=Great Russian.= 1-5, Sozonovič, Appendi_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 5 (of 5)

=Little Russian.= 6-8, Trudy, II, 411, 413, 414, Nos 119-21; 9,

Dragomanof, p. 392; 10-15, Sozonovič, Appendix, Nos 4-6, 10-12; 16,

Bugiel, in the Slavic Archiv, XIV, 146. =White Russian.= 17, 18,

Sozonovič, Appendix, No 3; Dobrovolśkij, Ethnographical Collection from

Smolensk, p. 126, No 58. =Servian.= 19, Krauss, in Wisła, IV, 667.

=Croat.= 20, 21, Strohal, pp. 114, 115, Nos 20, 21. =Croat-Slovenian.=

22-24, Valjavec, Narodne Pripovjedke, p. 239; Plohl-Herdvigov, I,

127, 129. =Slovenian.= 25, 26, Krek, in the Slavic Archiv, X, 357,

358. =Polish.= 27, Zamarski, p. 121; 28, Grudziński, p. 15; 29,

Lach-Szyrma, Pamiętnik Naukowy, 1819, I, 358; 30, Kolberg, Lud,

XIV, 181; 31, Treichel, in Zeitschrift für Volkskunde, II, 144; 32,

Chełchowski, II, 40-42, No 59; 33, Siarkowski, in Zbiór wiadomości

do antropologii krajowéj, III, III (21). =Bohemian.= 34, Sumlork,

I, 608; 35, Erben, Kytice z básní, p. 23 (ballad founded on tale).

=Slovak.= 36, Dobśinsky, pp. 23-30 (three versions). =Wendish.= 37,

Schulenburg, Wendische Volkssagen, p. 137 (fragment). =Lithuanian.=

38, Leskien u. Brugman, p. 160, No 2, p. 497, No 43. =Magyar.= 39,

Pap, Palóc Népköltemények, p. 94, also Arany and Gyulai, I, 207,

No 52, and 569, Aigner, in Gegenwart, 1875, No 12. =Gypsy.= 40,

Wlisłocki, Volksdichtungen der siebenbürgischen u. südungarischen

Zigeuner, p. 283, No 43. =German=, High and Low. 41, Sztodola, in

Herrmann, Ethnologische Mittheilungen aus Ungarn. col. 341 f. (Ofen);

42-45, Vernaleken, Mythen u. Bräuche des Volkes in Oesterreich, pp.

76 f., 79 f., Nos 6-9 (Lower Austria); 46-48, A. Baumgarten, Aus der

volksmässigen Ueberlieferung der Heimat (Geburt, Heirat, Tod), pp.

135, 136, 136 f. (Upper Austria); 49, Boeckel, in Germania, XXXI, 117

(Baden); 50, 51, Jahn, Volkssagen aus Pommern u. Rügen, pp. 404, 406,

No 515, I, II; 52, J. F. Cordes, in The Monthly Magazine, 1799, VIII,

602 f. (Glandorf, Lower Saxony); 53, Müllenhof, Sagen, etc., p. 164, No

224 (Ditmarsch). =Netherlandish.= 54-56, Pol de Mont, in Volkskunde,

II, 129-31. =Danish.= 57, Grundtvig, Danmarks g. Folkeviser, III, 873.

=Icelandic.= 58, Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur, I, 280 ff.; Maurer,

Isländische Volkssagen, p. 73 f.

A lover, who has long been unheard of, but whose death has not been

ascertained, roused from his last sleep by the grief of his mistress

(which in some cases drives her to seek or accept the aid of a spell),

comes to her by night on horseback and induces her to mount behind him.

As they ride, he says several times to her, The moon shines bright, the

dead ride swift, art not afraid? Believing him to be living, the maid

protests that she feels no fear, but at last becomes alarmed. He takes

her to his burial-place, and tries to drag her into his grave; she

escapes, and takes refuge in a dead-house (or house where a dead man is

lying). The lover pursues, and calls upon the dead man within the house

to give her up, which in most cases, for fellowship, he prepares to do.

At the critical moment a cock crows, and the maid is saved.

Some of the tales are brief and defective, some mixed with foreign

matter. The predominant traits, with a few details and variations, may

be briefly exhibited by a synoptical analysis.

A pair of lovers are plighted to belong to each other in life and

death, 50, 51, 57; whichever dies first is to visit the other, 48; the

man, at parting, promises to come back, alive or dead, 25, 26. The man

dies in war, 1, 2, 10, 14, 15, 17, 20-22, 25-29, 31, 32, 36, 39, 42,

45-52; the maid, her lover not returning, grieves incessantly, 4, 6-13,

15-18, 28, 29, 32, 49, 53. (The return of the lover is enforced by a

spell, recommended or conducted by an old woman, 22, 28, 36, 39, 41,

45, advised by a priest, 20, 21, worked by the maid, 33; a dead man’s

head, bones, carcass, boiled in a pot, 15-17, 20, 21, 22, 27, 39, a

piece of the man’s clothing, 28, a cat burned in a red-hot oven, 33.)

The man comes on horseback, mostly at night; she mounts with him, 1-5,

8-12, 14-23, 25-32, 36-44, 46, 48-53, 56-58, taking with her a bundle

of clothes, smocks, etc., 1, 6, 7, 9, 16, 17, 21, 23, 24, 26, 32, 35,

36, 38. (There are two horses, 45; they go off in coach or wagon, 6,

7, 13, 24, 33; stag for horse, 47; afoot, 35, 54.) As they go, the man

says or sings once or more, The moon shines bright, the dead ride fast,

art thou afraid? and she answers that with him she has no fear. The

verses occur in some form in all copies but 2, 3, 9, 11, 13, 15, 29,

32, 33, 38, 40, 51, and are mostly well preserved. (It is a voice from

the churchyard in 38.)

Arrived at a grave in a churchyard, the man bids the maid to go in, 2,

4-6, 8, 10-17, 20, 21, 23, 24, 26, 32, 36, 39; she says, You first, 2,

4-6, 8, 11-17, 23, 24, 32, 36, 39; she will first throw him her things,

and then come, 14; she throws in her bundle of things, 1, 5, 23, 24,

26, 32, 36; hands them to him one after another, 6, 7, 16, 17; tells

him to take her by the hands, and reaches out to him the sleeves of

her gown, 2, 12; gives him the end of a piece of linen or of a ball of

thread to pull at, 16, 19; asks him to spread her kerchief in the grave

to make the frozen ground softer, 27, all this to gain time. He tears

her things in the grave, 9, 13, 24; he seizes her apron, clutches her

clothes, to drag her in, 4, 8, 21, 22, 25, 43, 44, 47, 48 (in 4 she

cuts the apron in two, in 8 tears her gown off, in 25, 43, 44, 48, her

apron parts); she runs off, 1-9, 11, 13-17, 20-27, 29, 30, 35, 36, 38,

39, 41, 45, 46, 48, 50; she throws down articles of dress to delay his

pursuit, he tears them, 9, 13, 18, 38.

The maid takes refuge in a dead-house (or house in which there is a

dead body, or two, or three), 1-4, 6, 8, 11-15, 17, 18, 20-22, 24-27,

29, 30, 32, 34-36, 38, 39, 41, 45, 46 (malt-kiln, 5, house of vampire,

16). She climbs on to the stove, or hides behind it, 6-8, 11, 13-16,

21, 24, 26, 32, 34, 36, 39, 41. The dead lover calls to the dead in the

house to open, hand her out, 4, 6, 8, 11, 17, 20-22, 25, 26, 27, 29,

30, 32, 35, 36, 38, 39, 41, 45, 46, 48, 50, 57 (to seize the girl, 11;

to tear her to pieces, 24); the dead man within is disposed to help his

comrade, makes an effort so to do, 11, 29, 34, 41, 45, 46; opens the

door, 6, 21, 36, 39; is prevented from helping because the maid has

laid her cross, scapular, on his coffin, 4, 17; (two dead, because she

has laid her rosary on the feet of one, her prayer-book on the feet of

the other, 32;) the maid throws at him beads from her rosary, which

check his movements until the string is exhausted; the maid puts up

three effectual prayers, 35; Ave sounds, 48; by the maid’s engaging his

attention with a long tale, 38; because his wife or a watcher knocks

him on the head, and orders him to lie where he is, 20, 30; because

his wife has turned him over on his face, 57. In a few cases the dead

man within inclines to protect the maid, 1, 22, 25; the two get into a

fight, 1, 13-15, 17, 26, 36 (quarrel, 7). The cock crows, and the dead

fall powerless, return to their places, turn to pitch, vanish, 1, 2, 3,

5, 8, 10, 11, 13-15, 17, 24, 26, 27, 29, 30, 32, 34-36, 39, 41, 45, 46,

and the maid is saved.[55]

In some of the tales of this section the maid is not so fortunate: in

6, the two dead take her by the legs and tear her asunder; in 21, the

lover tears her, the dead man in the house having surrendered her. In

39, the lover, having been let in, says to the other dead man, Let us

tear her to pieces, and is proceeding to do so, but is stopped by the

cock. She dies of shock, or after a few days, 8, 11, 13, 16, 17, 29,

31, 32, 36.

The maid’s escape assured, in one way or another, the man calls to

her, Your good luck: I would have taught you to weep for the dead (he

had been tearing her things in the grave, and her shift, which she had

dropped to delay his pursuit), 9. Your body would have been rent into

as many bits as your smocks (a bit was found on every grave in the

churchyard), 22, 35. I would have torn you into a thousand tatters.

I was all but saved, and have had to come so far! Then he warned her

never again to long for the dead, 42. I would have taught you to

disturb the dead, 41. It was her luck, for she would have been torn

into a thousand bits, like her apron. Let this be a warning to you,

says Our Lady to the girl, never to mourn so much again for the dead,

for he had a hard journey to make, 43. He tore a portion of her gown

into a thousand pieces, and laid one on every grave, saying, You were

not so much a simpleton to mourn for me as I was not to tear you to

pieces, 30. There was on every grave a bit of her gown, from which we

may see how it would have fared with her, 31.

Resentment for the disturbance caused by the maid’s excessive grief is

expressed also in 6, Since you have wept so much for me, creep into my

grave; in 12, she has troubled him by her perpetual weeping, he will

take her where he dwells; in 20, Another time do not long for my dead

body; in 27, You have mourned for me, now sleep with me; in 32, the

maid’s continual weeping is a burden to her lover in his grave. In 40,

the remonstrance is affectionate and like (suspiciously like) that of

Helgi and of Sir Aage (II, 235).

In some copies the story closes at the grave, 2, 10, 19, 23, 28, 40,

43, 44, 47, 49, 51, 52, 54, 56, 58; many of these, however, are brief

and defective. The man lays himself in the grave, which closes, she

flies, 23; he descends into the grave and tries to draw her in by her

apron, the apron tears, she faints, and is found lying on the ground

the next morning, 43; he descends into the grave and tries to draw her

after him, she resists, the grave closes, and she remains without, 47;

he disappears, she is left alone, 49, 52. She goes into the grave,

remains there, and dies, 10; the grave opens, he pushes or drags her

in, 54; both disappear in the grave, 56; the horse rushes three times

round in a ring, and they are nowhere, 53; she is killed by the man,

her flesh torn off, and her bones broken, 51.

The maid finds herself in a strange land, 44, 47; she is among people

of different language, 26, 28, 29, 45; nobody knows of the place which

she says she came from, 27; she is a long time in getting home, and

nobody knows her then, 25; she is years in going home (from two to

nine), 20, 22, 28, 46.

The man and woman are a married pair in 2, 3, 23, 44, 45; in 44, the

woman has married a second time, contrary to a mutual agreement. 10,

12, 16, 18, 19, have a taint of vampirism, and in 2 a stake is driven

through the body of the man after he has returned to his grave, as was

done with vampires.

In 31, the maid throws herself from the horse, the man, holding to her

gown, tears off a large piece of it, and bits of the gown are found

on every grave the next day; so in the Cornish tale, when the maid is

pulled from the horse, the man retains a portion of her gown, and a

piece is found on his grave. In 27, the maid’s kerchief is found in the

man’s grave, and serves to corroborate her story; so in the Suffolk

tale, with the handkerchief which the maid had bound round the man’s

head. 55, a brief and corrupted copy, compares very well with the

Suffolk tale for pointlessness. The man comes on his father’s horse,

takes the girl on, and rides with her all round the village. Towards

morning he brings the maid back to her chamber, and the horse to the

stable, and goes where he came from.

Ballads. Little =Russian.= 1, 2, Golovatsky, I, 83, No 40; II, 708, No

12. =Slovenian.= 3, Valjavec, as before, preface, p. IV. =Polish.= 4,

Grudziński, p. 25, ‘Helene,’ Galicia; 5, Max Waldau (G. v. Hauenschild)

in Deutsches Museum, 1851, I, 136, No 5, Kreis Ratibor, Oberschlesien;

6, Mickiewicz, ‘Ucieczka’ (Works, Paris, 1880, I, 74), based on a

ballad sung in Polish in Lithuania. =Bohemian=, Moravian. 7, Erben,

1864, p. 471; 8, Bartoš, 1882, p. 150; 9, 10, Sušil, p. 791, p. 111,

No 112. =Gypsy.= 11, Wlisłocki, as before, p. 104, South Hungary.

=German.= 12, Schröer, Ein Ausflug nach Gottschee, Wiener Akademie,

Sitzb. d. phil.-hist. Classe, LX, 235.[56]

As I have already said, the ballads seem less original than the tales;

that is, to have been made from tales, as ‘The Suffolk Miracle’ was. 5,

7, 10, are of the vulgar sort, like the English piece, 7 having perhaps

received literary touches. In none of them does the maid fly and the

man pursue; the catastrophe is at the grave.

The lovers have sworn mutual faith, 5, 10; the maid wishes that the man

may come back, dead or living, 3, 10, 12; even from hell, 6.

The man has fallen in war, 1, 2, 6, 7, 8, 9, 12.

A spell is employed to bring him back, 1, 2, 6, 9.

He comes on a horse, 3, 4, 6-8, 11, 12; in a wagon, 5, 10; on foot, 1,

2, 9.

The verses found in the tales occur in 3 (three times), 4, 5, 6, 12; in

10, a voice from the clouds cries, What hast thou done, to be going off

with a dead man?

She is taken to a graveyard. The grave closes over the man, she is left

without, 3, 5, 8, 10, 12; both go into the grave, 4, 6, 7, 11.

She breathes out her soul on the grave, 3; she finds herself in the

morning in a strange land, of different speech, is seven years in going

home, 12.

1, 2, 9, are varieties of one ballad. The man asks the maid to go out

with him to the dark wood, 1; to the cherry-tree (trees), 2, 9. After a

time, he tells her to go back, he is no longer her lover, but a devil;

she turns to dust, 1; the cock crows, he tells her to go home and not

look round, to thank God for the cock, because he should have cut off

her head, he is no longer her lover but a devil, 2. In 9, the man says

his head aches badly, for, after mouldering six years, she had forced

him to rise by her spell. The maid tells her mother that her lover is

buried under the cherry-trees, mass is said for him; he returns to give

thanks for his redemption from hell.[57]

Reverting now to the English tales, we perceive that the Cornish is a

very fairly well-preserved specimen of the extensive cycle which has

been epitomized. Possibly the full moonshine is a relic of the weird

verses which occur in so many copies. The hemp-seed rite is clearly a

displacement and perversion of the spell resorted to in five Slavic

and two German copies to compel the return of the dead man. It has no

sense otherwise, for the maid did not need to know who was to be her

lover; she was already bound to one for life and death. The ballad was

made up from an imperfect and confused tradition. In pointlessness and

irrationality it easily finds a parallel in the 55th tale, as already

remarked. The hood and safeguard brought by the ghost represent the

clothes which the girl takes with her in numerous copies. Remembering

the 9th ballad, where the _revenant_ complains of a headache, caused by

the powerful enchantment which had been brought to bear on him, we may

quite reasonably suppose that the headache in ‘The Suffolk Miracle,’

utterly absurd to all appearance, was in fact occasioned by a spell

which has dropped away from the Suffolk story, but is retained in the

Cornish.

M. Paul Sébillot has recently (in 1879) taken down, in that part of

Brittany where French is exclusively spoken, a tale which is almost

a repetition of the English ballad, and which for that reason has

been kept by itself, ‘Les Deux Fiancés,’ Littérature orale de la

Haute-Bretagne, p. 197. A young man and a maid have plighted themselves

to marry and to be faithful to one another even after death. The young

man, who is a sailor, goes on a voyage, and dies without her learning

the fact. One night he leaves his tomb, and comes on a white mare,

taken from her father’s stable, to get the girl, who is living at a

farm at some distance from her own home. The girl mounts behind him: as

they go he says, The moon is bright, death is riding with you, are you

not afraid? and she answers, I am not afraid, since you are with me. He

complains of a headache; she ties her handkerchief round his head. They

arrive at the girl’s home; she gets down and knocks. To an inquiry,

Who is there? she replies, Your daughter, whom you sent for by my

husband that is to be. I have come on horseback with him, and lent him

my handkerchief on the way, since he had none. He is now in the stable

attending to the horse. They go to the stable and find the mare in a

sweat, but no man. The girl then understands that her lover is dead,

and she dies, too. They open the man’s grave to bury the two together,

and find the girl’s handkerchief on his head. This is the English

ballad over again, almost word for word, with the difference that the

lover dies at sea, and that the substance of the notable verses is

preserved.

