for some time handed about in manuscript, but
having never appeared in public may not prove unacceptable to our
readers; and we hope the vein of wit and humour, which runs through the
whole poem, will sufficiently apologize for its length." Who the
gentleman thus alluded to was we are unable to state. An impression has
prevailed that they were written by Mr. Anstey, the author of the _Bath
Guide_; but, in the absence of any positive evidence to that effect, we
must assume that the proprietor of the _Yorkshire Journal_, writing in
1788, when the subject would be fresh and talked about, is more likely
to be correct in the statement above made. Mr. Christopher Anstey, the
poet, was born 31 Oct. 1724, and died 3 Aug. 1805. The Rev. Christopher
Anstey, rector of Armthorpe from about 1771 to 1784, died June 17, 1784,
aged 73, and was buried at Doncaster.]
[Footnote 174: Armthorpe is a village, situated in an agricultural
district, about three miles south-east of Doncaster. An account of it at
length may be read in Hunter's able work, the "History of South
Yorkshire." The place lay close to the confines of the ancient Chace of
Hatfield, and once formed a valuable part of the possessions of the
monks of the abbey of Roche. At the dissolution of the abbey the manor
of Armthorpe came to the crown. In 3 James I. the king granted it to sir
Robert Swyft, of Tristrop, (now Streetthorpe,) knt. The family of Cooke,
of Wheatley, had a good estate here, most of which sir George Cooke,
bart. sold, in 1804, to John Walbanke Childers, esq., of Cantley, in
whose family it remains. The church is dedicated to St. Mary. Dr.
Miller, in his "History of Doncaster," 1803, briefly remarks that it was
then "a very small mean building, with one bell hanging on the outside
of it, and nothing worth noticing within." Hunter, in 1828, remarks that
it is a small building of one pace, with two bells hanging in a kind of
pent-house on the roof, and is a fair specimen of what the original
churches of the smaller country parishes must have been. "This," he
says, "is the only instance of a church without a tower in the deanery."
The living is a rectory in the gift of the crown, and is now held by the
Rev. H. J. Branson, M.A., who was presented thereto, by Lord Chancellor
Brougham, in 1834.]
[Footnote 175: THE FLY was the name of a coach that commenced running,
in the year 1768, from Leeds to London, during the winter season, and
performed its journey in two days and a half, at that period considered
very expeditious travelling. Probably it derived its name from this
extraordinary swiftness. The advertisement of this coach, inserted in
the _Leeds Intelligencer_, of January 3, 1769, after stating the fares,
the places from whence it set out, &c. &c., concludes in the usual
manner, viz. "Performed (_if God permit_) by Messrs. Stokes, Benton and
Co;" from this expression coaches, in those days, were by some
irreverently styled "God-permits." As far back as 1669 a coach called
the "Flying Coach" went from Oxford to London in one day. Perhaps any
vehicle became entitled to the appellation that could go along at a
moderate trot. In 1791 were advertised "New Flying Stage-Waggons."]
[Footnote 176: Sir George Cooke, of Wheatley; probably the seventh
baronet, 1766-1823.]
[Footnote 177: The Angel Inn, at Doncaster, upon the site of which
stands the Guild-Hall.]
[Footnote 178: Doncaster.]
[Footnote 179: This passage helps to furnish a clue to the period about
which these lines were probably written. Miller (Hist. Doncaster, p.
184), under 1767, says that "a new gaol was built;" and again, under
1778 (p. 185), he says that "the old gaol was taken down and a new one
erected."]
[Footnote 180: In addition to the "lordlike" luxury of a pack of hounds,
in which the _old_ corporation of Doncaster formerly indulged, that
highly respectable body, after the manner of the Royal COLE, of
convivial memory, when they "called for their bowl," (which they not
unfrequently did,) possessed also the king-like privilege of summoning
their "fiddlers three." They maintained, as a part of their regular
establishment, three musicians, called waits, who were clothed in
scarlet liveries, and played at feasts, balls, &c., and walked in the
procession to church. In former times they used to go about the town,
during the night, playing a single tune on various instruments at the
doors of the principal inhabitants; an office which seems to have
answered the same purpose as that of watchman, to which they afterwards
gave place.]
