All in French garlands,
Till she go through the world with me,
And adieu to you, my darlings.
Address:--
Then fare ye well, my lady gay,
All in French garlands;
We'll come again some other day,
And adieu to you, my darlings.
Answer:--
Come back, come back, you scornful knight,
All in French garlands;
Clear up your spurs, and make them bright,
And adieu to you, my darlings.
Address:--
Of my spurs take you no thought,
All in French garlands;
For in this town they were not bought,
And adieu to you, my darlings.
Answer:--
Smell my lilies, smell my roses,
All in French garlands:
Which of my daughters do you choose?
And adieu to you, my darlings.
Address:--
Are all your daughters safe and sound?
All in French garlands:
Are all your daughters safe and sound?
And adieu to you, my darlings.
Answer:--
In every pocket a thousand pounds,
All in French garlands;
On every finger a gay, gold ring,
And adieu to you, my darlings.
The formula is repeated as above until every boy has chosen a lady-mate,
when all march round arm-in-arm in pairs, and the game is ended.
* * * * *
"~Here Comes a Poor Sailor from Botany Bay~." This is played as a
preliminary game to decide who shall join, and which side they will
take, in a coming tug-of-war. The chief delight derived is in putting
and answering questions. Two principals, standing as rival chiefs, and
acting together as catechists, begin the play; and all are warned before
replying:--
You must say neither "Yes," "No," nor "Nay,"
"Black," "White," nor "Grey."
Then, as each child approaches, the formula proceeds:--
Here comes a poor sailor from Botany Bay;
Pray, what are you going to give him to-day?
A pair of boots [may be the answer].
What colour are they?
Brown.
Have you anything else to give him?
I think so.
What colour is it?
Red.
What is it made of?
Cloth.
And what colour?
Blue.
Have you anything else to give him?
I don't think so.
Would you like a sweet?
Yes.
Now he is trapped. He has given one of the fatal replies; and the child
who answered "Yes" goes to a den. After all have gone through a similar
form, the youngsters are divided into two classes--those who avoided
answering in the prohibited terms, and the little culprits in the den,
or prison, who had failed in the examination. The tug-of-war now begins,
the one class being pitted against the other. No rope is used; but arms
are entwined round waists, or skirts, or coat-tails are taken hold of;
and the victors crow over the vanquished.
* * * * *
"~Janet Jo~," widely played, has for _dramatis personæ_, a Father, a
Mother, Janet, and a Lover. Janet lies stretched at full length behind
the scenes. The father and mother stand revealed to receive the visits
of the lover, who approaches singing, to an air somewhat like "The Merry
Masons":--
I'm come to court Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
I'm come to court Janet jo--
How is she the day?
Parents reply together:--
She's up the stair washin',
Washin', washin';
She's up the stair washin'--
Ye canna see her the day.
The lover retires, and again, and yet again, advances with the same
announcement of his object and purpose, to which he receives similar
evasive answers from Janet's parents, who successively represent her as
up the stair "bleaching," "drying," and "ironing clothes." At last they
reply:--
Janet jo's dead and gane,
Dead and gane, dead and gane;
Janet jo's dead and gane--
Ye'll see her face nae mae!
She is then carried off to be buried, the lover and the rest weeping.
Sometimes she revives (to their great joy), and sometimes not, _ad
libitum_--that is, as Janet herself chooses.
A south-country version (Dr. Chambers tells) differs a little, and
represents Janet as "at the Well," instead of upstairs, and afterwards
"at the Mill," and so on. A Glasgow edition gives the whole in good
west-country prose, and the lover begins: "I'm come to court your
dochter, Kate Mackleister!"
In the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, "Janet Jo" used to be a dramatic
entertainment amongst young rustics. Suppose a party have met on a
winter evening round a good peat fire, writes Chambers, and is resolved
to have "Janet Jo" performed. Two undertake to personate a goodman and a
goodwife; the rest a family of marriageable daughters. One of the
lads--the best singer of the party--retires, and equips himself in a
dress proper for representing an old bachelor in search of a wife. He
comes in, bonnet in hand, bowing, and sings:--
Gude e'en to ye, maidens a',
Maidens a', maidens a';
Gude e'en to ye, maidens a',
Be ye or no.
I've come to court Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
I've come to court Janet jo,
Janet, my jo.