In marked and pleasing contrast with most of the versions of the

tale with which we have been dealing, in so many copies grotesque

and ferocious, with a lover who, from impulses not always clear,

from resentment sometimes that his comfort has been disturbed by her

unrestrained grief, sometimes that she has been implicated in forcing

him by magic to return to the world which he had done with, is bent on

tearing his lass to pieces, is a dignified and tender ballad, in which

the lovers are replaced by brother and sister. This ballad is found

among the Servians, Bulgarians, Greeks, and Albanians, and is very

common among the Greeks, both of the mainland and the islands.

=Servian.= Karadžić, II, 38, No 9, ‘Yovan and Yelitza;’ Talvj,

Volkslieder der Serben, 1853, I, 295; Dozon, Chansons p. bulgares,

p. 321; Bowring, Servian Popular Poetry, p. 45. Davidović, pp.

10-14, ‘Yovo and Mara,’ No 7; Krek, in Magazin f. d. Litt. d. In- u.

Auslandes, p. 652, No 8.

=Bulgarian.= Dozon, Chansons p. bulgares, p. 130, No 7, p. 319.

Kačanovskij, p. 120, No 48; Krek as above, p. 653 f., No 10, ‘Lazar and

Yovana.’ Miladinof, 1861, 1891, p. 145, No 100, ‘Lazar and Petkana;’

Krek, p. 653, No 9. Miladinof, p. 317, No 200, ‘Elin Doika;’ Rosen,

Bulgarische Volksdichtungen, p. 247, No 103. ‘Elin Doina,’ Popov, in

Periodičesko Spisanie, II, 162, lacks the last half; Krek, p. 654, No

11. ‘Yana,’ Miladinof, p. 339, No 229, Rosen, p. 116, No 32, diverges

considerably from the others.

=Romaic.= Twenty copies, including all previously published, Polites,

in Δελτίον τῆς ἱστορ. κ. ἐθνολ. ἑταιρ. τ. Ἑλλάδος, II, 193-261, 552-57,

1885-87. Kanellakes, Χιαχὰ Ἀνάλεκτα, p. 37, No 27, p. 58, No 49, 1890.

Ζωγραφεῖος Ἀγών, I, 308, No 30, 397, No 17, 1891. ‘Constantine and

Arete’ (mostly). C. B. Sheridan, The Songs of Greece, p. 207; C. C.

Felton, in English and Scottish Ballads, Boston, 1860, I, 307; Lucy M.

J. Garnett, Greek Folk-Songs, etc., 1885, p. 126.

=Albanian.= (‘Garentina,’ = Arete.) De Rada, Rapsodie, etc., p. 29

(I, xvii); Dozon, Ch. p. bulgares, p. 327, De Grazia, C. p. albanesi,

p. 138. Camarda, Appendice al Saggio, etc., p. 98 (fragment, last

half), p. 102. Dora d’ Istria, Revue des Deux Mondes, LXIII, 407. La

Calabria, II, 55, 1890.--Tale, Metkos, Ἀλβανικὴ Μέλισσα, p. 189, No 12,

translated in Dozon, Contes albanais, p. 251.[58]

A mother has nine sons and an only daughter. The daughter is sought in

marriage; the mother and eight of her sons wish to match her in their

neighborhood, but the youngest son (whom it will be convenient to call

Constantine) has his way, and she is given to a suitor from a distant

country (often Babylon). The brothers are to visit their sister often

(Slavic); Constantine promises to bring her to his mother should there

be special occasion. A fatal year comes, and all the brothers die of

the plague (in a few cases they are killed in war). The mother chants

laments at the graves of the eight, strews flowers, burns candles,

gives alms for their souls; at Constantine’s grave she tears her hair.

She curses Constantine for the distant marriage, and demands of him her

daughter. God takes pity (on mother, sister, or son). The stone over

his grave (his coffin, a board for the grave, his shroud, a cloud) is

turned into a horse; he goes to his sister and informs her that she is

wanted by her mother. The sister will put on gold for joy or black for

grief; she is to come as she stands. (He tries to prevent her going, in

the Servian copies, where his object is to pay the promised visit.) On

the way the sister notes that Constantine is gray with mould, he smells

of earth, his skin is black, his eyes are dull, his hair is dusty,

his hair or teeth fallen out; why is this? He has been at work in the

ground, has been building nine white houses, there has been dust,

wind, and rain on the road, he has had long watches, sore sickness. He

smells of incense, too; that is because he has been at church lately.

Birds call out in human voice as they pass, What wonder is this, the

living travelling with the dead! (Thrice in Romaic, 9, 10, and the

Albanian tale, twice in Romaic 13.) The sister asks Constantine if he

hears what the birds are saying; he hears, they are birds, let them

talk. They near their mother’s house; a church is hard by. Constantine

bids his sister go on; he must say a prayer in the church, or pay a

votive candle, find a ring which he lost there, see to his horse; he

disappears. The house is locked, the windows shut, there is every

sign of desolation and neglect. The daughter knocks; the mother, from

within, cries, Avaunt, Death! I have no more children! The daughter

cries, It is I.[59] Who brought you? Constantine. Constantine is dead;

(has been dead three days, forty days, five months, twelve years!) The

mother opens, they die in a mutual embrace (the mother dies, one dies

within, one without).

‘Le Frère de Lait,’ Villemarqué, Barzaz Breiz, No 22, p. 163, ed. 1867,

has no claim to be associated with these ballads, the only feature

in which it has similarity not being genuine. Compare ‘La Femme aux

deux Maris,’ Luzel, Gwerziou Breiz-Izel, I, 266-71, two versions, and

II, 165-69, two more; and see Luzel, De l’authenticité des chants du

Barzaz-Breiz, p. 39.

A wonder stranger ne’r was known

Then what I now shall treat upon.

In Suffolk there did lately dwell

A farmer rich and known full well.

He had a daughter fair and bright,

On whom he plac’d his chief delight;

Her beauty was beyond compare,

She was both virtuous and fair.

A young man there was living by,

Who was so charmëd with her eye

That he could never be at rest,

He was with love so much possest.

He made address to her, and she

Did grant him love immediately;

Which when her father came to hear,

He parted her and her poor dear.

Forty miles distant was she sent,

Unto his brother’s, with intent

That she should there so long remain

Till she had chang’d her mind again.

Hereat this young man sadly grievd,

But knew not how to be relievd;

He sighd and sobd continually

That his true love he could not see.

She by no means could to him send

Who was her heart’s espousëd friend;

He sighd, she grievd, but all in vain,

For she confin’d must still remain.

He mournd so much that doctor’s art

Could give no ease unto his heart;

Who was so strang[e]ly terrified,

That in short time for love he dyed.

She that from him was sent away

Knew nothing of his dying-day,

But constant still she did remain;

To love the dead was then in vain.

After he had in grave been laid

A month or more, unto this maid

He comes about middle of the night,

Who joyd to see her heart’s delight.

Her father’s horse, which well she knew,

Her mother’s hood and safeguard too,

He brought with him to testifie

Her parents’ order he came by.

Which when her unckle understood,

He hop’t it would be for her good,

And gave consent to her straightway

That with him she should come away.

When she was got her love behind,

They passd as swift as any wind,

That in two hours, or little more,

He brought her to her father’s door.

But as they did this great haste make,

He did complain his head did ake;

Her handkerchief she then took out,

And tyed the same his head about.

And unto him she thus did say:

‘Thou art as cold as any clay;

When we come home, a fire wee’l have;’

But little dreamt he went to grave.

Soon were they at her father’s door,

And after she ne’r see him more;

‘I’le set the horse up,’ then he said,

And there he left this harmless maid.

She knockt, and strait a man he cryed,

‘Who’s there?’ ‘’Tis I,’ she then replyed;

Who wondred much her voice to hear,

And was possest with dread and fear.

Her father he did tell, and then

He stared like an affrighted man:

Down stairs he ran, and when he see her,

Cry’d out, My child, how cam’st thou here?

‘Pray, sir, did you not send for me,

By such a messenger?’ said she:

Which made his hair stare on his head,

As knowing well that he was dead.

‘Where is he?’ then to her he said;

‘He’s in the stable,’ quoth the maid.

‘Go in,’ said he, ‘and go to bed;

I’le see the horse well littered.’

He stared about, and there could hee

No shape of any mankind see,

But found his horse all on a sweat;

Which made him in a deadly fret.

His daughter he said nothing to,

Nor no one else, though well they knew

That he was dead a month before,

For fear of grieveing her full sore.

Her father to his father went

Who was deceasd, with this intent,

To tell him what his daughter said;

So both came back unto this maid.

They askd her, and she still did say

’Twas he that then brought her away;

Which when they heard they were amaz’d,

And on each other strang[e]ly gaz’d.

A handkerchief she said she tyed

About his head, and that they tryed;

The sexton they did speak unto,

That he the grave would then undo.

Affrighted then they did behold

His body turning into mould,

And though he had a month been dead,

This kercheif was about his head.

This thing unto her then they told,

And the whole truth they did unfold;

She was thereat so terrified

And grievd, she quickly after dyed.

Part not true love, you rich men, then;

But, if they be right honest men

Your daughters love, give them their way,

For force oft breeds their lives’ decay.

* * * * *

The Suffolk Miracle, or, A relation of a young man who a month after

his death appeared to his sweetheart and carryed her behind him fourty

miles in two hours time and was never seen after but in the grave.

To the tune of My bleeding heart, etc.

London: Printed for W. Thackery and T. Passenger. [1689. _The date

added by Wood._]

Roxburghe and Crawford: Printed by and for A. M[ilbourne], and sold by

the booksellers of Pye-corner

Pepys: Printed for F. C[oles], T. V[ere], J. W[right], J. C[lark], W.

T[hackeray], T. P[assinger].

* * * * *

=a.=

14^3, 25^1. handcherchief.

16^4. he set (O. B. left).

17^2. whose.

22^1. too.

24^4. others.

25^4. undoe.

=b.=

3^1. There was a young man.

4^1. addresses.

4^3. But when.

16^4. he set.

19^1. did not you.

19^3. hair stand.

27^2. did _wanting_.

FOOTNOTES:

[51] Mr W. E. A. Axon, in his Lancashire Gleanings, p. 261, speaks

of the story of the Spectre Bridegroom as having been current in the

neighborhood of Liverpool in the last century, both in an oral and a

printed form. But it is plain that what was current, either way, was

simply ‘The Suffolk Miracle.’ Of this I have a copy learned in the

north of Ireland in 1850 (and very much changed as to form), in which

the scene is laid “between Armagh and County Clare.”

[52] Popular Romances of the West of England, collected and edited by

Robert Hunt, First Series, pp. 265-72, dating from about 1830.

[53] A portion (or portions) of a Low German tale of this class, the

verses and a little more, was the basis of Bürger’s ‘Lenore,’ composed

in 1773. (As to the particulars of the traditional basis, Erich Schmidt

seems to me undoubtedly right: Charakteristiken, p. 219 f.) At the end

of the last century, when ‘Lenore’ became well known in England through

half a dozen translations, it was maintained that Bürger had taken

the idea of his ballad from ‘The Suffolk Miracle,’ with which he was

supposed to have become acquainted through the copy in Old Ballads,

1723. See The Monthly Magazine, 1796, II, 603. But it is nearly certain

that Bürger had not seen, and never saw, the “Old Ballads” of 1723.

In 1777 Boie made him acquainted with a book of that title, but this

was in all probability Evans’s first collection, which appeared in

that year. See Strodtmann, Briefe von und an G. A. Bürger, II, 85, 87.

Bürger knew ‘Sweet William’s Ghost’ from Percy’s Reliques, and took a

hint or two from that, besides the lover’s name.

[54] I. Sozonovič, Bürger’s ‘Lenore,’ and the related matter in

European and Russian popular poetry, Warsaw, 1893 (in Russian).

Professor Wollner has furnished me translations of some twenty-five

pieces in Sozonovič. See, for German versions of many of the Slavic

tales and ballads, Wollner, in Archiv für slavische Philologie, VI,

243-59; Krek, in the same, X, 357-59, and in Magazin für die Litteratur

des In- u. Auslandes, 1887, CXII, 629-32, 650-54; Grudziński, Lenore in

Polen, 1890, p. 13 ff.; Treichel, in Zeitschrift für Volkskunde, II,

144.

[55] 30, 31, 32, 50, have curious popular traits. In 30, 32, the

dead man (men) within being unable to render aid, the lover calls to

yarn spun on Thursday (on Thursday after the evening meal) to open.

A watchman tells the yarn to stay where it was hanged; the girl cuts

the skein in two with an axe. In 31 there is no corpse in the house;

the lover calls on a ball of thread and a broom, ‘ohne Seele’ (with

no centre-piece, no handle) to open. In 50 the dead man within cannot

help the man without because a broom is standing on its handle; so the

man without calls on a skein of yarn, a pot-hook, a ball of thread, to

open. For various reasons these appeals prove bootless.

[56] For German versions of most of the Slavic pieces, Grudziński,

as before, p. 27; Wollner, as before, pp. 250, 255 f., 258; Krek, as

before, p. 652. 7 also in A. Waldau’s Böhmische Granaten, II, 254, No

354.

‘Lenore’ in Wunderhorn, II, 19, 1808, is to be rejected as spurious, on

internal and external evidence. See Pröhle, G. A. Bürger, Sein Leben

und seine Dichtungen, 1856, p. 100 f.

[57] In 11 we have to do with a married pair, as in several of the

tales. In tale 44 the woman has been twice married, and her first

husband comes for her.

[58] No filiation is implied in the above arrangement of the ballads.

[59] The mother demands tokens of her identity, Romaic 11, 12, 21, 22,

Albanian 4, 5. Cf. II, 215

273

KING EDWARD THE FOURTH AND A TANNER OF TAMWORTH

=a.= Wood, 401, fol. 44, Bodleian Library.

=b.= Douce, I, 109, Bodleian Library.

=c.= Roxburghe, I, 176, 177; Chappell, Roxburghe Ballads, I, 529.

The ballad is also in the Pepys collection, II, 129, No 113, and there

are two copies in the Euing collection, Nos 273, 274.

The following entries occur in the Stationers’ Registers:

1564, September or October, William Greffeth licenced to print a book

intituled ‘The story of Kynge Henry the IIIJ^th and the Tanner of

Tamowthe.’ Arber, I, 264.

1586, August 1, Edward White, ‘A merie songe of the Kinge and the

Tanner.’ Arber, II, 451.[60]

1600, October 6, William White, by the consent of Widow Danter, ‘A

merye, pleasant and delectable history betwene Kinge Edward the

IIIJ^{th} and a Tanner of Tamworthe,’ and, by like consent of the

Widow Danter, “the bal[l]ad of the same matter that was printed by her

husband John Danter.” Arber, III, 173.

1615, December 9, John Trundle, for a ballad of ‘The King and the

Tanner.’ Arber, III, 579.

1624, December 14, Master Pavier, John Wright, and others, a ballad,

‘King and Tanner.’ Arber, IV, 131.

The ballad mentioned in the entry under the year 1600 is unquestionably

our ballad, or an earlier form of it. No copy from the first half of

the seventeenth century is known to be preserved. The “delectable

history” entered under the same date is extant in an edition of

1596, printed by John Danter, and in one of 1613, printed by William

White.[61] The ballad, as we have it, was made by abridging the

fifty-six stanzas of the history to thirty-nine, with other changes.

The history itself has its predecessor, and, as Ritson remarks, its

undoubted original, in ‘The King and the Barker,’[62] between which and

the history, though the former has come down to us in a sadly mutilated

condition, and has been freely treated in the remodelling, there still

remain a few verbal correspondences. Several good points are added in

the history, and one or two dropped.

‘King Edward the Fourth and Tanner of Tamworth,’ in Percy’s Reliques,

1765, II, 75, was compounded from Danter’s history, 1596, and a copy

“in one sheet folio, without date, in the Pepys collection.”[63]

King Edward, while out a-hunting, sees a tanner coming along the way,

and takes a fancy to accost him. Leaving his lords under a tree, he

rides forward and asks the tanner the way to Drayton Basset; the tanner

directs him to turn in at the first pair of gallows. The king presses

for a civil answer; the tanner bids him be gone; he himself has been

riding all day and is fasting. The king promises meat and drink of

the best for his company to Drayton Basset; the tanner makes game of

the offer, and tries to get away, but in vain. The king now proposes

to change his horse for the tanner’s mare; the tanner demands a noble

to boot, nor shall a cowhide which he is riding on go with the mare.