[Footnote 181: In 1762 the huntsman had "a frock of blue shagg, faced
with red,"--the colours of the corporation's livery.]
[Footnote 182: The low common was enclosed about 1671, when an allotment
of 1 acre 16 poles was given, in lieu of land appropriated from time
immemorial to the finding of church bell-ropes, and is let to the
highest bidder.]
PAUL JONES, THE CUMBERLAND MILITIA,
AND SCARBROUGH VOLUNTEERS.[183]
The inhabitants of the Yorkshire coast were frequently, about the year
1779, thrown into a state of alarm by that intrepid Anglo-American
buccanier, Paul Jones. This man had formerly been in the service of the
earl of Selkirk, whence he was expelled with disgrace, and having
repaired to America he volunteered to make a descent on the British
coast. Being entrusted with the command of a privateer, he effected a
landing at Whitehaven, and set fire to some shipping in the arbour. He
sailed for Scotland, where he landed on the estate of the earl of
Selkirk, and plundered his lordship's house of all the plate. These
services insured his promotion, and procured him the command of the Bon
Homme Richard, and the Alliance, each of 40 guns; the Pallas, of 32
guns; and the Vengeance, armed brig. With this force he made many
valuable captures, insulted the coast of Ireland, and even threatened
the city of Edinburgh. On Monday, the 20th Sept. 1779, an express
arrived at Bridlington, from the bailiffs of Scarborough, with
intelligence that an enemy was cruising off the coast. On Thursday a
valuable fleet of British merchantmen from the Baltic, under the convoy
of the Serapis, Capt. Pearson, of 44 guns, and the Countess of
Scarborough, Capt. Piercy, of 22 guns, hove in sight, and were chased by
the enemy. The first care of Capt. Pearson was to place himself between
the enemy and his convoy; by which manoeuvre he enabled the whole of
the merchantmen to escape into the port of Scarborough. About half-past
seven o'clock the thunder of the cannon announced that an engagement had
commenced; the battle raged with unabated fury for two hours, when at
length Capt. Pearson, who was engaged by the two largest of the enemy's
ships, was compelled to surrender. Capt. Piercy, after a long and
gallant defence, was in the end obliged to strike to the Pallas. The
enemy purchased the victory at a prodigious price, more than 300 men
being killed or wounded in the Richard alone, which vessel received so
much injury, that she sunk next day with many of the wounded on board.
Capt. Pearson afterwards received the honour of knighthood; and the
freedom of the borough of Scarborough was presented to him and his
gallant colleague, Capt. Piercy, in two boxes of "heart of oak,"
ornamented with silver.
Come each loyal Briton of courage so bold,
As annals can show you would ne'er be controul'd,
It vexes my patience I'm sure night and day,
To think how that traitor Paul Jones got away.
Derry down, &c.
As soon as this rebel near our shore did come,
From all parts of the town the inhabitants run,
They all stood amazed his fire to see,
But this never daunted our brave militia.
Our two noble colonels they straight gave command,
Brave Lowther[184] and Fleming,[185] two parliament men,
They marched thro' the ranks, and to the men did say,
"Brave boys, have your arms in good order, we pray."
Our brave officers all, of every degree,
Took care every man provided should be,
With powder and ball, then each took command,
Said, "Boys, for the honour of Cumberland."
Then strait we on guard to the Spaws sent with speed,
To prevent Paul's landing, in case there was need;
They call him Paul Jones, but his name is John Paul,
And if ever we catch him he shall pay for all.
The Serapis and Countess of Scarbrough brave,
Five hours and a half they did bravely behave;
Only two against six the whole time in the fight,
And so with reluctance was forcèd to strike.
In Whitehaven this brat served his time to the sea,
He was born and bred in the shire of Galloway;
He liv'd with lord Selkirk a servant some time,
But committing murder to goal was confined.