Gudewife sings:--
What'll ye gie for Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
What'll ye gie for Janet jo,
Janet, my jo?
The wooer replies:--
I'll gie ye a peck o' siller,
A peck o' siller, peck o' siller;
I'll gie ye a peck o' siller
For Janet, my jo.
Gudewife exclaims, "Gae awa', ye auld carle!" then sings:--
Ye'se never get Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
Ye'se never get Janet jo,
Janet, my jo.
The wooer hereupon retires, singing a verse expressive of mortification,
but soon re-enters with a re-assured air, singing:--
I'll gie ye a peck o' gowd,
A peck o' gowd, peck o' gowd;
I'll gie ye a peck o' gowd,
For Janet, my jo.
The matron gives him a rebuff as before, and he again enters, singing an
offer of "twa pecks o' gowd," which, however, is also refused. At his
next entry he offers "three pecks o' gowd," at which the gudewife
brightens up, and sings:--
Come ben beside Janet Jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
Ye're welcome to Janet jo,
Janet, my jo.
The suitor then advances gaily to his sweetheart, and the affair ends in
a scramble for kisses.
* * * * *
"~The Goloshans.~" This is a Hogmanay play, and not confined to children
alone, which for that, as well as other reasons, will not inaptly close
this chapter. In some parts it was called "The Galatians," to be sure, I
say _was_, because one never sees it now-a-days, though fifty years ago,
under the one designation or the other, it was played annually by the
Hogmanay guizards, who, dressed for the occasion, set it forth with
deliciously unsophisticated swagger and bluster in every house they
visited that had a kitchen floor broad and wide enough for the
operation. It formed the material of a chap-book which was regularly on
sale at the "Johnnie-a'-thing" shops in the middle of last century,
though now, I suppose, a copy could scarcely be had for love or money.
Sir Walter Scott, who delighted to keep up old customs, and could
condescend to simple things without losing genuine dignity, invariably
had a set of guizards to perform the play before his family both at
Ashestiel and at Abbotsford. The _dramatis personæ_ of "The Goloshans,"
after the character in the title-role--who was inevitable on all
occasions--differed somewhat in the various districts. Chambers gives a
fairly adequate version in his _Popular Rhymes of Scotland;_ but the
fullest and best I have seen is contained in _Proverbs and Proverbial
Expressions_, edited by "Andrew Cheviot," and recently published by Mr.
Alexander Gardner, of Paisley, and which I take the liberty of quoting
mainly, though part also is taken from Chambers's version. The
characters are Sir Alexander; Farmer's Son; Goloshan; Wallace; Dr.
Brown; and Beelzebub.
Enter Sir Alexander, and speaks:--
Haud away rocks, and haud away reels,
Haud away stocks and spinning-wheels;
Redd room for Gorland, and gie us room to sing,
And I will show you the prettiest thing
That ever was seen in Christmas time.
Muckle-head and Little-wit stand ahint the door:
But sic a set as we are ne'er were seen before.
Enter next Farmer's Son:--
Here come I, the farmer's son,
Although I be but young sir,
I've got a spirit brave.
And I'll freely risk my life,
My country for to save.
Goloshan appears:--
Here come I, Goloshan--Goloshan is my name,
With sword and pistol by my side, I hope to win the game.
Farmer's Son:--
The game, sir, the game, sir! it is not in your power,
I'll cut you into inches in less than half-an-hour.
My head is made of iron, my heart is made of steel,
My sword is a Ferrara that can do its duty weel.
Goloshan:--
My body is like rock, sir, my head is like a stone,
And I will be Goloshan when you are dead and gone.
Enter Wallace:--
Here come I, Sir William Wallace, wight,
Who shed his blood for Scotland's right;
Without a right, without a reason,
Here I draw my bloody weapon.
(_Fights with Goloshan--the latter falls._) Farmer's Son:--
Now that young man is dead, sir, and on the ground is laid;
And you shall suffer for it, I'm very much afraid.
Wallace:--
It was not me that did the deed, nor me that did the crime,
'Twas this young man behind me who drew his sword so fine.
Sir Alexander:--
Oh, you artful villain, to lay the blame on me!
For my two eyes were shut, sir, when this young man did dee.
Wallace:--
How could your eyes be shut, sir, when you were looking on?
How could your eyes be shut, sir, when both the swords were drawn?