The cowhide thrown on to the king’s saddle frightens the horse and the

tanner is pitched off; after this he will not keep the horse, but the

king in turn exacts a noble to boot. Then the king sounds his horn, and

his attendants come riding in; the tanner takes the whole party to be

strong thieves, but when he sees the suite fall on their knees he would

be glad to be out of the company. ‘A collar! a collar’ cries the king

(to make the tanner esquire, but this is inadvertently left out in the

ballad). ‘After a collar comes a halter,’ exclaims the unhappy tanner.

But the king is graciously pleased to pay for the sport which he has

had by conferring on the tanner an estate of three hundred pound a

year;[64] in return for which his grateful liegeman engages to give him

clouting-leather for his shoon if ever he comes to Tamworth.

Next to adventures of Robin Hood and his men, the most favorite

topic in English popular poetry is the chance-encounter of a king,

unrecognized as such, with one of his humbler subjects. Even in the

Robin Hood cycle we have one of these meetings (in the seventh and

eighth fits of the Little Gest), but there the king visits Robin Hood

deliberately and in disguise, whereas in the other tales (except the

latest) the meeting is accidental.

The most familiar of these tales are ‘The King and the Tanner,’

and ‘The King and the Miller;’ the former reaching back beyond the

sixteenth century, the latter perhaps not beyond the seventeenth, but

modelled upon tales of respectable antiquity, of which there is a

specimen from the early years of the thirteenth century.[65]

In the history or “ballad” of ‘The King and the Miller,’ or, more

specifically, ‘King Henry Second and the Miller of Mansfield,’ the

king, while hunting in Sherwood, loses his nobles and is overtaken by

night; he meets a miller, and after some colloquy is granted a lodging;

is entertained with bag-puddings and apple-pies, to which is added a

course of ‘light-foot,’ a pasty of the king’s deer, two or three of

which, the miller tells his guest in confidence, he always keeps in

store. The nobles recover the king at the miller’s the next morning;

the miller looks to be hanged when he sees them fall on their knees;

the king dubs him knight. The king has relished his night with the

miller so much that he determines to have more sport out of him, and

commands the attendance of the new knight with his lady and his son

Dick at court on St. George’s day. The three jet down to the king’s

hall on their mill-horses. In the course of the dinner the king

expresses a wish for some of their light-foot; Dick tells him that it

is knavery to eat of it and then betray it. Sir John Cockle and Dick

dance with the court-ladies, and the buffoonery ends by the king’s

making the miller overseer of Sherwood, with a stipend of three hundred

pound, to which he attaches an injunction to steal no more deer.[66]

Of the older poems, ‘John the Reeve’ (910 vv.) may be noticed first,

because it has a nearly complete story, and also resemblance in details

with ‘The King and the Tanner,’ or ‘The King and the Miller,’ which

two others of perhaps earlier date have not. ‘John the Reeve’ is now

extant only in the Percy MS. (p. 357, Hales and Furnivall, II, 550).

Since there had been but three kings of the name of Edward (v. 16), it

must have been composed, as Mr Hales has remarked, between the death

of Edward III and the accession of Edward IV, 1376-1461, and forms

of language show that the Percy text must be nearer the end than the

beginning of this period.[67]

Edward Longshanks, while hunting, is separated from all his train but

a bishop and an earl. Night comes on, and they know not where they

are, and the weather is cold and rough. As they stand considering

which way to turn, a stout carl rides by; they beg him to take them to

some harbor. The fellow will at first have nothing to do with them,

but finally shows a disposition to be accommodating if they will swear

to do him no harm; all that he can promise them, however, is beef and

bread, bacon a year old, and sour ale; as for a good fire, which the

king would particularly like, they cannot have that, for fuel is dear.

They ride on to a town, light at a comely hall, and are taken into a

room with a bright fire and candles lighted. The carl, who has already

described himself as John the Reeve, husbandman and the king’s bondman,

inquires of the earl who the long fellow may be, and who the other in

the sark: the first, he is told, is Piers, the queen’s chief falconer,

the other a poor chaplain, and the earl himself a sumpterman. ‘Proud

lads, and I trow penniless,’ is John’s comment; he himself, though not

so fine, has a thousand pound and more. They move on to the hall, and

are civilly received by the goodwife. John marshals the company, now

increased by two daughters of the house, and by Hodge and Hob, two

neighbors, setting the three strangers and his wife at the head of the

table, his daughters farther down, and taking the end himself with his

neighbors. Bean-bread, rusty bacon, lean salt beef a year old, and sour

ale are brought in, and every one has a mess. The king murmurs, John

says, Thou gettest no other; the king coaxes, John will not give them

a morsel unless they swear never to tell of him to Edward. All three

pledge their troth, and then come in fine bread, wine red and white, in

silver cups, the boar’s head, capons, venison,--everything that king

could have or crave. After the supper, John, Hob, and Hodge perform

a rustic dance; King Edward (who gets his shins kicked) never had so

merry a night. In the morning they hear mass and eat a good breakfast,

for which they promise warison, and then the king takes leave and

rides to Windsor. The lords have a good story to tell the queen; she

prays the king to send for the reve. John is convinced that he has

been beguiled by his guests, but arms himself with such as he has,

and, after a huge libation with Hodge and Hob, sets forth. The porter

at the palace will not let him in; John knocks him over the crown and

rides into the hall. Neither before this nor then will he vail hat or

hood. [The passage in which the reve discovers that Piers falconer was

the king has dropped out.] John bears himself sturdily; the king can

punish him, but the king is honorable and will keep his word, and may

remember the promised warison. The king gives thanks for the hot capons

and good wine, the queen urges that the reve should be promoted. The

king, nothing loath, makes John a gentleman, and gives him his manor, a

hundred pound and a tun of wine yearly, then takes a collar and creates

him knight. John blenches a little at the collar; he has heard that

after a collar comes a rope; but he recovers his nerve after supping

off a gallon of wine at the table. It is now the bishop’s turn to do

something; he promises his good offices for John’s two sons and two

daughters; these, in the end, are well disposed of, and Hodge and Hob

are made freemen. John ever after keeps open board for all guests that

God sends him.

The tale of Rauf Coilyear,[68] shortly after 1480, has for its

personages Charles the Great and a charcoal-burner. Charles, on his

way to Paris from St Thomas, is isolated from his cortége by a fierce

storm; night has come on and he is in a strait for shelter. By good

luck Rauf makes his appearance, a churl of prodigious inurbanity, but

ready to take in any good fellow that is ‘will of his way.’ Arrived at

his house, Rauf calls to his wife to make a fire and kill capons. When

supper is dight, the guest is told to give the goodwife his hand and

take the head of the table. Charles hangs back; the churl, who has once

before criticised his manners, hits him under the ear and sends him

sprawling to the floor. There is a plenteous supper, in which venison

is not lacking. The carl tells the king that the foresters have

threatened to send him to Paris for deer stealing, but he means to have

enough for himself and a guest in spite of them. Then after wine they

sit by the fire and the collier tells many a tale. Charles is affable;

Rauf asks him his name and where he lives; Wymond is his name, and he

lives with the queen, in fact, is of her bed-chamber; if Rauf will come

to court he shall have the better sale for his fuel. Charles is put to

bed in a handsome room, and rises so early that he has to waken his

host to take leave. He is urged not to go so soon, but to-morrow is

Yule and every officer of the court must be at his post. He wishes to

pay the goodwife for her good entertainment; Rauf will not hear of such

a thing. Come to court to-morrow, says the king; I want coals myself.

Roland and Oliver and a thousand more have been wandering all night in

search of their lord, and thank God when they recover him on the road

to Paris. Rauf sets out for the court with his coals, according to

appointment; the king has him in mind, and sends out Roland to bring

in such man as he may meet. Roland finds the collier intractable, and

has to return without him. The king is displeased, and Roland is on the

point of going again, when he learns from a porter that there is a man

with a horse and baskets at the gate who will not be turned away. Rauf

is let in; he gives his horse in charge to the porter, and pushes into

the hall to find Wymond, and after being shoved about a good deal, gets

sight of him, dressed in cloth of gold, and clearly a much greater man

than he had called himself; he is daunted by all the splendor; if he

could but get away, nothing should bring him to the court again. The

king then tells the story of his night at Rauf’s, not pretermitting the

earl’s rough behavior. The lords laugh, the knights are for hanging

him; the king thinks he owes better thanks, and dubs Rauf knight,

assigns him three hundred a year, and promises him the next fief that

falls vacant.[69]

‘King Edward Third and the Shepherd,’ MS. of about 1450, Cambridge

University Library, Ff. 5. 48 b, 1090 vv.[70]

The king, while taking his pleasure by a river-side one morning, meets

Adam, a shepherd, and engages in talk with him. The shepherd complains

of the king’s men, who help themselves to his beasts, sheep, hens, and

geese, and at best pay with a tally. Edward is concerned for the king’s

good fame; he is a merchant, but has a son with the queen who can get

any boon of her, and the shepherd shall have what is due him. That is

four pound two, says Adam, and you shall have seven shillings for your

service. It is arranged that the shepherd shall come to court the next

day and ask the porter for Joly Robyn. The king is kept a long time

by the shepherd’s stories, but not too long, for when he is invited

to come home and take a bit to eat he accepts with pleasure. They see

many a coney, hart, and hind, on their way, and the king tries to put

up Adam, who has been bragging of his skill with the sling, to kill a

few; but the man, as he says, knows very well the danger of poaching,

and never touches anything but wild fowl. Of these they have all sorts

at their meal, and two-penny ale. Before they set to drinking, Adam

instructs the king in an indispensable form: he that drinks first must

call out ‘passilodion,’ and the respondent ‘berafrynd.’ Edward praises

the dinner, but owns to a hankering for a little game. Can you keep a

secret? asks the shepherd; indeed he can. Upon this assurance, Adam

fetches pasties of rabbits and deer; of these he is wont to kill more

than he himself needs, and sends presents to gentlemen and yeomen, who

in return furnish him with bread, ale, and wine. Wine follows: Edward

calls ‘passilodion;’ Adam is ready with ‘berafrynd.’ The king now takes

leave, but before he goes the shepherd shows him a room underground

well stored with venison and wine, and they have one draught more.

The next day the shepherd goes to court and asks the porter for Joly

Robyn. The king has prepared his lords for the visit, and directed them

to call him by that name. Adam is paid his four pound two, and offers

Robyn the promised seven shillings for his mediation. Robyn will take

nothing; he would do much more than that for love; Adam must dine with

him, and is placed at the head of a table. The king sends the prince

to Adam for a bout of passilodion; Adam says the merchant has betrayed

him, and wishes he were out of the place. A squire is now ordered to

tell Adam that Joly Robyn is the king. Adam puts down his hood, which

up to this time he would do for nobody,[71] falls on his knees, and

cries mercy. The rest is wanting, but we may be certain that Adam was

knighted and presented with an estate.

‘King Edward and the Hermit,’ MS. Ashmole 6922, of about 1450, a

fragment of 522 vv.[72]

The king, hunting in Sherwood, follows a remarkably large deer till he

loses himself. By the favor of St Julian, he discovers a hermitage;

he asks quarters for the night; the hermit lives on roots and rinds,

and such a lord would starve with him, but he yields to urgency. The

guest must take such as he finds, and that is bread and cheese and thin

drink. King Edward expresses his surprise that the hermit should not

help himself out with the deer; the hermit is much too loyal for that,

and besides, the peril is to be considered. Still the king presses for

venison; no man shall know of it; the hermit, convinced that he is

safe with his company, brings out venison, salt and fresh, and then a

four-gallon pot. The king is taught to drink in good form; when one

calls ‘fusty bandyas,’ the other must come in with ‘stryke pantere;’

and thus they lead holy life. Such cheer deserves requital; if the

hermit will come to court, where his guest is living, he has only to

ask for Jack Fletcher, and they two will have the best that is there;

the ‘frere,’ though not eager to close with this proposal, says he will

venture a visit. To show Jack more of his privity he takes him into his

bedroom and gives him a bow to draw; Jack can barely stir the string;

the frere hauls to the head an arrow an ell long. Then, wishing that he

had a more perfect reliance on Jack’s good faith, the hermit exhibits

his stock of venison, after which they go back to their drinking, and

keep it up till near day. They part in the morning; the king reminds

his host of the promised visit, and rides straight for home. His

knights, who have been blowing horns for him all night in the forest,

are made happy by hearing his bugle, and return to the town. This is

all that is preserved, but again we may be confident that King Edward

made the hermit an abbot.

That the hermit had some habilitation for such promotion appears from a

story told by Giraldus Cambrensis two hundred years before the apparent

date of any of these poems.[73]

King Henry Second, separated from his men in hunting, came to a

Cistercian house at nightfall and was hospitably received, not as

king (for this they knew not), but as a knight of the king’s house

and retinue. After a handsome supper, the abbot asked his help in

some business of the fraternity on which he was to visit the king

the next day, and this was readily promised. The abbot, to improve

his guest’s good disposition, had his health drunk in many a cup of

choice wine, after the English fashion; but instead of the customary

salutation or challenge ‘wes heil!’[74] called ‘pril!’ The king, who

would have answered ‘drinc heil!’ was at a loss how to respond; he was

told that ‘wril!’ was the word. And so with ‘pril’ and ‘wril’ they

pursued their compotation, monks, freres, guests, servants, deep into

the night. The next morning the king rejoined his party, who had been

much alarmed at losing him. Order was given that when the abbot came he

should be immediately admitted, and it was not long before he made his

appearance, with two of his monks. The king received him graciously,

all that he asked was granted; the abbot begged leave to retire, but

the king carried him off to luncheon and seated him by his side. After

a splendid meal, the king, lifting a big cup of gold, called out,

‘Pril, father abbot!’ The abbot, staggering with shame and fear, begged

his grace and forgiveness. The king swore by God’s eyes that as they

had eaten and drunk together in good fellowship the night before, so

should it be to-day; and it should be ‘pril’ and ‘wril’ in his house as

it had been at the convent. The abbot could not but obey, and stammered

out his ‘wril,’ and then king and abbot, knights and monks, and, at the

king’s command, everybody in hall and court, kept up unremittingly a

merry and uproarious interchange of ‘pril’ and ‘wril.’

Of all the four old poems we may repeat what Percy has said of ‘John

the Reeve,’ that “for genuine humor, diverting incidents, and faithful

pictures of rustic manners, they are infinitely superior to all that

have been since written in imitation,” meaning by these the broadside

ballads or histories.[75] A brief account of such of these as have not

been spoken of (all of very low quality) is the utmost that is called

for.

‘The Shepherd and the King.’[76] King Alfred, disguised in ragged

clothes, meets a shepherd, and all but demands a taste of his scrip and

bottle. The shepherd will make him win his dinner, sword and buckler

against sheep-hook. They fight four hours, and the king cries truce;

‘there is no sturdier fellow in the land than thou,’ says the king;

‘nor a lustier roister than thou,’ says the shepherd. The shepherd

thinks his antagonist at best a ruined prodigal, but offers to take

him as his man; Alfred accepts the place, is equipped with sheep-hook,

tar-box, and dog, and accompanies his master home. Dame Gillian doubts

him to be a cut-throat, and rates him roundly for letting her cake burn

as he sits by the fire.[77] Early the next morning Alfred blows his

horn, to the consternation of Gill and her husband, who are still abed.

A hundred men alight at the door; they have long been looking for their

lord. The shepherd expects to be hanged; both he and his wife humbly

beg pardon. Alfred gives his master a thousand wethers and pasture

ground to feed them, and will change the cottage into a stately hall.

‘King James and the Tinker.’[78] King James, while chasing his

deer, drops his nobles, and rides to an ale-house in search of new

pleasures, finds a tinker there, and sets to drinking with him. The

tinker has never seen the king, and wishes he might; James says that

if he will get up behind him he shall see the king. The tinker fears

that he shall not know the king from his lords; the nobles will all

be bare, the king covered. When they come to the greenwood the nobles

gather about the king and stand bare; the tinker whispers, ‘they are

all gallant and gay, which, then, is the king?’ ‘It must be you or

I,’ answers James, for the rest are all uncovered. The tinker falls

on his knees, beseeching mercy; the king makes him a knight with five

hundred a year. (Compare the story of James Fifth of Scotland and John

Howieson, Scott’s Tales of a Grandfather, ch. 27.)

‘The King and the Forester.’[79] King William the Third, forbidden to

hunt by a forester who does not recognize him, tries in vain to bribe

the man, makes himself known, presents the forester with fifty guineas,

and appoints him ranger.