He was try'd for the same, and condemned to die,
But broke his confinement, by means cunningly;
A traitor he stands for th' American cause,
And join'd with the French for to pull down our laws.
The inhabitants of Scarbrough to work strait did fall,
In order to protect them from all such as Paul,
And rais'd up a volunteer company with speed,
To defend the town in case there was need.
So now they are provided with every thing new,
Their hearts they are good, and their clothing is blue,
They'll join our militia without dread or fear,
For to flog Jackey Paul, should he chance to come here.
I wish every city and town would with speed,
Raise a volunteer company in time of such need;
To assist our militia round the British land,
And imitate Scarbrough who has laid them a plan.
So here is a health for to drink great and small,
Success to our militia and volunteers all,
May they all prove loyal and true to their king,
And all such as Paul in a halter soon swing.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 183: From a broadside in the Roxburgh collection. Another, on
this event, is published by J. Forth of Pocklington.]
[Footnote 184: Sir James Lowther, bart., of Laleham, Middlesex,
son-in-law to the earl of Bute, lieut. and custos rotulorum of
Cumberland and Westmoreland, and alderman of Carlisle.]
[Footnote 185: Sir Michael le Fleming, bart., M.P. for Westmoreland.]
A NEW FOX-HUNTING SONG.[186]
COMPOSED BY W. S. KENRICK, AND J. BURTELL.
The Chase run by the Cleveland Fox Hounds, on Saturday the 29th day of
January, 1785.
Ye hardy sons of chace give ear,
All listen to my song;
'Tis of a hunt perform'd this year,
That will be talk'd of long,
When a hunting we do go, oho, oho, oho,
And a hunting we will go, oho, oho, oho,
And a hunting we will go, oho, oho, oho,
With the huntsman, Tally, oh.
On Weary Bank, ye know the same,
Unkenell'd was the fox;
Who led us, and our hounds of fame,
O'er mountains, moors, and rocks,
When a hunting we do go, &c.
'Twas Craythorn first swift reynard made,
To Limton then did fly;
Full speed pursu'd each hearty blade,
And join'd in jovial cry,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
To Worsal next he took his flight,
Escape us he would fain;
To Picton next with all his might,
To Craythorn back again,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
To Weary Bank then takes his course,
Thro' Fanny Bell's gill flies;
In Seymour Car strains all his force,
His utmost vigour tries,
With the huntsman Tally oh, &c.
To Tanton, Nunthorp, next he flies,
O'er Langbrough Rig goes he;
He scours like light'ning o'er the meads,
More swift fox could not be,
Nor with a huntsman better match'd, &c.
To Newton, then to Roseberry,
To Hutton Lockerass gill;
To Lownsdale, o'er Court Moor go we,
From thence to Kildale Mill,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
By this our zeal was not subdu'd,
All crosses were in vain;
To Kildale reynard we pursu'd,
To Lownsdale back again,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
By Percy Cross, and Sleddale too,
And Pilly Rig full fast,
As fox could run to Skylderskew,
And Lockwood Beck he past,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
By Freebrough Hill he takes his way,
By Danby Lodge also;
With ardour we pursue our prey,
As swift as hounds could go,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
By Coal Pits and o'er Stonegate Moor,
To Scayling reynard ran;
Was such a fox e'er seen before?
His equal show who can!
When a hunting we do go, &c.
To Barnby now by Ugthorpe Mill,
And Mickleby likewise;
To Ellerby, to Hinderwell,
Still stubborn reynard flies,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
The huntsman now with other three,[187]
And reynard you'll suppose;
Ten couple of hounds of high degree,
One field now did inclose,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
But now our chace draws near an end,
No longer we'll intrude;
For on the cliff, rejoice, my friend,
Swift reynard there we view'd,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.
Sure such a chace must wonder raise,
And had I time to sing,
The huntsman's deeds who merits praise,
Would make the vallies ring,
When a hunting we do go, &c.
Come, sportsmen, all your glasses fill,
And let the toast go round;
May each foxhunter flourish still
In health and strength abound,
When a hunting we do go, &c.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 186: From a broadside in the Roxburgh collection.]