Farmer's Son (to Wallace):--
How can you thus deny the deed? As I stood looking on,
You drew your sword from out its sheath, and slashed his body down.
Wallace:--
If I have slain Goloshan, Goloshan I will cure,
And I will make him rise and sing in less than half-an-hour;
Round the kitchen, round the town,
Haste and bring me Dr. Brown.
Dr. Brown enters:--
Here come I, old Dr. Brown, the foremost doctor in the town.
Wallace:--
What makes you so good, sir?
Doctor:--
Why, my travels.
Wallace:--
And where have you travelled?
Doctor:--
From Hickerty-pickerty-hedgehog, three times round the West Indies,
and back to old Scotland.
Wallace:--
Is that all?
Doctor:--
No sir. I have travelled from fireside to chairside, from chairside
to stoolside, from stoolside to tableside, from tableside to bedside,
from bedside to press-side, and got many a lump of bread and butter
from my mother; and that's the way my belly's so big.
Wallace:--
Well, what can you cure?
Doctor:--
I can cure the rurvy-scurvy, and the rumble-gumption of a man who
has been seven years dead or more, and can make an old woman of
sixty look like a girl of sixteen.
Wallace:--
How much would you take to cure this dead man? Would five pounds do?
Doctor (turning away):--
Five pounds! No, five pounds would not get a good kit of brose.
Wallace:--
Would ten pounds do?
Doctor:--
Yes, perhaps ten pounds would do--- that, and a pint of wine. I have
a bottle of inky-pinkie in my pocket. (_Approaches Goloshan._) By
the hocus-pocus and the magical touch of my little finger; heigh ho!
start up, Jack, and sing!
Goloshan (rises and sings):--
Oh, once I was dead, sir, but now I am alive,
And blessed be the doctor that made me revive;
We'll all join hands, and never fight no more,
We'll all be good fellows, as we have been before.
All four:--
We'll all shake hands and agree, and never fight no more,
We'll all be like brothers, as we were once before;
God bless the master of this house, the mistress fair likewise,
And all the pretty children that round the table rise.
Go down into your cellar and see what you can find,
Your barrels being not empty, we hope you will prove kind;
We hope you will prove kind, with whisky and with beer,
We wish you a Merry Christmas, likewise a good New Year.
Enter Beelzebub (for the collection):--
Here come I, Old Beelzebub, over my shoulder I carry a club,
And in my hand a frying-pan. Am not I a jolly old man?
It's money I want, and money I crave,
If ye don't give me money I'll sweep ye to your grave.
Old Beelzebub's appeal not being resisted (for who might dare to resist
such?), the picturesque players retire, and proceed from thence merrily
to occupy another stage.
* * * * *
Mr. Sandys, it may be noted, in his elegant volume of _Christmas Carols_
(1833), transcribes a play called "St. George," which still is, or used
to be, acted at the New Year in Cornwall, exactly after the manner of
our Scottish play of "Goloshan" which it resembles as much as various
versions of "Goloshan" in Scotland resemble each other. The leading
characters, besides St. George himself and the Dragon, which is twice
killed, are a Turkish knight and the King of Egypt. It is curious thus,
as Dr. Chambers remarks, to find one play, with unimportant variations,
preserved traditionally by the common people in parts of the island so
distant from each other, and in many respects so different.
It is curious further, and of much interest to note, that in these
singing-games, if nowhere else, the country and the city child, the
children of the mansion and the children of the alley, meet all,
beautifully, on common ground. And, how the out-door ones lie dormant
for spaces, and spring simultaneously into action in widely separated
parts--town and country alike--is a problem which may not be easily
solved. It seems to us that, like the songs of birds, they belong to
certain seasons, and are suggested, each in its turn, or class by class,
by the feeling in the air. But mark, I say only _seems_, for who may
dogmatize on such matters!
CHILDREN'S SONGS AND BALLADS.
Not the more exalted songs of child life here--not "Willie Winkie," and
"Cuddle Doon," and "Castles in the Air," and all that widely esteemed
band, which, collectively, would themselves tax the limits of a large
volume--but some of the ruder ditties only which the children for many
generations have delighted to sing, and been no less charmed by hearing
sung, and which of late have not been so frequently seen in print. These
rude old favourites, too, with slight comment--little being required.