‘The Royal Frolick, or, King William and his Nobles’ Entertainment

at the Farmer’s House on his return from the Irish wars.’[80] King

William, ‘returning to London from Limerick fight,’ stops at a

farm-house ‘for merriment sake,’ and asks country cheer for himself and

his nobles. The farmer and his wife have gone to the next market-town

to see the king pass, and their daughter alone is at home. She serves

bacon and eggs, all that she has; the king throws her ten guineas,

and one of his lords adds two for loyal sentiments which the girl had

expressed. In a Second Part the farmer and his wife, when they return,

learn that the king is at their house, are ordered into his presence,

and are rewarded for the meal which had been furnished.[81]

‘The King and the Cobbler’ (a prose history).[82] King Henry Eighth,

visiting the watches in the city, makes acquaintance with a cobbler,

and is entertained in the cobbler’s cellar; invites the cobbler to

court, directing him to inquire for Harry Tudor, etc.; settles upon him

land in the Strand worth fifty pound a year, which land is to be called

Cobler’s Acre.

* * * * *

Campbell, West Highland Tales, IV, 142, says that he has a Gaelic tale

like ‘The Miller of Mansfield.’

A Belgian story of the Emperor Charles Fifth and a broom-maker has all

the typical points of the older cycle, and, curiously enough, Charles

Fifth instructs the broom-maker to bring a load of his ware to the

palace to sell, as Charles the Great does in the case of Rauf Coilyear:

Maria von Ploennies, Die Sagen Belgiens, p. 251.

The same collection, p. 246 f., has the story of the man who wished to

see the king (an anecdote of Charles Fifth and a peasant). This story

turns up again in Thiele’s ‘Kongen og Bonden,’ Danmarks Folkesager, I,

62 (1843). Christian the Fourth, after a long walk, takes a seat in the

cart of a countryman who is on his way to the castle. The countryman

wishes that he might see the king; the king will be the only man to

keep his hat on; the countryman says, It must be you or I.

After the older pattern is this Russian story, Afanasief, VII, 233, No

32 (given me by Professor Wollner). A tsar who has lost himself while

hunting passes the night with a deserter in a robbers-hut in a wood.

They draw lots who shall stand guard, and the lot falls to the tsar,

to whom the soldier gives his side-arms. Notwithstanding many warnings,

the tsar dozes on his post, and at last the soldier, first punishing

him a little, packs him off to sleep. The robbers come, one by one, and

are shot by the soldier. The next day the deserter shows the tsar his

road, and afterwards pays the tsar a visit at court, discovers who his

comrade was, and is made general.

The Emperor Maximilian Second, while walking in a wood, comes upon a

charcoal-burner; they have a talk, and the emperor is invited to share

the man’s dumplings. Maximilian asks the charcoal-burner to pay him

a visit when he comes to the city, lets him see the princes and the

empress, and gives him a luncheon. There is no _éclaircissement_ at the

time. In the end the charcoal-burner and his family are employed in the

imperial garden.[83]

Robert Dodsley made a very pleasing little sentimental drama out of

‘The King and the Miller of Mansfield’ (1737), and from this play

(perhaps through a translation, ‘Le Roi et le Meunier,’ made before

1756), Sédaine took the substance of ‘Le Roi et le Fermier,’ 1762, and

Collé the idea of ‘La Partie de Chasse de Henri IV, 1774.’ Goldoni’s

musical drama, ‘Il re alla caccia’ (King Henry IV of England), produced

a year after Sédaine’s play, seems to have been suggested by it: vol.

37 of the edition of Venice, 1794.

* * * * *

Percy’s ballad is translated by Bodmer, I, 172.

* * * * *

In summer time, when leaves grew green,

and birds were singing on every tree,

King Edward would a hunting ride,

some pastime for to see.

Our king he would a hunting ride,

by eight a clock of the day,

And well was he ware of a bold tanner,

came riding on the way.

A good russet coat the tanner had on,

fast buttoned under his chin,

And under him a good cow-hide,

and a mare of four shilling.

‘Now stand you here, my good lords all,

under this trusty tree,

And I will wend to yonder fellow,

to know from whence came he.

‘God speed, God speed,’ then said our king;

‘thou art welcome, good fellow,’ quoth he;

‘Which is the way to Drayton Basset

I pray thee shew to me.’

‘The ready way to Drayton Basset,

from this place as thou dost stand,

The next pair of gallows thou comst to

thou must turn up [on] thy right hand.’

‘That is not the way,’ then said our king,

‘the ready way I pray thee shew me;’

‘Whether thou be thief or true man,’ quoth the tanner,

‘I’m weary of thy company.

‘Away, with a vengeance,’ quoth the tanner,

‘I hold thee out of thy wit,

For all this day have I ridden and gone,

And I am fasting yet.’

‘Go with me to Drayton Basset,’ said our king,

‘no daintyes we will lack;

We’l have meat and drink of the best,

And I will pay the shot.’

‘Godamercy for nothing,’ said the tanner,

‘thou shalt pay for no dinner of mine;

I have more groats and nobles in my purse

then thou hast pence in thine.’

‘God save your goods,’ then said the king,

‘and send them well to thee!’

‘Be thou thief or true man,’ quoth the tanner,

‘I am weary of thy company.

‘Away, with a vengeance,’ quoth the tanner,

‘of thee I stand in fear;

The aparrell thou wearst on thy back

May seem a good lord to wear.’

‘I never stole them,’ said our king,

‘I swear to thee by the rood;’

‘Thou art some ruffian of the country,

thou rid’st in the midst of thy good.’

‘What news dost thou hear?’ then said our king,

‘I pray what news do you hear?’

‘I hear no news,’ answered the tanner,

‘but that cow-hides be dear.’

‘Cow-hides? cow-hides?’ then said our king,

‘I marvell what they be;’

‘Why, art thou a fool?’ quoth the tanner,

‘look, I have one under me.’

‘Yet one thing now I would thee pray,

so that thou wouldst not be strange;

If thy mare be better then my steed,

I pray thee let us change.’

‘But if you needs with me will change,

As change full well may ye,

By the faith of my body,’ quoth the tanner,

‘I look to have boot of thee.’

‘What boot wilt thou ask?’ then said our king,

‘what boot dost thou ask on this ground?’

‘No pence nor half-pence,’ said the tanner,

‘but a noble in gold so round.’

‘Here’s twenty good groats,’ then said the king,

‘so well paid see you be;’

‘I love thee better then I did before,

I thought thou hadst nere a peny.

‘But if so be we needs must change,

as change thou must abide,

Though thou hast gotten Brock my mare,

thou shalt not have my cow-hide.’

The tanner took the good cow-hide,

that of the cow was hilt,

And threw it upon the king’s saddle,

That was so fairly guilt.

‘Now help me, help me,’ quoth the tanner,

‘Full quickly that I were gone,

For when I come home to Gillian my wife

she’l say I’m a gentleman.’

The king took the tanner by the leg,

he girded a fart so round;

‘You’r very homely,’ said the king,

‘were I aware, I’d laid you o th’ ground.’

But when the tanner was in the king’s saddle

astonëd then he was;

He knew not the stirrops that he did wear,

whether they were gold or brass.

But when the steed saw the black cow-tale wag,

for and the black cow-horn,

The steed began to run away,

as the divel the tanner had born.

Untill he came unto a nook,

a little beside an ash;

The steed gave the tanner such a fall

his neck was almost brast.

‘Take thy horse again, with a vengeance,’ he said,

‘with me he shall not abide;’

‘It is no marvell,’ said the king, and laught,

‘he knew not your cow-hide.

‘But if that we needs now must change,

as change that well we mought,

I’le swear to you plain, if you have your mare,

I look to have some boot.’

‘What boot will you ask?’ quoth the tanner,

‘What boot will you ask on this ground?’

‘No pence nor half-pence,’ said our king,

‘but a noble in gold so round.’

‘Here’s twenty [good] groats,’ said the tanner,

‘and twenty more I have of thine;

I have ten groats more in my purse,

we’l drink five of them at the wine.’

The king set a bugle-horne to his mouth,

that blew both loud and shrill,

And five hundred lords and knights

came riding over a hill.

‘Away, with a vengeance,’ quoth the tanner,

‘with thee I’le no longer abide;

Thou art a strong thief, yonder be thy fellows,

they will steal away my cow-hide.’

‘No, I protest,’ then said our king,

‘for so it may not be;

They be the lords of Drayton Basset,

come out of the North Country.’

But when they came before the king

full low they fell on their knee;

The tanner had rather then a thousand pound

he had been out of his company.

‘A coller! a coller!’ then said the king,

‘a coller!’ then did he cry;

Then would he have given a thousand pound

he had not been so nigh.

‘A coller? a coller?’ then quoth the tanner,

‘it is a thing which will breed sorrow;

For after a coller commeth a halter,

and I shall be hanged tomorrow.’

‘No, do not fear,’ the king did say;

‘for pastime thou hast shown me,

No coller nor halter thou shalt have,

but I will give thee a fee.

‘For Plompton Park I will give thee,

with tenements three beside,

Which is worth three hundred pound a year,

to maintain thy good cow-hide.’

‘Godamercy, Godamercy,’ quoth the tanner;

‘for this good deed thou hast done,

If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth,

thou shalt have clouting-leather for thy shone.’

* * * * *

=a, b.= A pleasant new ballad of King Edward the Fourth and a Tanner

of Tamworth, as he rode a hunting with his nobles towards (=b=, to)

Drayton Bass[et]. To an excellent new tune.

=a.= Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, and W. Gilbertson.

=b.= London, printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, and J. Wright.

=c.= A pleasant new ballad betweene King Edward the Fourth and a

Tanner of Tamworth, as hee rode upon a time with his nobles on hunting

towards Drayton Basset.... London, Printed by A. M. (_probably_

Alexander Milbourne, 1670-97).

=a.=

1^1. grow.

1^2. birds sitting.

7^3, 36^1. qd.

8^2, 37^4. the.

13^4. of the.

18^3. no half pence said our king.

20^4. shalt noo.

23^2. guirded.

29^2. in this.

29^4. gould.

30^3. groat.

35^1. A choller, a coller.

35^2, 36^{1, 3}, 37^3. choller.

38^2. besides.

39^4. clout-leather.

=b.=

1^1. grow.

1^2. birds were singing.

2^1. he _wanting_.

3^2. to his.

6^4. up on.

7^3. be a: or a.

11^1. said our.

13^4. the wood.

14^2. pray thee: dost thou.

16^2. would.

17^1. if thou.

17^4. have some boot.

18^1. boot will you have.

18^3. nor half pence said the tanner.

19^1. said our.

19^2. see thou.

20^4. not have.

21^2. off.

22^1. Now help me up, quoth.

22^3. For _wanting_.

23^2. guirded.

23^4. I had.

24^1. But _wanting_.

24^2. astonished.

25^2. and before the.

26^1. into.

26^2. an oak.

26^4. almost broke.

28^1. now _wanting_.

28^2. change well now we might.

29^2. on this.

30^1. twenty good.

30^3. groats.

34^3. he gave a.

35^{1, 2}, 36^{1, 3}, 37^3. collar.

36^1. then _wanting_.

36^2. which _wanting_.

38^2. beside.

39^4. clout-leather.

=c.=

1^1. grew.

1^2. birds sitting.

2^4. come.

4^1. good my lords.

5^4. pray you shew it to.

6^1. ready _wanting_.

6^2. this way.

6^4. upon the left.

7^2. readiest.

8^3. all _wanting_.

9^3. For wee’l.

9^4. for the.

10^1. quoth the.

11^1. our king.

11^3. said the.

13^2. to you.

13^4. of thy.

14^1. doe you.

16^1. thing of thee I.

16^2. would.

16^4. pray you.

17^1. thou needs: wilt.

18^1. the king.

18^2. wilt thou.

18^3. nor half pence said the tanner.

19^2. see that you.

20^1. we must needs.

20^2. we must.

20^4. not have.

21^1. he tooke.

22^1. helpe, helpe me up.

23^2. girded.

23^3. then said.

23^4. I’de a laid.

24^2. that he.

28^1. wee must needs now change here.

28^2. well that we mote.

28^4. I doe looke.

29^1. wilt thou.

29^2. wilt thou: on this.

29^3. said the.

29^4. but in gold twenty pound.

30^1. twenty groats.

30^2. I had.

30^3. groats.

31^3. Then five.

34^3. a hundred.

34^4. of their.

35^{1,2}, 36^{1,3}, 37^3. coller.

35^2. that he did cry.

36^1. then _wanting_.

36^2. that is a thing will.

38^1. will thee give.

38^2. with the: beside.

38^3. five hundred.

_The Pepys copy was printed for_ J. W[right], J. C[larke], W.

T[hackeray], and T. P[assinger]. _Euing, No 273, for_ F. Coles, T.

Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clarke; _No 274, for_ F. Coles, T. Vere, and

W. Gilbertson (_as_ =a=). _Heber’s copy for_ F. Coles (1646-74).

APPENDIX

THE KING AND THE BARKER

Library of the University of Cambridge, MS. Ee. iv, 35. 1, fol. 19 b.

Written mostly in couplets of long lines, sometimes in stanzas of four

short lines, with omissions, transpositions, and other faults.

It will be observed that neither in this tale nor in the “history”

which follows does the tanner become aware that he has been dealing

with “our kyng.” In both he calls the king “good fellow” to the very

last. What happens at the meeting with Lord Basset, 30, is not made

quite intelligible. It must be that Lord Basset and his men fall on

their knees, but the conviction that “this” is the king seems to make

no great difference in the tanner’s bearing.

Well yow here a god borde

to make yow all low,

How het ffell apon a tyme,

or en_e_y man het know?

The kyng rod a hontyng,

as _þat_ tyme was;

Ffor to hont a der_e_

Y trow hes hope was.

As he rode, he houer-

toke yn the wey

A tannar off Dantre,

yn a queynte ar_a_ye.

Blake kow-heydes sat he apon,

the hornys heyng be seyde;

The kyng low and had god game

to se the tannar reyde.

Howr_e_ kyng bad hes men abeyde,

_and_ he welde sper of hem the wey;

‘Yffe Y may her_e_ eney now tythyng,

Y schall het to yow saye.’

Howr_e_ kyng prekyd _and_ seyde,

Ser, God the saffe!

The tannar seyde,

Well mot yow ffar_e_!

‘God ffellow,’ seyde yowr_e_ kyng,

‘offe on thyng Y þe pray;

To Drayton Baset well Y reyde,

wych_e_ ys the wey?’

‘That can Y tell the

ffro hens þ_a_t Y stonde;

When þow comest to the galow-tre,

torne vpon þe lyft honde.’

‘Gram_e_rcy, ffellow,’ seyde owr_e_ kyng,

‘w_i_t_h_owtyn eney wone,

I schall prey the lord Baset

thanke the sone.

‘God ffellow,’ seyde owr_e_ kyng,

‘reyde þow w_i_t_h_ me

Tell Y com to Drayton Baset,

Now Y het se.’

‘Nay, be mey ffeyt,’

seyde the barker thoo,

‘Thow may sey Y wer_e_ a ffole,

_and_ Y dyd so.

‘I hast yn mey wey as well

as þow hast yn theyne;

Reyde fforthe _and_ seke they wey;

þi hors ys bett_er_ nar meyne.’

The tanner seyde,

What maner man ar ye?

‘A preker abowt,’ seyd _þ_e kyng,

‘yn maney a contre.’

Than spake the tanner,

ffoll scrodel_e_y ayen;

Y had a brother vowsed the same,

tell he cowde never the[n].

Than _yo_wr_e_ kyng

smotley gan smeyle:

‘Y prey the, ffelow,

reyde w_i_t_h_ me a meyle.’

‘What, devell!’ q_uo_d the tann_er_,

‘art þ_o_u owt off they wet?

Y most hom to mey deyner_e_,

ffor I am ffastyng yet.’

‘Good ffelow,’ seyde owr_e_ kyng,

‘Car_e_ _þ_e not ffor no mete;

_Þo_u schalt haffe mete ynow to neyȝt,

_and_ yeffe _þo_u welt ette.’

The tanner toke gret skorne of hem,

_and_ sware be Creystys pyne,

Y trow Y hafe mor_e_ money yn mey pors

nar thow hast yn theyne.

‘Wenest thow Y well be owt on neyȝt?

nay, _and_ God beffore;

Was Y neuer owt a-neyt

sen Y was bor_e_.’

The tanner lokyd a bake tho;

the heydes began to ffall;

He was war of the keyng_es_ men,

where they cam reydyng all.

Thes ys a theffe, thowt the tann_er_,

Y prey to God geffe hem car_e_;

He well haffe mey hors, mey heydes,

_and_ all mey chaffar_e_.

‘Ffor ffeleyschepe,’ seyde the tannar,

‘y[e]t well Y reyde w_i_t_h_ the;

Y wot, war_e_ Y mete w_i_t_h_ the afft_er_ward,

thow mast do as meche ffor me.’

‘God amar[sey],’ seyde owr_e_ kyng,

‘w_i_t_h_owt eney wone,

Y schall prey þe lord Baset

to thanke the sone.’