[Footnote 187: Thomas Cole, huntsman; the Rev. George Davison, rector of
Cockfield, co. Durham; Christopher Rowntree, junr; and William
Stockdale.]
AN HONEST YORKSHIRE-MAN.
Ah iz i' truth a country youth,
Neean us'd teea Lunnon fashions;
Yet vartue guides, an' still presides,
Ower all mah steps an' passions.
Neea coortly leear, bud all sinceere,
Neea bribe shall ivver blinnd me;
If thoo can like a Yorkshire tike,
A rooague thoo'll nivver finnd me.
Thof envy's tung, seea slimlee hung,
Wad lee aboot oor county,
Neea men o' t' eearth booast greter wurth,
Or mare extend ther boounty.
Oor northern breeze wi' uz agrees,
An' does for wark weel fit uz;
I' public cares, an' luve affairs,
Wi' honour we acquit uz.
Seea gret a maund is ne'er confiand,
Tiv onny shire or nation;
They geean meeast praise weea weel displays
A leearned iddicasion.
Whahl rancour rolls i' lahtle souls,
By shallo views dissarning,
They're nobbut wise 'at owlus prize
Gud manners, sense, and leearnin.[188]
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 188: The above first appeared in a Ballad-opera, entitled _A
Wonder or, An Honest Yorkshire-man_, by Henry Carey; performed at the
theatres with universal applause. London, printed for Ed. Cooke, 8vo.
1736. The second edition was entitled _The Honest Yorkshire-man_.
London, printed for L. Gilliver and J. Clarke, 12mo. 1736. See Notes and
Queries, 2nd S. IX. 126.]
SPENCE BROUGHTON.
Who was hung at York for robbing the mail on the 14th of April,
1792.
To you my dear companions,
Accept these lines I pray;
A most impartial trial
Has occupied this day.
'Tis from your dying Broughton
To show his wretched fate,
I hope you'll make reformation
Before it is too late.
The loss of your companion
Does grieve my heart full sore,
And I know that my fair Ellen
Will my wretched fate deplore.
I think on those happy hours
That now are past and gone,
Now poor unhappy Broughton
Does wish he had ne'er been born.
One day in Saint James's
With large and swelling pride,
Each man had a flash woman
Walking by his side;
At night we did retire
Unto some ball or play,
In these unhappy pleasures
How time did pass away.
Brought up in wicked habit,
Which brings me now in fear,
How little did I think
My time would be so near;
For now I'm overtaken,
Condemned and cast to die,
Exposed a sad example
To all that does pass by.
O that I had but gone
To some far-distant clime,
A gibbet post, poor Broughton,
Would never have been mine;
But alas, for all such wishes,
Such wishes are in vain,
Alas! it is but folly
And madness to complain.
One night I tried to slumber
And close my weeping eyes,
I heard a foot approach
Which struck me with surprise;
I listened for a moment,
A voice made this reply,
"Prepare thyself, Spence Broughton,
To-morrow you must die."
O awful was the messenger
And dismal was the sound,
Like a man that was distracted
I rolled upon the ground;
My tears they fell in torrents,
With anguish I was torn;
I am poor unhappy Broughton,
I wish I had ne'er been born.
Farewell, my wife and children,
To you I do bid adieu,
I never should have come to this
Had I staid at home with you.
I hope thro' my Redeemer
To gain the happy shore,
Farewell! farewell! farewell for ever,
Spence Broughton soon will be no more.
THE YORKSHIRE KNIGHT; OR, THE
FORTUNATE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.[189]
IN THREE PARTS.
_Part I_. Showing how a noble knight was riding by a farmer's house when
his wife was in travail. The knight, knowing the signs and planets,
looking on a book, read that the farmer's daughter that was born that
hour was to be his bride. And how the cruel knight got the child from
her parents, and flung it into a river; but, by good fortune, the child
was taken up by a poor fisherman alive, who brought her home and kept
her till she was eleven years old.