And of such, surely "Cock Robin" may well be awarded the place of
honour--a song which, together with the more elaborate tale of "The
Babes in the Wood," has done more to make its pert and dapper
red-waistcoated subject the general favourite he is with old and young,
than any virtue that may be claimed for the little tyrant himself.
COCK ROBIN.
Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said the Sparrow,
With my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin.
Who saw him die?
I, said the Fly,
With my little eye,
I saw him die.
Who caught his blood?
I, said the Fish,
With my little dish,
I caught his blood.
Who'll make his shroud?
I, said the Beetle,
With my thread and needle,
I'll make his shroud.
Who'll carry him to his grave?
I, said the Kite,
If it's not in the night,
I'll carry him to his grave.
Who'll dig his grave?
I, said the Owl,
With my spade and shovel,
I'll dig his grave.
Who'll carry the link?
I, said the Linnet,
I'll fetch it in a minute,
I'll carry the link.
Who'll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove,
I'll mourn for my love,
I'll be chief mourner.
Who'll sing the psalm?
I, said the Thrush,
As he sat on a bush,
I'll sing the psalm.
Who'll be the parson?
I, said the Rook,
With my little book,
I'll be the parson.
Who'll be the clerk?
I, said the Lark,
If it's not in the dark,
I'll be the clerk.
Who'll toll the bell?
I, said the Bull,
Because I can pull,
I'll toll the bell.
And all the little birds
Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll
For poor Cock Robin.
And of Cock Robin again, no less captivating has been the ballad
celebrating his wedding with little Jenny Wren. Though why with a lady
of the Wren family, must always strike naturalists as an absurdity; and,
I suppose, we may not ask how it was the banns were not forbidden, since
the Messrs. Wren, with the children, and the whole creation of
birds--with the single exception of a blackguard cuckoo--have jubilantly
acquiesced in the nuptials.
THE MARRIAGE OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN.
It was a merry time,
When Jenny Wren was young,
So neatly as she dressed,
And so sweetly as she sung.
Robin Redbreast lost his heart,
He was a gallant bird;
He doffed his hat to Jenny,
And thus to her he said:
"My dearest Jenny Wren,
If you will but be mine,
You shall dine on cherry pie
And drink nice currant wine.
"I'll dress you like a goldfinch,
Or like a peacock gay;
So, if you'll have me, Jenny,
Let us appoint the day."
Jenny blushed behind her fan,
And thus declared her mind:
"Then let it be to-morrow, Bob--
I take your offer kind.
"Cherry pie is very good,
So is currant wine;
But I'll wear my russet gown
And never dress too fine."
Robin rose up early,
At the break of day;
He flew to Jenny Wren's house
To sing a roundelay.
He met the Cock and Hen,
And bade the Cock declare
This was his wedding day
With Jenny Wren the fair.
The Cock then blew his horn,
To let the neighbours know
This was Robin's wedding day,
And they might see the show.
Then followed him the Lark,
For he could sweetly sing,
And he was to be the clerk
At Cock Robin's wedding.
He sang of Robin's love
For little Jenny Wren;
And when he came unto the end,
Then he began again.
At first came Parson Rook,
With his spectacles and band;
And one of Mother Hubbard's books
He held within his hand.
The Goldfinch came on next,
To give away the bride;
The Linnet, being bridesmaid,
Walked by Jenny's side;
And as she was a-walking,
Said, "Upon my word,
I think that your Cock Robin
Is a very pretty bird."
The Blackbird and the Thrush,
And charming Nightingale,
Whose sweet songs sweetly echo
Through every grove and dale;
The Sparrow and the Tomtit,
And many more were there;
All came to see the wedding
Of Jenny Wren the fair.
The Bullfinch walked by Robin,
And thus to him did say:
"Pray mark, friend Robin Redbreast,
That Goldfinch dressed so gay;
"That though her gay apparel
Becomes her very well,
Yet Jenny's modest dress and look
Must bear away the bell."
Then came the bride and bridegroom;
Quite plainly was she dressed,
And blushed so much, her cheeks were
As red as Robin's breast.
But Robin cheered her up;
"My pretty Jen," says he,
"We're going to be married.
And happy we shall be."
"Oh," then says Parson Rook,
"Who gives this maid away?"
"I do," says the Goldfinch,
"And her fortune I will pay:
"Here's a bag of grain of many sorts,
And other things beside;
Now happy be the bridegroom,
And happy be the bride!"