Owr_e_ kyng seyde, What now tydyng

herest [_þo_u] as _þo_u [dost] ryd?

I wolde ffayne wot,

ffor _þo_w reydest weyde.

‘Y know [no] now teytheyng,’ þe tanner seyde,

herke _and_ _þo_u schalt her_e_;

Off al the chaffar that Y know,

kow-heydys beyt der_e_.’

_O_wr_e_ keyng seyde, On theyng

on mey loffe Y the prey;

What herest sey be the lord Baset

yn thes contrey?

‘I know hem not,’ seyde the tann_er_,

‘w_i_t_h_ hem Y hafe lytyll to don;

Wolde he neuer bey of me

clot-lether to clowt w_i_t_h_ schon.’

How_re_ kyng seyde, Y loffe the well,

of on thyng I þe praye;

Thow hast harde hes s_er_vantes speke,

what wolde þey saye?

‘Ye, ffor God,’ seyde the tann_er_,

‘þ_a_t tell Y can;

Thay sey thay leke hem well,

for he ys a god man.’

Thos they reyd together talkyng,

for soyt Y yow tell,

Tell he met þe lord Baset;

on kneys downe þey ffell.

Alas, the tann_er_ thowt,

the kyng Y leue thes be;

Y schall be honged, well Y wot,

at men may me se.

He had no meynde of his hode nor cape

ner_e_ a dell [more],

Al ffor drede off hes leyffe

he wende to haffe lo_re_.

The tann_er_ wolde a stole awey,

whyle he began to speke;

How_re_ kyng had yever an ey on hem,

that he meyt not skape.

‘God ffelow’, seyd owr_e_ kyng,

‘w_i_t_h_ me thow most abeyde,

Ffor þow _and_ Y

most an hontyng reyde.’

Whan they com to Kyng Chas,

meche game þey saye;

Howr_e_ kyng seyde, Ffelow, what schall Y do,

my hors ys so hey?

‘God ffelow,’ [seyde owr_e_ kyng,]

lend þow me theyne,

. . . . . . .

_and_ hafe here meyne.’

Tho the tannar leyt do[w]ne

_and_ cast a downe hes heydys;

Howr_e_ kyng was yn hes sadell,

no leyngg_er_ he beydes.

Alas, þeyn the tanner thowt,

w_i_t_h_ mey hors he well reyde awey;

Y well aft_er_,

to get hem _and_ Y may.

He welde not leffe his heydys beheynde

ffor no theyng. ..;

He cast them yn the kyng_es_ schadyll;

_Þat_ was a neys seyte.

Þo he sat aboffe them,

as Y [y]ouw saye,

He prekyd ffast aft_er_,

_and_ ffond þe redey wey.

The hors lokyd abowt hem,

_and_ sey on eu_er_y seyde

. . . . . .

the kow-hornes blake _and_ wheyte.

The hors went he had bor_e_

þe deuell on hes bake;

The hors prekyd as he was wode,

het mestoret to spor hem not.

The barker cleynt on hem ffast,

he was sore afferde ffor to ffall;

. . . . . . .

The kyng lowhe [and had gode game,]

_and_ was glad to ffollow þe chas;

Lest þe tann_er_ wolde ber_e_ hem downe

yette he was agast.

The hors sped hem sweythyli,

he sped hem wonderley ffast;

Ayen a bow of an oke

the tann_er_es hed he brast.

W_i_t_h_ a stombellyng as he rode,

þe tann_er_ downe he cast;

The kyng lowhe _and_ had god game,

_and_ seyde, S_er_, _þo_u rydyst to ffast.

The kyng lowhe and had god game,

_and_ swar_e_ be Sent John,

Seche another horsman

say Y neuer_e_ none.

Owr_e_ kyng lowhe _and_ had god bord,

_and_ swar_e_ be Sent Jame,

Y most nedys lawhe,

_and_ thow wer_e_ mey dame.

‘Y bescro the same son,’

seyde the barker tho,

‘_Þa_t seche a bord welde haffe

to se hes dame so wo.’

When her hontyng was ydo,

þey changyd hors agen;

Þo the barker had hes howyn,

þeyrof he was ffayne.

‘God a marsey,’ seyd owr_e_ kyng,

‘of þey s_er_ueyse to daye;

Yeffe thow hafe awt to do w_i_t_h_ me,

or owt to saye,

They ffrende schall Y yeffor be,

Be God [þat] ys bet on;

. . . . . . .

. . . . . .

‘God a marsey,’ seyde þe barker þo,

‘thow semyst a ffelow god;

Yeffe Y met the yn Dantre,

þow schalt dreynke, be [þe] rode.’

‘Be mey ffeyt,’ seyde owr_e_ kyng,

‘or els wer_e_ Y to blame,

Yeffe Y met the yn Lecheffelde,

þow schalt hafe the same.’

Þus they rode talkyng togeder

to Drayton Hall;

Tho the barker toke hes leffe

of the lordes all.

Owr_e_ kyng comand þe barker

yn that tyde

A c. s’. yn hes pors,

to mend hes kow-heydys.

There owr_e_ kyng and the barker

p_ar_tyd ffeyr_e_ atwyn;

God _þa_t set yn heffen so hey

breyng os owt of sen!

Explycy_t_ þe Kyng _and_ the Barker.

* * * * *

1^2. lawhe all. _For_ low, _cf._ 4^3; lowhe, 44^1, 46^3, 47^1, 48^1.

6^4. ffare. _Read, perhaps, with rhyme_, haffe.

7^1, 15^1. yowre = owre: _cf._ yever, yeffor, 33^3, 52^1.

9^2. eney woyt: _see_ 23^2.

9^3. they.

11^1. be meyt; _cf._ 54^1.

12^1. I haffe hast?

14^1, 25^1, 31^1, 33^1, 37^1, 38^1, 46^2. thanner, thannar (_the_ th

_caught from the preceding_ the).

14^3. yow (_struck through_) vowsed (_that is_, used).

19^2. be ffore.

22^3. y not: methe.

25^1. no _has been inserted because it occurs in the_

_other versions, but_ now (new), _simply, makes some sense_.

26^2. as mey. _Perhaps_, as thow me loffe.

27^4. schoys.

28^2. of 1.

34^{1,2}. God ffelow w_i_t_h_ me thow most abeyde seyd owr_e_ kyng.

38^2. he well reyde awey w_i_t_h_ mey hors.

39^1. le leffe.

_39^2. Words seem to have dropped out at the end._

42. _The rhyme might be restored thus_:

The hors went the deuell

on hes bake he had bor_e_;

The hors prekyd as he was wode,

het mestoret not hem to spor.

44^{3,4}. yeffe he was agast lest þe tann_er_ wolde ber_e_ hem downe.

45^3. a noke.

45^4. thann_er_es: barst.

48^2. Jane.

48^3. nedyst.

50^4. of ffayne.

55^1. to gederff.

KING EDWARD THE FOURTH AND A TANNER OF TAMWORTH

A merrie, pleasant and delectable Historie, betweene King Edward the

Fourth and a Tanner of Tamworth, etc.

=a.= London, John Danter, 1596, Bodleian Library, 4°, C. 39. Art.

Seld. =b.= London, W. White, 1613, Corpus Christi College Library, X.

G. 2. 11. 4th tract.

In summer-time, when leaues grou greene,

and blossoms bud on euery tree,

King Edward would a hunting ride,

some pastime for to see.

With hawke and hound he made him bound,

with horne and eke with bow;

Toward Drayton Basset he tooke his way,

whosoeuer doth it know.

But as our king on his way rode forth,

by eight a clocke of the day,

He was ware of a tanner of mery Tamworth,

was in a quaint aray.

A good russet coat the tanner had on,

he thought it mickle pride;

He rode on a mare cost foure shillings,

and vnder him a good cow-hide.

A paire of rough mittens the tanner did weare,

his hood was buckled vnder his chin;

‘Yonder comes a good fellow,’ said our king,

‘that cares not whether he lose or win.’

The tanner came singing on his mare,

with one so merry a note;

He sung out of tune, he was past care,

he had no neede to grease his throte.

‘Stand you here still, my lordes now,

vnder the greene wood spray,

And I will ride to yonder fellow,

to wit what he will say.

‘God speede, good fellow,’ said our king;

‘thou art welcom, sir,’ quoth he;

‘Which is the way to Drayton Basset,

I pray thee tell to me.’

‘Marry, that I will,’ quoth the tanner,

‘right as here I stand;

The next paire of gallows that thou comes to,

turne in vpon thy right hand.’

‘It is an vnready way,’ said our king,

‘I tell you, so mote I thee;

I pray you show me the readiest way

the towne that I may see.’

‘Go play the great jauel!’ quoth the tanner,

‘I hold thee out of thy wit;

All day haue I ridden on Brocke, my mare,

and I am fasting yet.’

‘Why, we will to the towne,’ said our king,

‘and of dainties [we will none lacke];

We will eate and drinke and fare of the best,

and I will pay for the shot.’

‘God haue mercy for nothing,’ quoth the tanner,

‘thou paiest for none of mine,

For I haue as many nobles in my purse

as thou hast pence in thine.’

‘God giue you ioy of yours,’ said our king,

‘and send thee well to priefe;’

The tanner would faine haue beene away,

for he wend he had beene a thiefe.

‘What art thou, good fellow?’ quoth the tanner,

‘of thee I am in great feare,

For the clothes that thou wearest on thy back

are not for a lord to weare.’

‘I neuer stole them,’ said our king,

‘I tell you, sir, by the rood;’

‘No, thou plaiest as many an vnthrift doth,

thou standst in the mids of thy good.’

‘What tidings heare you,’ said our king,

‘as you ride farre and neare?’

‘I heare no tidings,’ quoth the tanner,

‘but that cow-hides are deare.’

‘Cow-hides? cow-hides?’ then said our king,

‘I know not what they be;’

‘Lo, here thou maist see one;’ quoth the tanner,

‘here lyeth one vnder me.

‘Knowst thou not a cow-hide,’ quoth the tanner,

‘and hast gone so long to schoole?

If euer thou come to dwell in the country,

thou wilt be made a foole.’

‘What craftsman are you?’ said our king,

‘I pray you tell me now;’

‘I am a barker,’ quoth the tanner,

[‘What craftsman art thou?’]

‘I am a courtier,’ said our king,

‘forth of seruice I am worne;

Full faine I would be your prentise,’ he said,

‘your cunning for to learne.’

‘Marrie, God forbid,’ quoth the tanner,

‘that such a prentise I should haue;

He wold spend me more than he would get

by fortie shillings a yere.’

‘One thing would I wit,’ said our king,

‘if you will not seeme strange;

Thou my horse be better than your mare,

with you faine would I change.’

‘Nay, there thou liest yet,’ quoth the tanner,

‘by Christ, thou shalt abide;

For, if thou haue Brocke, my mare,

thou gets not my good cow-hide.’

‘I will not haue it,’ said our king,

‘I tell thee, so mote I thee;

I will not carrie it away

though you would giue it me.’

‘Why, then we must change,’ quoth the tanner,

‘as needs me thinke thou woot;

But if you haue Brocke, my mare,

I will looke to haue some boote.’

‘That were against reason,’ said our king,

‘I tell you, so mote I thee;

My horse is much better than your mare,

and that you may well see.’

‘Avise a vous now,’ sayd the tanner,

‘whether thou wilt or no,

For my mare is gentle and will not kicke,

but softlie she will go.

‘And thy horse is vnhappie and vnwieldie,

[and will neuer goe in rest,]

But alwaies skipping here and there,

and therefore my mare is best.’

‘What boot will you haue?’ then said our king,

‘tell me now in this tide;’

‘Neuer a single pennie,’ quoth the tanner,

‘but a noble of gold so red.’

‘Why, there is your noble,’ said our king,

‘well paid looke that you be;’

‘I would haue sworne on a book,’ quoth the tanner,

‘thou hadst not one pennie.’

Now hath the king the tanner’s mare,

she is nothing faire, fat nor round,

And the tanner hath the king’s good steede,

the saddle is worth fortie pound.

The tanner tooke vp the good cow-hide,

off the ground where he stood,

He threw it vpon the king’s steede,

in the saddle that was so good.

The steed stared vpon the hornes,

vnder the greene wood spraie;

He had weende the diuell of hell had bin come,

to carrie him thence away.

The tanner looked as fast on the stirrops,

astonied sore he was;

He meruailed greatly in his minde

whether they were gold or bras.

‘Help me [vp], good fellow,’ quoth the tanner,

‘lightly that I were gone;

My wife and my neighbours more and lesse

will say I am a gentleman.’

The king tooke the tanner by the leg,

and lift him vp a loft;

The tanner girded out a good round fart,

his belly it was so soft.

‘You make great waste,’ said our king,

‘your curtesie is but small;’

‘Thy horse is so high,’ quoth the tanner againe,

‘I feare me of a fall.’

But when the tanner was in the saddle

the steede began to blow and blast,

And against the roote of an old tree

the tanner downe he cast.

‘Abide, good fellow,’ said our king,

‘ye make ouer great hast;’

‘Thou shalt haue thy horse, with a vengeance, againe,

for my necke is well nigh brast.’

‘Why then we must change,’ said our king,

‘as me thinke needs thou woot;

But if you haue your mare againe

I will looke to haue some boote.’

‘What boote wilt thou haue?’ quoth the tanner,

‘tell me in this stound;

‘Neuer a groat nor pennie,’ said our king,

‘but of thy gold twentie pound.’

‘Nay, here is thy noble,’ quoth the tanner again,

‘and Christ’s blessing and mine;

‘Yea, here is twentie good groats more,

goe drinke them at the wine.’

‘So mote I thee,’ then said our king,

‘it shall not slacke my woe;

For when a noble is in small monie

full soone it is agoe.’

‘Dost thou loue to keepe gold?’ quoth the tanner,

the king answered and said, Ye;

‘Then I would thou were my neere kinsman,

for I thinke thou wilt thriue and thee.’

Now hath the tanner Brocke, his mare,

and vnder him his good cowhide,

Our noble king his horse againe,

which was a well faire steede.

‘Now farewell, good fellow,’ quoth the tanner,

‘I will bide no longer with thee;’

‘Tarrie yet a little while,’ said our king,

‘and some pastime we will see.’

Our king set a bugle to his mouth,

and blew a blast lowd and small;

Seuen score lords, knights, squires and yeome_n_

came riding ouer a dale.

‘Now out alas!’ quoth the tanner,

‘that euer I saw this tide;

Thou art a strong thiefe, yonder be thy fellowes,

will haue my mare and my cowhide.’

‘They are no theeues,’ then said our king,

‘I tell you, so mote I thee;

It is my lord of Drayton Basset

is come a hunting to me.’

But when before the king they came,

they fell downe on their knees;

The tanner had leuer than a thousand pound

he had beene from their companies.

‘A coller! a coller!’ our king gan call,

quoth the tanner, It will breede sorrow;

For after a coller commeth a halter,

I trow I shall be hangd tomorrow.

‘Be not afraid, tanner,’ said our king,

‘I tell thee, so mote I thee;

Lo, here I make thee the best esquier

in all the North Countrie.

‘And Plumton Parke I will giue thee,

and Iacie in [t]his tide--

It is worth three hundred pounds by yeare--

to prepare thy good cowhide.’

‘God a mercie, good fellow,’ quoth the tanner,

‘for this that thou hast done;

The next time thou comest to Tamworth town,

thou shalt haue clouting-leather for thy shon.’

Now God aboue speed well the plough,

and keepe vs from care and woe,

Vntill euerie tanner in [t]his countrie

[doe ride a hunting so.]

A merrie, pleasant and delectable Historie, betvveene King Edvvard

the fourth and a Tanner of Tamworth, as he rode vpon a time with his

nobles a (=b=, on) hunting toward Drayton Basset:

Verie pleasant and merrie to read.

=a.= Printed at London by John Danter, 1596. (_8 pages._)

=b.= At London, printed by W. White, 1613. (_8 pages._)

=b= _has for a heading_ The King and the Tanner.

=a.=

3^4. quaint of aray.

11^1. play thee.

12^2. _Defect supplied from_ =b=.

20^4. _Cut off; supplied from_ =b=.

26^2. thou wilt. _Cf._ 41^2.

29^2, 56^4. _Cut off; supplied from_ =b=.

43^1. quath.

=b.=

3^1. as the.

3^2. eight of the.

3^4. quaint of ray.

6^1. tanner he.

7^1. here _wanting_.

8^4. tell it me.

9^4. vp vpon.

10^2. so might.

11^1. play thee.

12^2. we will none lacke.

13^1. Godamercy.

15^2. I stand.

16^4. middes.

18^4. lies.

19^3. thou happen.

20^4. what craft-man art thou.

22^3. than I should.

23^1. I wish.

23^2. thou wilt.

23^3. then thy.