_Part II_. How the fisherman was in an inn with some gentlemen, the
knight being one of the company; and seeing this young girl come in, he
asked the fisherman if she was his own daughter, who told the story of
his taking her up, &c. How the knight got the poor girl away, and
contrived her death a second time, and how he was prevented.
_Part III_. How the knight contrived her death the third time; but her
life was saved by showing the knight a ring that he flung into the sea,
which the knight seeing, found it was in vain to strive against fortune,
so married her.
[Footnote 189: A favourite chap-book history, sometimes called "The
Yorkshire Garland;" or, "The Cruel Knight, and the Fortunate Farmer's
Daughter." See a broadside in Rox. coll.]
PART I.
In famous York city a farmer did dwell,
Who was belov'd by his neighbours full well;
He had a good wife that was virtuous and fair,
And by her he had a child every year.
In seven years' time six children they had,
Which made both the father and mother's heart glad.
But a little time, as we do hear say,
This farmer in wealth and stock did decay;
Although that once he had riches great store,
In little time after he quickly grew poor;
He strove all he could, but alas! could not thrive,
Nor hardly could keep his poor children alive.
But children came faster than silver or gold,
For his wife she conceived again, we are told,
And when her time came, in hard travail she fell;
But, if you will mind, a strange wonder I'll tell.
A rich noble knight did chance to ride by,
And hearing this woman to shriek and cry;
He being well learned in planets and signs,
Did look on a book which puzzled his mind:
For the more he did look, still the more he did read,
And found that the fate this young child had decreed,
Who was born in that house that same hour and tide,
He found it was she that must be his sweet bride.
But judge how the knight was disturbed in mind,
When he in that book his own fortune did find;
He quickly rode home, but was sorely oppress'd;
From that very moment he could have no rest;
All night he did tumble and toss in his bed,
And very strange projects did run in his head;
Then he was resolved very quickly indeed,
To alter that fortune he found was decreed.
With a murdering heart next morning he rose,
And to the house of the farmer he goes;
Then asking the man, with a heart full of spite,
If the child was alive that was born last night?
"Worthy sir," says the farmer, "although I'm poor,
I had one born last night, and six long before;
Four sons and three daughters I now have alive,
Which are all in good health and likely to thrive."
The knight he reply'd, "If that seven you have,
Let me have the youngest, I'll keep her most brave;
For you very well with one daughter can spare,
Which, if you will grant, I will make her my heir:
"For I am a knight of noble degree,
And if you will part with your child unto me,
Full three hundred pounds unto you I will give,
When I from your hands your daughter receive."
The father and mother, with tears in their eyes,
Did hear this fine offer, and were in surprize;
And seeing the knight so gallant and gay,
Presented the infant unto him that day.
But they spoke to him with words most mild,
"We beseech you, kind sir, to be kind to our child."
"You need not fear it," the knight did say,
"For I will maintain her most gallant and gay."
Then with this sweet baby away he did ride,
Until that he came to a broad river side;
With cruelty bent he resolved, indeed,
To drown the young infant that moment with speed.
Says he, "If you live, you must needs be my wife;
But I am resolved to bereave you of life:
For 'till you are dead I no other can have,
Therefore you shall lie in a watery grave."
In speaking these words, that moment, they say,
He flung the sweet babe in the river straightway;
And being well pleased when this he had done,
Did leap on his horse and quickly rode home.
But mind how good fortune did for her provide,
For the child was drove safe on her back by the tide.
There was a man fishing as fortune would have,
Who saw the child floating upon the salt wave.
He soon took her up but was in amaze,
He kiss'd her, and bless'd her, and on her did gaze;
And seeing he had ne'er a child in his life,
He presently carried her home to his wife.
His wife she was pleased the child for to see,
And said, "My dear husband, be ruled by me,
Since we have no child, if you let me alone,
We'll keep this sweet baby and call it our own."
The good man consented, as I have been told,
And spared for neither silver nor gold,
Until she was aged eleven full years;
And then her sweet beauty began to appear.