"And you will have her, Robin,
To be your wedded wife?"
"Yes, I will," says Robin,
"And love her all my life!"
"And you will have him Jenny,
Your husband now to be?"
"Yes, I will," says Jenny,
"And love him heartily."
Then on her finger fair
Cock Robin put the ring;
"You're married now," says Parson Rook,
While the lark aloud did sing:
"Happy be the bridegroom,
And happy be the bride!
And may not man, nor bird, nor beast,
This happy pair divide!"
The birds were asked to dine;
Not Jenny's friends alone,
But every pretty songster
That had Cock Robin known.
They had a cherry pie,
Besides some currant wine,
And every guest brought something,
That sumptuous they might dine.
Now they all sat or stood,
To eat and to drink;
And every one said what
He happened to think.
They each took a bumper,
And drank to the pair;
Cock Robin the bridegroom,
And Jenny the fair.
The dinner-things removed,
They all began to sing;
And soon they made the place
For a mile around to ring.
The concert it was fine,
And every birdie tried
Who best should sing for Robin
And Jenny Wren the bride.
When in came the Cuckoo,
And made a great rout;
He caught hold of Jenny,
And pulled her about.
Cock Robin was angry,
And so was the Sparrow,
Who fetched in a hurry
His bow and his arrow.
His aim then he took,
But he took it not right,
His skill was not good,
Or he shot in a fright;
For the Cuckoo he missed,
But Cock Robin he killed!
And all the birds mourned
That his blood was so spilled.
Yet another song of the Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a
youthful vocalist. I don't know that it ever had a title, but we will
call it
THE NORTH WIND.
The North wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the Robin do then, poor thing?
He will sit in the barn,
And keep himself warm,
With his little head under his wing, poor thing!
It is not claimed for these pieces that they belong to any high order of
verse--though really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very
first. In point of popularity alone, they are not surpassed by "Paradise
Lost," nor by the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then,
they have so thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the
affections of the wee folks, that, with old and young alike--for the
young so soon grow into the old, alas!--there are no compositions in
the world better secured for the honour and glory of immortal fame. They
have not been very often printed, I have said--not often in recent
years, at least--and the reason, I suppose, is because it was not deemed
necessary to set out in print what everybody knows so well by heart. It
must be refreshing for the eye, however, to scan what is so familiar to
the ear, and I make no apology--yea, I hope to be thanked for their
appearance in this little book for bairns and big folk. Let the next be
LITTLE BO-PEEP.
Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep,
And doesn't know where to find them;
Let them alone, and they'll come home,
Bringing their tails behind them.
Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep.
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For still they all were fleeting.
Then up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed.
For they'd left their tails behind them.
It happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray
Under a meadow hard by,
That she espied their tails, side by side,
All hung on a tree to dry.
She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye,
And over the hillocks went stump-o;
And tried as she could, as a shepherdess should,
To tack again each to its rump-o.
The ballad lacks sadly in particulars, to be sure. How the tails of the
entire flock disappeared in one fell swoop--whether by malice
aforethought, at the instance of a lurking enemy, or in a miraculous
accident, whilst the young shepherdess slept at her charge--has never
been told, though thousands of wondering pows, multiplied by ten, have
wanted to know. Perhaps it is better not explained. Mystery is so often
just another word for charm.
We will now have the curious tale of "The House that Jack Built." In no
sense a curious house, perhaps, but famous because of the fortuitous
events which issued in regular sequence from the simple fact of the
builder having stored a quantity of malt within its walls. It is told
best with the accompaniment of pictorial illustrations, but here these
are not available.
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
This is the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
This is the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
This is the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
This is the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
This is the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built
This is the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
This is the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
This is the cock that crowed in the morn
And waked the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.
It has been a satisfaction to many a little boy, I am sure, to feel that
he was not, by many miles, so simple as that most abject of all
simpletons, familiar to him as--
SIMPLE SIMON.
Simple Simon met a pie-man,
Going to the fair;
Said Simple Simon to the pie-man,
"Let me taste your ware."
Says the pie-man, "Simple Simon,
Show me first your penny;"
Said Simple Simon to the pie-man,
"Indeed, I have not any."
Simple Simon went a-fishing,
For to catch a whale;
All the water he had got
Was in his mother's pail!
Some may follow without comment.
OLD MOTHER HUBBARD.