23^4. would I faine.

25^2, 27^2, 44^1, 50^2. mought.

25^4. thou wouldst.

26^2. thinkes thou wilt.

26^3. if thou.

27^3. than thy.

29^2. and will neuer goe in rest.

31^1. Why heere: said the.

31^3. would asworne.

33^3. king’s faire steed.

35^2. sore that he.

36^1. me up.

38^3. so hie.

40^4. welnie.

41^2. mee thinkes: thou wilt.

45^2. yea.

45^3. wert.

46^2. and _wanting_.

47^2. will no longer abide.

48^2. and he.

50^1. then _wanting_.

51^1. when they all before the king came.

51^3. had rather.

53^2. might.

53^4. that is in the.

54^2. Jackie in this.

56^3. Till: in this.

56^4. doe ride a hunting so.

III

KING HENRY II AND THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD

=a.= ‘Kinge and Miller,’ Percy MS., p. 235; Hales and Furnivall,

II, 147. =b.= The Pleasant History of the Miller of Mansfield, in

Sherwood, and Henry the Second, King of England, etc., Wood, 254, iv.

Small octavo of twelve pages. Printed for F. Coles, J. Wright, T.

Vere, and William Gilbertson, 1655.

Henery, our royall k_ing_, wold goe a huntinge,

To the greene fforrest soe pleasant and fayre;

To haue the harts chased, the daintye does tripping,

To merry Sherwood his nobles repayre;

Hauke and hound was vnbound, all things p_re_pared

For the same to the game w_i_th good regard.

All a longe sum_m_ers day rode the k_ing_ pleasantlye,

W_i_th all his princes and nobles eche one,

Chasing the hart and hind and the bucke gallantlye,

Till the darke euening inforced them turne home.

Then at last, ryding fast, he had lost quite

All his lords in the wood in the darke night.

Wandering thus wearilye, all alone vp and downe,

W_i_th a rude miller he mett att the last;

Asking the ready way vnto fayre Nottingham,

‘S_i_r,’ q_uo_th the miller, ‘I meane not to iest,

Yett I thinke what I thinke; truth for to say,

You doe not lightlye goe out of yo_u_r way.’

‘Why, what dost thou thinke of me?’ q_uo_th our k_ing_ merrily,

‘Passing thy iudgment vpon me soe breefe.’

‘Good faith,’ q_uo_th the miller, ‘I meane not to flatter thee,

I gesse thee to bee some gentleman-theefe;

Stand thee backe in the darke! light not adowne,

Lest I p_re_sentlye cracke thy knaues cro[wn]e!’

‘Thou doest abuse me much,’ q_uo_th our k_ing_, ‘saying thus;

I am a gentleman, and lodging doe lacke.’

‘Thou hast not,’ q_uo_th the miller, ‘a groat in thy pursse;

All thine inheritance hanges on thy backe.’

‘I haue gold to discharge for _tha_t I call;

If itt be forty pence, I will pay all.’

‘If thou beest a true man,’ then said the miller,

‘I sweare by my tole-dish I’le lodge thee all night.’

‘Heere’s my hand,’ q_uo_th our k_ing_, ‘_tha_t was I eu_er_.’

‘Nay, soft,’ q_uo_th the miller, ‘thou mayst be a sprite;

Better I’le know thee ere hands I will shake;

W_i_th none but honest men hands will I take.’

Thus they went all alonge unto the millers house,

Where they were seething of puddings and souce.

The miller first entered in, then after went the k_ing_;

Neu_er_ came he in soe smoakye a house.

‘Now,’ q_uo_th hee, ‘let me see heere what you are;’

Q_uo_th our k_ing_, Looke you[r] fill, and doe not spare.

‘I like well thy countenance; thou hast an honest fac[e];

With my sonne Richard this night thou shalt lye.’

Q_uo_th his wiffe, By my troth, it is a good hansome yout[h];

Yet it is best, husband, to deale warrilye.

Art thou not a runaway? I pray thee, youth, tell;

Show vs thy pasport and all shalbe well.

Then our k_ing_ p_re_sentlye, making lowe curtesie,

W_i_th his hatt in his hand, this he did say:

I haue noe pasport, nor neu_er_ was seruitor,

But a poore courtyer, rode out of the way;

And for yo_u_r kindnesse now offered to me,

I will requite it in eu_er_ye degree.

Then to the miller his wiffe whisp_er_ed secretlye,

Saing, It seemeth the youth is of good kin,

Both by his apparell and by his manners;

To turne him out, certainely it were a great sin.

‘Yea,’ q_uo_th hee, ‘you may see hee hath some grace,

When as he speaks to his betters in place.’

‘Well,’ q_uo_th the millers wiffe, ‘younge man, welcome heer!

And tho I say’t, well lodged shalt thou be;

Fresh straw I will lay vpon yo_u_r bed soe braue,

Good browne hempen sheetes likwise,’ q_uo_th shee.

‘I,’ q_uo_th the goodman, ‘and when _tha_t is done,

Thou shalt lye [with] noe worse then our owne sonne.’

‘Nay first,’ q_uo_th Richard, ‘good fellowe, tell me true,

Hast thou noe creep_er_s in thy gay hose?

Art thou not troubled w_i_th the scabbado?’

‘Pray you,’ q_uo_th the k_ing_, ‘what things are those?’

‘Art thou not lowsye nor scabbed?’ q_uo_th hee;

‘If thou beest, surely thou lyest not with me.’

This caused our k_ing_ suddenly to laugh most hartilye

Till the teares trickled downe from his eyes.

Then to there supp_er_ were thé sett orderlye,

To hott bag-puddings and good apple-pyes;

Nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle,

Wh_ic_h did about the bord merrilye troule.

’Heere,’ q_uo_th the miller, ’good fellowe, I’le drinke to thee,

And to all the courtnolls _tha_t curteous bee.’

’I pledge thee,’ q_uo_th our k_ing_, ’and thanke thee heartilye

For my good welcome in eu_er_ye degree;

And heere in like manner I drinke to thy sonne.’

’Doe then,’ saies Rich_ard_, ’and quicke let it come.’

’Wiffe,’ q_uo_th the miller, ’feitch me forth lightfoote,

_Tha_t wee of his sweetnesse a litle may tast.’

A faire venson pastye shee feiched forth p_re_sentlye.

’Eate,’ q_uo_th the miller, ’but first, make noe wast;

Heer is dainty lightfoote.’ ’Infaith,’ q_uo_th our k_ing_,

’I neu_er_ before eate of soe dayntye a thinge.’

’Iwis,’ said Richard, ’noe dayntye att all it is,

For wee doe eate of it eu_er_ye day.’

’In what place,’ sayd our k_ing_, ’may be bought lik to th[is?]’

’Wee neu_er_ pay peennye for it, by my fay;

From merry Sherwood wee feitch it home heere;

Now and then we make bold w_i_th our kings deere.’

’Then I thinke,’ q_uo_th our king, ’_tha_t it is venison.’

’Eche foole,’ q_uo_th Richard, ’full well may see _tha_t;

Neu_er_ are we w_i_thout two or three in the rooffe,

Verry well fleshed and exellent ffatt.

But I pray thee say nothing where-ere thou goe;

We wold not for two pence the k_ing_ shold it know.’

’Doubt not,’ said our k_ing_, ’my p_ro_mised secresye;

The k_ing_ shall neu_e_r know more on’t for mee.’

A cupp of lambes woole they dranke vnto him,

And to their bedds thé past p_re_sentlye.

The nobles next morning went all vp and downe

For to seeke the k_ing_ in eu_er_ye towne.

At last, att the millers house soone thé did spye him plaine,

As he was mounting vpon his faire steede;

To whome thé came p_re_sentlye, falling downe on their knees,

W_hi_ch made the millers hart wofullye bleed.

Shaking and quaking before him he stood,

Thinking he shold be hanged by the rood.

The k[ing] p_er_ceiuing him fearfully tremblinge,

Drew forth his sword, but nothing he said;

The miller downe did fall crying before them all,

Doubtinge the k_ing_ wold cut of his head.

But he, his kind curtesie for to requite,

Gaue him great liuing, and dubd him a k_nigh_t.

When as our noble k_ing_ came from Nottingam,

And w_i_th his nobles in Westminster lay,

Recounting the sports and the pastime thé had tane

In this late p_ro_gresse along on the way,

Of them all, great and small, hee did p_ro_test

The miller of Mansfeild liked him best.

’And now, my l_or_ds,’ q_uo_th the k_ing_, ’I am determined,

Against St Georges next sumptuous feast,

_Tha_t this old miller, o_u_r youngest confirmed k_nigh_t,

W_i_th his sonne Richard, shalbe both my guest;

For in this merryment it is my desire

To talke w_i_th this iollye k_nigh_t and the younge squier.’

When as the noble lords saw the k_ing_s merriment,

Thé were right ioyfull and glad in their harts;

A pursiuant thé sent straight on this busines,

The w_hi_ch oftentimes vsed those p_ar_ts.

When he came to the place where he did dwell,

His message merrilye then he did tell.

’God saue yo_u_r worshippe,’ then said the messenger,

’And grant yo_u_r ladye her owne harts desire;

And to yo_u_r sonne Rich_ard_ good fortune and happinesse,

_Tha_t sweet younge gentleman and gallant squier!

Our k_ing_ greets you well, and thus doth say;

You must come to the court on St Georges day.

’Therfore in any case fayle not to be in place.’

’I-wis,’ q_uo_th the miller, ’it is an odd iest!

What shold wee doe there?’ he sayd, ’infaith I am halfe afraid.’

’I doubt,’ q_uo_th Richard, ’to be hanged att the least.’

’Nay,’ q_uo_th the messenger, ’you doe mistake;

Our k_ing_ p_re_pares a great feast for yo_u_r sake.’

’Then,’ said the miller, ’now by my troth, messenger,

Thou hast contented my worshipp full well:

Hold! there is three farthings to quite thy great gentleness

For these happy tydings w_hi_ch thou dost me tell.

Let me see! hearest thou me? tell to our k_ing_,

Wee’le wayte on his mastershipp in eu_e_rye thing.’

The pursivant smyled at their simplicitye,

And making many leggs, tooke their reward,

And takeing then his leaue with great humilitye

To the k_ing_s court againe hee repayred,

Showing vnto his Grace in eu_e_rye degree

The k_nigh_ts most liberall giffts and great bountye.

When hee was gone away, thus can the miller say;

Heere comes expences and charges indeed!

Now must wee needs be braue, tho wee spend all wee haue;

For of new garments wee haue great need.

Of horsses and serving-men wee must haue store,

W_i_th bridles and sadles and twentye things more.

‘Tushe, S_i_r Iohn,’ q_uo_th his wiffe,

‘neither doe frett nor frowne,

You shall bee att noe more charges for mee;

For I will turne and trim vp my old russett gowne,

W_i_th eu_er_ye thing else as fine as may bee;

And on our mill-horsses full swift wee will ryd,

W_i_th pillowes and pannells as wee shall p_ro_vyde.’

In this most statelye sort thé rod vnto the court,

Their lusty sonne Rich_ard_ formost of all,

Who sett vp by good hap a cockes fether in his cappe;

And soe thé ietted downe towards the k_ing_s hall,

The merry old miller w_i_th his hands on his side,

His wiffe like Maid Marryan did mince at _tha_t tyde.

The k_ing_ and his nobles, _tha_t hard of their coming,

Meeting this gallant k_nigh_t w_i_th this braue traine,

‘Welcome, S_i_r K_nigh_t,’ q_uo_th hee,’ w_i_th this yo_u_r gay lady!

Good S_i_r Iohn Cockle, once welcome againe!

And soe is this squier of courage soe free.’

Q_uo_th Dicke, A botts on you! doe you know me?

Q_uo_th our k_ing_ gentlye, How shall I forgett thee?

Thou wast my owne bed-fellow; well _tha_t I wot.’

‘But I doe thinke on a tricke,’--‘Tell me, pray thee, Dicke!’

‘How w_i_th farting we made the bed hott.’

‘Thou horson [un]happy knaue,’ the[n] q_uo_th the k_nigh_t,

‘Speake cleanly to our [king,] or else goe shite!’

The king and his councellors hartilye laugh at this,

While the k_ing_ tooke them by the hand.

W_i_th ladyes and their maids, like to the q_ueene_ of spades

The millers wiffe did most orderlye stand,

A milkemaids curtesye at eu_er_ye word;

And downe these folkes were set to the bord.

Where the k_ing_ royally, w_i_th princely maiestye,

Sate at his dinner w_i_th ioy and delight;

When he had eaten well, to jesting then hee fell,

Taking a bowle of wine, dranke to the k_nigh_t.

‘Heere’s to you both!’ he sayd, ‘in ale, wine, and beere,

Thanking you hartilye for all my good cheere.’

Q_uo_th S_i_r Iohn Cockle, I’le pledge you a pottle,

Were it the best ale in Nottingam-shire.

‘But then,’ said our k_ing_, ‘I thinke on a thinge;

Some of yo_u_r lightfoote I wold we had heere.’

‘Ho, ho!’ q_uo_th Rich_ard_, ‘full well I may say it;

It’s knauerye to eate it and then to bewray it.’

‘What! art thou angry?’ q_uo_th our k_ing_ merrilye,

‘Infaith I take it verry vnkind;

I thought thou woldest pledg me in wine or ale heartil[y].’

‘Yee are like to stay,’ q_uo_th Dicke, ‘till I haue dind.

You feed vs w_i_th twatling dishes soe small;

Zounds! a blacke pudding is better then all.’

‘I, marry,’ q_uo_th our k_ing_, ‘_tha_t were a daintye thing,

If wee cold gett one heere for to eate.’

W_i_th _tha_t, Dicke straight arose,

and plucket one out of his h[ose,]

W_hi_ch w_i_th heat of his breech began for to sweate.

The k_ing_ made p_ro_fer to snatch it away;

‘It’s meate for yo_u_r m_aster_, good s_i_r, you shall stay!’

Thus w_i_th great merriment was the time wholy spent,

And then the ladyes p_re_pared to dance.

Old S_i_r Iohn Cockle and Rich_ard_ incontinent

vnto this practise the k_ing_ did advance;

Where w_i_th the ladyes such sport thé did make,

The nobles w_i_th laughing did make their heads ake.

Many thankes for their paines the k_ing_ did giue them then,

Asking young Richard if he wold be wed:

‘Amongst these ladyes faire, tell me w_hi_ch liketh thee.’

Q_uo_th hee, Iugg Grumball w_i_th the red head,

Shee’s my loue; shee’s my liffe; her will I wed;

Shee hath sworne I shall haue her maidenhead.

Then S_i_r Iohn Cockle the k_ing_ called vnto him;

And of merry Sherwood made him ou_er_seer,

And gaue him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye:

‘But now take heede you steale noe more of my deere,

And once a quarter let’s heare haue yo_u_r vew;

And thus, S_i_r Iohn Cockle, I bid thee adew!’

* * * * *

=a.=

5^6. 40.

7^1. into.

7^2. seeding.

17^3. 2 or 3.

17^6. 2.

18^1. saiy.

26^3. 3.

28^6. 20^{tye}_{;}.

29^2. charges of.

31^6. abotts.

34^3. resting. =b=, jesting.

36^1. hungry. =b=, angry.

40^3. 300^{li}_{:}.

=b.=

1^1. would ride.

1^3. hart: and dainty.

1^4. Unto.

2^4. him turn.

2^6. late in dark.

3^4. miller, your way you have lost.

3^6. not likely.

4^1, 5^1, 13^1. the king.

4^4. but some.

4^5. light thee not down.

4^6. Lest that: knock thy.

5^2. I lack.

5^3. one groat.

5^5. discharge all that.

6^6. I will.

7^1. unto.

7^2. seething.

7^3. after him the.

8^3. good _wanting_.

8^4. for to

8^5. prethee.

8^6. Shew me.

9^2. thus he.

9^4. of my.

9^5. here offered.

10^2. this youth’s.

10^3. and eke by.

10^5. Yes.

10^6. When he doth speak.

11^3. wil have laid on.

11^4. hempten.

11^6. with no.

12^2. within.

12^3. Or art.

12^4. I pray, quoth.

12^5. or.

13^4. With a hot bag-pudding.

14^1. I drink thee.

14^2. courtnols where ever they be.

14^3. Ile pledge you: thank you.

14^4. For your.

14^5. to your.

14^6. Do so, quoth Richard, but.

15^3. pasty then brought she forth.

15^4. but fir.

15^5. then said our.

17^1. said our.

17^2. said Richard.

17^4. wondrous fat.

17^5. But prethee.

18^1. not then said.

18^3. him then.

18^6. seek out.

19^1. they espy’d.

19^6. should have been.

20^1. fearfull and.

20^4. would have cut off.

20^5. But his kind curtesie there to.

20^6. him a living.

21^1. came home.

21^3. and pastime.

21^4. this his progresse along by.

21^5. this he.

21^6. Mansfields sport.

22^3. our last.

22^4. both be my guests.

22^6. with this.

23^1. kings pleasantnesse.

23^3. there was sent: on the.

23^4. Which had many times been in.

23^6. message orderly.

24^2. owne _wanting_.

24^4. gallant young.

24^5. he greets you all.

25^2. this is.

25^3. said, faith.

25^4. to be _wanting_.

26^3. here’s: great _wanting_.

26^5. to your.

27^5. in each.

27^6. gift: great _wanting_.

28^1. When as: thus did.

28^3. we must: though wee sell.

29^2. charges for.

29^4. else _wanting_.

30^1. rode they.

30^5. hand.

31^2. his brave.

32^1. how should.

32^2. mine own.

32^3. doe _wanting_: me that prethee Dick.

32^4. How we: did make.

32^5. happie: then.

32^6. our king.

33^1. laught.

33^2. both by.

33^4. so orderly.

33^6. the folks were sate at the side-board.

34^1. in princely.

34^3. jesting then they.

34^5. wine, ale.

34^6. you all for your country cheere.

35^3. I doe think.

35^6. ’Tis.

36^1. Why, art thou angry.

36^3. ale and wine.

36^4. Y’are.

37^2. If a man could get one hot.

37^3. hose.

37^4. for _wanting_.

37^5. made a.

37^6. ’Tis: you must.

38^5. Here with.

38^6. their hearts.

39^1. did the king give.

39^3. ladies free.

39^5. she will.

40^6. bid you.

=b= _is printed with the long lines broken into two_.

FOOTNOTES:

[60] 1599, August 28, two plays, being the first and second part of

[Thomas Heywood’s] ‘Edward the IIIJ^{th} and the Tanner of Tamworth,’ etc.

Arber, III, 147.

[61] See an appendix to this ballad. White’s edition has verbal

variations from the earlier, and supplies three lines and a half-line

which have been cut off in the Bodleian copy of Danter. Heber had a

copy of ‘King Edward 4th and the Tanner,’ printed by Edward Allde

(1602-23), whether the “history” or the “ballad” does not appear.

[62] Printed by Ritson, Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry, 1791, p. 57.

Given in an appendix.

[63] “Seemingly,” says Mr Chappell, “not one bound up with the

collection of ballads.”

Selden, in the second edition of his Titles of Honor (for so he chooses

to spell), 1631, p. 836, remarks: Nor is that old pamphlet of the

Tanner of Tamworth and King Edward the Fourth so contemptible but

that wee may thence note also an observable passage wherein the use

of making Esquires by giving collars is expressed. He then quotes two

stanzas from the history:

‘A coller! a coller!’ our king gan cry; Quoth the tanner, It will breed

sorrow; For after a coller commeth a halter, I trow I shall be hangd to

morrow.

‘Be not afraid, tanner,’ said our king; ‘I tell thee, so mought I thee,

Lo, here I make thee the best esquire That is in the North Countrie!’

(This passage is not in the first edition, of 1614, as I am informed

by Mr Macmath, who has copied it for me.) Percy says that he has

“restored” one of his stanzas from the last of these two. The

restoration might as well have been made from Danter’s history, which

he was using. There is a trifling variation from Danter in the fourth

verse, as given by Selden and repeated by Percy, which is found in

White’s edition.

[64] ‘The King and the Barker’ is less extravagant and more rational

here; the king simply orders the barker ‘a hundred shilling in his

purse.’ But both the esquiring (knighting) and the estate are found in

still older poems which remain to be mentioned.

[65] A pervasive boorishness, with some coarse pleasantry,

distinguishes the seventeenth-century tales disadvantageously from the

older ones.

[66] There is an entry of ‘Miller and King’ (among 128 ballads),

December 14, 1624; another entry, June 30, 1625: Stationers’ Registers,

Arber, IV, 131, 143. The broadside is in many of the collections: ‘A

pleasant ballad of King Henry second and the Miller of Mansfield,’

Roxburghe, I, 178, 228, III, 853, the first reprinted by Chappell,

Roxburghe Ballads, I, 537; Pepys, I, 528, No 272; Bagford, II, 25;

Wood, 401, fol. 5 b, ‘A pleasant new ballad of the Miller of Mansfield

in Sherwood and K. Henry the Second,’ Wood, 254, iv, ‘The pleasant

history of the Miller of Mansfield,’ etc., dated 1655; Crawford, No

491. Also, ‘Kinge and Miller,’ Percy MS., p. 235, Hales and Furnivall,

II, 147 (see Appendix); Percy’s Reliques, 1765, III, 179, the MS. copy

“with corrections” from the Pepys.--Not in the ballad-stanza.

[67] John the Reeve is mentioned (in conjunction with Rauf Coilyear) by

G. Douglas, Palice of Honour, 1501, Small, I, 65, v. 3, and by Dunbar,

about 1510, Small, I, 105, v. 33; John the Reeve again by Lindsay, The

Complaynt of the Papingo, 1530, Chalmers, I, 318.

[68] Reprinted in Laing’s Select Remains of the Ancient Popular

Poetry of Scotland, from the edition of St Andrews, 1572; thence in

Charlemagne Romances, No 6, ed. S. J. Herrtage, Early English Text

Society, 1882. As to the date, see Max Tonndorf, Rauf Coilyear, Halle

a. S. 1893, p. 13 ff.

[69] So far 767 verses of 975: the rest is not pertinent and is very

poor stuff. ‘Rauf Coilyear’ is a clever piece, but I cannot think with

Mr Herrtage that it is “quite original.” Its exaggerations suggest

a second hand; the author means to pepper higher with his churl’s

discourtesy than had been done before. The ‘marshalling’ in 183-86

recalls ‘John the Reeve,’ 342-50.

[70] Printed in Hartshorne’s Ancient Metrical Tales, p. 35. Professor

Kittredge has called my attention to a stanza of Occleve’s which shows

that the belief that Edward III went about in disguise among his

subjects prevailed not long after the king’s death.

O worthy kyng benigne, Edwarde the laste, Thow hadest ofte in thyne

hart a drede impressede Whiche that thyne humble goste fulle sore

agaste, And to knowe yf thow cursed were or blessede, Amonge the peple

ofte hast thow the dressede Into the contrey, in symple aray alone, To

heere what men seide of thy persone.

Occleve, De Regimine Principum, ed. Wright (Roxb. Club), p. 92.

[71] So John the Reeve; five or six times in each.

[72] Printed in The British Bibliographer, IV, 81, thence in

Hartshorne’s Metrical Tales, p. 293, and, with some improvements from

the MS., in Hazlitt’s Early Popular Poetry, I, 11. ‘The King and the

Hermit’ is told as ‘the romans says,’ v. 15. It is, as Scott has

explained, the source of a charming chapter (the sixteenth of the first

volume) of ‘Ivanhoe.’ There are many agreements with ‘The King and the

Shepherd.’

[73] Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, ed. Brewer, Speculum Ecclesiæ, IV,

213-15, about 1216.

[74] See Geoffrey of Monmouth, Hist. Reg. Brit., vi, 12, Wace, Roman de

Brut, 7111-44, ed. Le Roux de Lincy, I, 329, Layamon’s Brut, 14297-332,

Madden, II, 174 f.; and for other drinking-calls besides these, Wace,

Roman de Rou, Part iii, 7357-60, ed. Andresen, II, 320.

[75] Preface to ‘The King and Miller of Mansfield.’

[76] 1578, September 25, licensed to Ric. Jones, ‘A merry Songe of a

Kinge and a Shepherd:’ Arber, II, 338.

1624, December 14, to Master Pavier and others, among 128 ballads,

‘King and Shepperd:’ Arber, IV, 131.

Wood, 401, fol. 1 b; Douce, I, fol. I b; Euing, Nos 331, 332; Pepys, I,

76, No 36, I, 506, No 260; Crawford, No 648; Roxburghe, I, 504, printed

by Chappell, III, 210.

[77] This is as old as Asser; Annales, Wise, Oxford, 1722, p. 30.

[78] ‘King James and the Tinker,’ Douce, III, fol. 126 b, fol. 136 b;

no printer, place, or date. ‘King James the First and the Tinker,’

Garland of Mirth and Delight; no place or date. The same: ‘King James

and the Tinkler,’ Dixon, in Richardson’s Borderer’s Table-Book, VII,

7, and Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs, etc., p. 109, Percy Society,

vol. xvii. ‘James V. and the Tinker,’ A. Small, Interesting Roman

Antiquities recently discovered in Fife, p. 283. ‘King James the First

and the fortunate Tinker,’ The King and Tinker’s Garland, containing

three excellent songs, Sheffield, 1745, Halliwell, Notices of Fugitive

Tracts, p. 29, No 36, Percy Society, vol. xxix (not seen). ‘The King

and the Tinkler,’ a _rifacimento_, in Maidment’s Scotish Ballads and

Songs, 1859, p. 92; Kinloch MSS, V, 293.

[79] ‘The Loyal Forrister, or Royal Pastime,’ printed for C. Bates in

Pye-Corner (c. 1696), Euing, No 156. ‘King William and his Forrester,’

no imprint, c. 1690-94, Crawford, No 1421. ‘The King and the

Forrester,’ Roxburghe, III, 790, Ebsworth VII, 763 (Bow Church-Yard?).

‘King William going a hunting,’ Motherwell’s MS., p. 101, from

tradition.

[80] ‘The Royal Frolick,’ etc., Pepys, II, 313, in Ebsworth’s Roxburghe

Ballads, VII, 756.

[81] ‘The Royal Recreation, or A Second Part, containing the passages

between the Farmer and his Wife at their return home, where they found

the King with his Noble Retinue.’ Pepys, II, 326, Roxburghe, II, 397,

Ebsworth, VII, 761.

[82] ‘The King and the Cobler.’ Charles Dennison, at the sign of

the Stationers’ Arms within Aldgate (1685-89, Chappell). Wood, 254,

xi; Pepys, Penny Merriments, vol. i; Halliwell, Notices of Popular

Histories, p. 48, Percy Society, vol. xxiii, Newcastle, without date;

Manchester Penny Histories (last quarter of the eighteenth century),

Liebrecht, Zur Volkskunde, p. 482, No 6.

[83] Kulda, Moravské n. pohádky, etc., 1874, I, 56, No 20, in Wenzig,

Westslavischer Märchenschatz, p. 179.

Tonndorf, in the dissertation already cited, remarks with truth that

meetings of king and subject (or the like) are quite regularly a sequel

or incident of a hunt, and refers to Grimms, Deutsche Sagen, Nos 550,

563, 566; Cardonne, Mélanges de Littérature orientale, pp. 68, 87,

110; Grässe, Gesta Romanorum, cap. 56, I, 87, Anhang, No 16, II, 198;

Othonis Melandri Ioco-Seria, No 338, p. 292, ed. Frankfort, 1617. In

four of these cases the noble person loses his way, and has to seek

hospitality. In Deutsche Sagen, No 566, we have a charcoal-burner

who relieves a prince’s hunger and is afterwards entertained at the

prince’s table.

274

OUR GOODMAN

=A.= Herd’s MSS, I, 140; Herd’s Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs,

1776, II, 172.

=B.= ‘The Merry Cuckold and Kind Wife,’ a broadside: Printed and Sold

at the Printing-Office in Bow Church-Yard, London.

The copy in Ritson’s Scotish Song, I, 231, is from Herd, 1776; that in

the Musical Museum, No 454, p. 466, is the same, with change of a few

words. In Smith’s Scotish Minstrel, IV, 66, the piece is turned into a

Jacobite ballad. The goodwife says she is hiding her cousin McIntosh;

‘Tories,’ says the goodman.

=B= was reprinted by Dixon in Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the

Peasantry of England, p. 211, Percy Society, vol. xvii, ‘Old Wichet and

his Wife,’ from a copy “obtained in Yorkshire” and “collated” with the

Aldermary broadside. The fifth adventure (in the closet) is lacking.

Two or three staves, with variations for the better, are given from

memory in Notes and Queries, First Series, VI, 118, as communicated by

Mr R. C. Warde, of Kidderminster. (See the notes.)

Percy made =B= over in two shapes, whether for simple amusement or for

the projected extension of the Reliques: ‘Old Wichet’s Discoveries,’

‘Old Wichard’s Mistakes,’ among Percy’s papers.

=A.= Our goodman, coming home, sees successively a saddle-horse,

pair of jack-boots, sword, powdered wig, muckle coat, finally a man,

where none such should be. He asks the goodwife how this came about

without his leave. She responds contemptuously that the things he has

supposed himself to see are, respectively, a sow (milch-cow), a pair of

water-stoups, a porridge-spurtle, a clocken-hen, a pair of blankets,

a milking-maid, which her mother has sent her. Far has he ridden, but

a saddle on a sow’s (cow’s) back, siller spurs on water-stoups, etc.,

long-bearded maidens, has he never seen.

=B.= In =B= Old Wichet comes upon _three_ horses, swords, cloaks,

pairs of boots, pairs of breeches, hats, and in the end three men

in bed. Blind cuckold, says the wife, they are three milking-cows,

roasting-spits, mantuas, pudding-bags, petticoats, skimming-dishes,

milking-maids, all presents from her mother. The like was never known,

exclaims Old Wichet; cows with bridles and saddles, roasting-spits with

scabbards, etc., milking-maids with beards!

A song founded on this ballad was introduced into the play of “Auld

Robin Gray,” produced, according to Guest’s History of the Stage, at

the Haymarket, July 29, 1794. This song is a neat résumé of the ballad,

with a satisfactory catastrophe.[84] See an appendix.

A Gaelic copy, taken down by Rev. Alexander Stewart, of Ballachulish,

from the recitation of an old man in his parish whose father had been

in the way of singing it sixty years before, is plainly based upon

=A=. The goodman, coming home unexpectedly, finds a boat on the beach,

a horse at the door, etc. These and other things are explained by his

wife as gifts from her mother. Far has he wandered, but never saw a

saddle on a cow, etc. Alexander Stewart, ’Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe,

1885, p. 76 ff.

A ballad known and sung throughout Flemish Belgium, ‘Mijn man komt

thuis,’ is formed upon the pattern of =A=, and must have been derived

from =A=, unless the two have a common source. Two copies are given in

Volkskunde (Tijdschrift voor Nederlandsche Folklore), II, 49-58, by

the editors, Messrs A. Gittée and Pol de Mont, a third by Pol de Mont,

V, 20. A man comes home late, and sees in his bedroom a strange hat,

overcoat, and other articles of clothing, and asks whose they are. His

wife answers that they are a water-pot, a straw mattress, etc., which

her mother has sent her. Travel the world round, he has never seen a

water-pot with a band about it, a straw mattress with two sleeves,

etc. In the last adventure of the first copy, the husband finds a man

in the room, and his wife flatly answers, it is a lover my mother has

sent me. The second copy ends a little better, but not well. The man is

explained to be a foster-child sent by his wife’s mother, and so in the

third. The husband has travelled the world round, but a foster-child

with whiskers has he never seen. The wife packs out of the house. He

has travelled the world round, but a wife like his he wishes never to

see again.

Friedrich Wilhelm Meyer, in 1789, turned =B= into German in very

happy style, furnishing a _dénoûment_ in which the man gives his

wife a beating and explains his cuffs as caresses which her mother

has sent her. Meyer’s ballad was printed in 1790, in the Göttingen

Musenalmanach, p. 61 ff., and the same year in Lieder für fröhliche

Gesellschaften, p. 37 (Hamburg). It had great and immediate success,

was circulated as a broadside, and was taken up by the people, in

whose mouth it underwent the usual treatment of ballads traditionally

propagated.[85] From Germany it spread into Scandinavia and Hungary,

and perhaps elsewhere. German varieties are: ‘Des Mannes Heimkehr,’

Hoffmann u. Richter, p. 225, No 195; ‘Wind über Wind,’ Simrock, p. 375,

No 241; ‘Des Ehemannes Heimkehr,’ Ditfurth, Fränkische Volkslieder,

II^r Theil, p. 61, No 61; Firmenich, Germaniens Völkerstimmen, III,

66; ‘Der Bauer u. sein Weib,’ Erlach, IV, 90; ‘Der betrogene Ehemann,’

Pröhle, p. 143; Walter, p. 97; ‘O Wind, O Wind, O Wind!’ Zurmühlen

(Dülkener Fiedler), p. 101. (The last four lack the beating.)

The only Scandinavian copy that I have seen is the Swedish ‘Husarerna,’

in Bergström och Nordlander, Sagor, Sägner och Visor, 1885, p. 93.

For indication of others, Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish (including a

broadside as early as 1799), see, particularly, Olrik, Danmarks gamle

Folkeviser, V, II, 211 f., and note ***; also, Dybeck’s Runa, 1^a

Samlingen, 1865, I, 89 (where the beginnings of two stanzas are cited);

Afzelius, ed. 1880, II, 285.

Magyar (Szekler), Kríza, Vadrózsák, p. 242, No 483; Aigner, p. 149.

=French.= A similar ballad is common in France, especially in the south.

Poésies pop. de la France, MSS: II, fol. 54, ‘Marion;’ III, 60 (printed

in Revue des Traditions pop., II, 66), 62, 64, Puy-de-Dôme; 68,

Auvergne; 69, ‘Zjean et Mariou,’ Bourbonnais; 71, Pays de Caux; 72, ‘Le

jaloux,’ environs de Toulouse; 74, Gascogne (Rolland, II, 211); 75,

Languedoc; 76, ‘Lo surprero,’ Limousin (Rolland, II, 212); 78, ‘Le mari

de Marion,’ Normandie; 80, 66, ‘Le mari jaloux,’ Bouches-du-Rhône; 82,

‘Marion,’ Provence; 83, Loiret; 84, ‘La rusade,’ Limousin;’ 87, ‘Lou

jolous’ (Rolland, II, 213, Revue des Trad. pop., I, 71), Limoges; VI,

381 vo, ‘Jeannetoun’ (Rolland, II, 214), Quercy. ‘Lou jalous,’ Arbaud,

Chants pop. de la Provence, II, 152. ‘Lou galant,’ Atger, Revue des

Langues romanes, VI, 261, and Poésies pop. en Langue d’oc, p. 53. ‘Las

finessos de la Marioun,’ Moncaut, Littérature pop. de la Gascogne,

p. 316 = Bladé, Poésies pop. de la Gascogne, II, 116 f. Revue des

Traditions pop., II, 64, Cévennes. Daudet, Numa Roumestan, ed. 1881, p.

178, Provence = Revue des Tr. pop., II, 65, Ouest de la France. ‘Lou

Tsalous, Daymard, Bulletin de la Société des Études,’ etc., du Lot,

IV, 100, 1878, Vieux chants pop. rec. en Quercy, 1889, p. 92. ‘Las

rebirados de Marioun,’ Soleville, Chants pop. du Bas-Quercy, p. 22;

partly, in Pouvillon, Nouvelles réalistes, ed. 1878, p. 151. Victor

Smith in Romania, IX, 566-68, three copies, Forez, Velay, bas-limousin.

‘Le mari soupçonneux,’ Tarbé, Romancero de Champagne, II, 98, Ardennes.

‘La chanson de la bergère,’ Puymaigre, Chants pop. rec. dans le Pays

messin, 1865, p. 215, 1881, I, 263. ‘Les répliques de Marioun,’

Almanach des Traditions pop., 1882, p. 86, in Rolland, II, 208, No 162

a, environs de Lorient. ‘Las respounsos de Marioun,’ Laroche, Folklore

du Lauraguais, p. 211. “Le Chroniqueur du Périgord et du Limousin,

Périgueux, 1853, p. 109.” “Le Pélerinage de Mireille, p. 173.” (The

last two I have not seen.)

For the most part, the colloquy runs in this wise: ‘Where were you last

evening, Marion?’ ‘In the garden, picking a salad.’ ‘Who was it you

were talking with?’ ‘A gossip of mine’ (camarade, voisine, cousine,

sœur, servante, etc.). ‘Do women wear a sword?’ ‘It was no sword, but

a distaff.’ ‘Do women wear breeches?’ ‘She was kilted up.’ ‘Have women

a moustache?’ ‘She had been eating mulberries.’ ‘It is too late for

mulberries.’ ‘They were last year’s’ (an autumn branch, etc.). ‘I will

cut off your head.’ ‘And what will you do with the rest?’ ‘Throw it

out of the window.’ ‘Les corbeaux (cochons, chiens, chats, mouches,

couteliers, capucins, anges, etc.) en feront fête.’ In a few instances,

to end the more smartly, the husband is made to promise (or the wife

to ask) forgiveness for this time, and the wife adds, aside, ‘and many

more.’ ‘You will play off no more tricks on me.’ ‘Forgive this, and I

will, a good many.’ (Rolland.) ‘Pardon this fault; to-morrow I will

commit another.’ (Victor Smith.) ‘Get up: I pardon you.’ ‘What dolts

men are! What can’t we make them believe!’ (MSS, III, 78.) Etc.

In some half dozen copies, Marion has been at the spring (not in the

garden), and has stayed suspiciously long, which she accounts for by

her having found the water muddied. After this, and in a few copies

which have no garden or spring, the matter is much the same as in

the English ballad; there is a sword on the mantel-shelf (a gun on

the table), boots (cane) behind the door, a man where nae man should

be. Nearest of all to the English is one of Victor Smith’s ballads,

Romania, IX, 566: ‘Whose horse was that in the stable last night?’ ‘No

horse, but our black cow.’ ‘A cow with a saddle?’ ‘No saddle; it was

the shadow of her horns.’ ‘Whose breeches, boots, sabre, hat?’ ‘qui

était couché à ma place?’ The mulberries are nearly a constant feature

in the French ballad.

There is an approach to a serious termination in MSS, III, 87: ‘Say

your prayers, without so much noise.’ ‘At least put my bones in the

ground.’ And in Puymaigre: ‘I will take you to Flanders and have you

hanged.’ ‘Leave the gallows for the great robbers of France.’ The

copies, MSS, III, 62, 71, end, prosaically,’Jamais je n’ai vu ni fille

ni femme qui sent la putain comme toi;’ ‘Femme qui m’a trompé la mort a

méritée!’

The lace-makers of Vorey are wont to recite or sing this ballad winter

evenings as a little drama: V. Smith, Romania, IX, 568, note. So the

young girls in Lorraine during carnival, Puymaigre, I, 263; and the

young fellows in Provence, Arbaud, II, 155 f.

=Italian.= ‘Le repliche di Marion,’ Nigra, Canti popolari del Piemonte,

p. 422, No 85, A, B, C. The Piedmontese copies follow the French

closely, beginning with picking salad in the garden, and ending with

‘your peace is made,’ as in Poésies p. de la France, MSS, III, 64. ‘Il

marito geloso’ (incomplete), Ferraro, Canti p. monferrini, p. 93, No

70. ‘La sposa colta in fallo,’ Bernoni, Canti p. veneziani, puntata ix,

No 8, p. 12. (Mariù goes on her knees and asks pardon, and is told to

get up, for pardoned she is.) ‘Bombarion,’ Ferrari, first in Giornale

di Filologia romanza, III, No 7, p. 74, 1880, and then in Archivio per

le Tradizioni popolari, Canti p. in San Pietro Capofiume, VII, 398,

1888 (peace is made). All the Italian versions keep near to the French,

having nothing original but an unimportant insertion, ‘Chi ti farà la

minestra?’ etc., just before the end.[86]

=Catalan.= ‘La Trapassera,’ Briz y Saltó, Cants pop. catalans, II,

69. Father hears daughter talking with lover in the garden; the usual

questions and replies; improved, or corrupted, at the end.

For serious ballads, Scandinavian, Spanish, etc., exhibiting similar

questions and evasions, see ‘Clerk Saunders,’ No 69 =F=, and the

remarks at II, 157 f., 512 a, III, 509 a, IV, 468 a. The romance ‘De

Blanca-Niña’ occurs in the Cancionero de Romances of 1550. The oldest

Scandinavian ballad of the class is one of Syv’s, printed in 1695.

* * * * *

Herd, 1776, is translated by Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 96,

Hausschatz, p. 230; by Fiedler, Geschichte der schottischen

Liederdichtung, I, 32; by Knortz, Schottische Balladen, p. 82.

Herd’s MSS, I, 140.

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he,

And then he saw a saddle-horse,

Where nae horse should be.

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this horse here,

Without the leave o me?’

_Recitative._ ‘A horse?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a horse,’ quo he.

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

Ill mat ye see!

’Tis naething but a broad sow,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘A broad sow?’ quo he.

‘Ay, a sow,’ quo shee.

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But a sadle on a sow’s back

I never saw nane.’

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he;

He spy’d a pair of jack-boots,

Where nae boots should be.

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came these boots here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘Boots?’ quo she.

‘Ay, boots,’ quo he.

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

And ill mat ye see!

It’s but a pair of water-stoups,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘Water-stoups?’ quo he.

‘Ay, water-stoups,’ quo she.

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But siller spurs on water-stoups

I saw never nane.’

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he,

And he saw a sword,

Whare a sword should na be.

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this sword here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A sword?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a sword,’ quo he.

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

Ill mat ye see!

It’s but a porridge-spurtle,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘A spurtle?’ quo he.

‘Ay, a spurtle,’ quo she.

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But siller-handed spurtles

I saw never nane.’

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he;

There he spy’d a powderd wig,

Where nae wig shoud be.

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this wig here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A wig?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a wig,’ quo he.

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

And ill mat you see!

’Tis naething but a clocken-hen,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘Clocken hen?’ quo he.

‘Ay, clocken hen,’ quo she.

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But powder on a clocken-hen

I saw never nane.’

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he,

And there he saw a muckle coat,

Where nae coat shoud be.

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this coat here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A coat?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a coat,’ quo he.

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

Ill mat ye see!

It’s but a pair o blankets,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘Blankets?’ quo he.

‘Ay, blankets,’ quo she.

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But buttons upon blankets

I saw never nane.’

Ben went our goodman,

And ben went he,

And there he spy’d a sturdy man,

Where nae man shoud be.

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this man here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A man?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a man,’ quo he.

‘Poor blind body,

And blinder mat ye be!

It’s a new milking-maid,

My mither sent to me.’

‘A maid?’ quo he.

‘Ay, a maid,’ quo she.

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But lang-bearded maidens

I saw never nane.’

A broadside: Printed and Sold at the Printing-Office in Bow

Church-Yard, London.

O I went into the stable,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three horses stand,

by one, by two, and by three.

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three horses here,

without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three milking-cows,

my mother sent to me.’

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-cows with bridles and saddles on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

O I went into the kitchen,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three swords hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three swords do here,

without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

They are three roasting-spits,

my mother sent to me.’

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Roasting spits with scabbards on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

O I went into the parlour,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three cloaks hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three cloaks do here,

without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three mantuas,

my mother sent to me.’

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Mantuas with capes on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

I went into the pantry,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three pair of boots hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

O I called to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three pair of boots do here,

without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three pudding-bags,

my mother sent to me.’

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Pudding-bags with spurs on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

I went into my closet,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three pair of breeches lie,

by one, by two, and by three.

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three pair of breeches do here,

without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three petticoats,

my mother sent to me.’

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Petticoats with waistbands on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

I went into the dairy,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three hats hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘Pray what do these three hats do here,

without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

They are three skimming-dishes,

my mother sent to me.’

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

I went into the chamber,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three men in bed lie,

by one, by two, and by three.

I called to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three men in bed,

without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

don’t you very well see?

They are three milking-maids,

my mother sent to me.’

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-maids with beards on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

* * * * *

=A.=

1^1. _Or_, Our goodman came hame at een.

2^1. _Or_, How came this horse here?

2^2. _Or_, How can this be?

3^1. _Or_, Ye ald blind dottled carl.

3^2. _Or_, Blind mat ye be!

3^3. _Or_, a bonny milk-cow.

3^4. My minny _is an alternative and necessary reading for_ The miller.

4^1. _Or_, travelld.

4^2. _Or_, And meikle hae I seen.

4^4. [_Or_,] Saw I.

5^1. _Or_, Our goodman came hame.

7^4. The cooper sent.

_9-12. At the end, with a direction as to place: not completely

written out._

9^1. Hame, etc.

10^3. O how.

12^{1,2}. Weel far hae I travelled,

And muckle hae I seen.

12^4. Saw I never nane.

_The regular readings have been inserted or substituted. In printing,

Herd gave sometimes the alternative readings, sometimes not._

=B.=

_Printed in seven staves, or stanzas, of eight long lines._

1^1, 2^1. Oh.

15^3, 19^3. the three.

Notes and Queries, First Series, VI, 118 (“Shropshire Ballad”).

I went into the stable,

To see what I could see;

I saw three gentlemen’s horses,

By one, by two, by three.

I called to my loving wife,

‘Coming, sir!’ says she:

‘What meaneth these three horses here,

Without the leave of me?’

‘You old fool! you blind fool!

Can’t you, won’t you, see?

They are three milking-cows,

That my mother sent to me.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-cows with saddles on!

The likes I never see!

I cannot go a mile from home

But a cuckold I must be.’

I went into the parlour,

To see what I could see;

I saw there three gentlemen,

By one, by two, by three.

I called to my loving wife,

‘Coming, sir!’ said she:

‘What bringeth these three gentlemen here,

Without the leave of me?’

‘You old fool! you blind fool!

Can’t you, won’t you, see?

They are three milking-maids,

That my mother sent to me.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-maids with breeches on!

The likes I never see!

I cannot go a mile from home

But a cuckold I must be.’

The unhappy husband next wanders into the pantry, and discovers ‘three

pairs of hunting-boots,’ which his spouse declares are

’ ... milking-churns,

Which my mother sent to me.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-churns with spurs on!

The likes I never see!

I cannot go a mile from home

But a cuckold I must be.’

The gentlemen’s coats, discovered in the kitchen, are next disposed

of, but here my memory fails me.

APPENDIX

‘’Twas on Christmas Day,’ found on a slip, “Sold at No 42 Long Lane,”

in a volume in the British Museum, 1876. e (not paged, but at what

would be p. 57), and again in The New Covent Garden Concert, London,

Printed and sold by J. Evans, No 41 Long-Lane, West Smithfield, Br.

Mus. 1077. g. 47 (4), dated in the catalogue “1805?”

’Twas on Christmas Day

Father he did wed;

Three months after that

My mother was brought to bed.

My father he came home,

His head with liquor stord,

And found in mother’s room

A silver-hilted sword.

Fiddle de dum de de, etc.

‘How came this sword here?’

My mother says, says she,

‘Lovee, ’tis a poker

Antee sent to me.’

Father he stumbld and star’d;

’Twas the first, I ween,

Silver-headed poker

He had ever seen.

Father grumbled on,

But getting into bed

Egad! as luck fell out,

A man popd up his head;

‘That’s my milk-maid,’ says she;

Says dad, ‘I never heard

In all my travels yet

A milk-maid with a beard.’

My father found a whip,

And very glad was he;

‘And how came this whip here,

Without the leave of me?’

‘Oh! that’s a nice strap-lace

My antee sent to me;’

Egad! he lac’d her stays,

And out of doors went she.

FOOTNOTES:

[84] I am indebted for information concerning this song, and for a

copy, to Mr P. Z. Round.

[85] Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Unsere Volksthümlichen Lieder, No 478.

It begins:

Ich ging in meinen Stall, da sah ich, ei! ei! An Krippen standen

Pferde, eins, zwei, drei.

[86] ‘O Violina, tu hai le gote rosse,’ a very pretty little

_contrasto_ bundled by Tigri with his _rispetti_ (Canti p. toscani, p.

284, No 1023, ed. 1856), is a skirmish between father and daughter,

after the fashion of our ballad. (‘My cheeks are stained with

mulberries.’ ‘Show me the mulberries.’ ‘They are on the hedges.’ ‘Show

me the hedges.’ ‘The goats have eaten them.’ ‘Show me the goats,’ etc.)

Ferrari, in an excellent paper in the journal referred to above, tries

to make out some historical relation between the two. He seems to me to

take ‘La Violina’ quite too seriously.

275

GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR

=A. a.= ‘Get up and bar the Door,’ Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots

Songs, 1769, p. 330; Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, II,

159. =b.= [Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.

=B.= ‘John Blunt,’ Macmath MS., p. 74.

=C.= ‘Johnie Blunt,’ Johnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792.

The copy in Johnson’s Museum, volume three, No 300, p. 310, 1790, is

=A a= with two slight changes; that in Ritson’s Scotish Song, I, 226,

1794, is =A a=. =A b= is substituted for =A a= in the third edition

of Herd, 1791, II, 63. Christie, II, 262, who follows =A a=, but with

changes, gives as a refrain, “common in the North of Scotland from

time immemorial,”

And the barring o our door,

Weel, weel, weel!

And the barring o our door, weel!

=A, B.= A housewife is boiling puddings anight; a cold wind blows in,

and her husband bids her bar the door; she has her hands in her work

and will not. They come to an agreement that whoever speaks first

shall bar the door. Two belated travellers are guided to the house

by the light which streams through an opening. They come in, and,

getting no reply to their questions or response to their greetings,

fall to eating and drinking what they find; the goodwife thinks

much, but says naught. One of the strangers proposes to the other to

take off the man’s beard, and he himself will kiss the goodwife. Hot

water is wanting (for scalding), suggests the second; but the boiling

pudding-bree will serve, answers the first. The goodman calls out,

Will ye kiss my wife and scald me? and having spoken the first word

has to bar the door.

=Great Russian.= 1-5, Sozonovič, Appendix, Nos 1, 2, 7, 8, 9.[54]