False Fenwick was thirty years and three;
He lap about, and he strack about,
And he gave false Fenwick wounds three.
'Oh, hold your hand, James Hatelie,' he said;
'And let my breath go out and in;
Were it not for the spilling of my noble blood
And the shaming of my noble kin.
'Oh, hold your hand, James Hatelie,' he said;
Oh, hold your hand, and let me be;
For I'm the man that stole the jewels,
And a shame and disgrace it was to me.'
Then up bespoke an English lord,
I wat but he spoke haughtilie:
'I would rather have lost all my lands,
Before they had not hanged James Hatelie.'
Then up bespoke a good Scotch lord,
I wat a good Scotch lord was he:
'I would rather have foughten to the knees in blood,
Than they had hanged James Hatelie.'
Then up bespoke the king's eldest son:
'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me;
For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true--
You'se be my captain by land and sea.'
Then up bespoke the king's eldest daughter:
'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me;
For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true--
I'll never marrie a man but thee.'
Here is love, and here is innocence in difficulties--two things of high
moral interest; yet how homely is the whole narration; how unlike the
strains of the ballads which have been passed before the reader's view!
And be it observed, the theory as to our ballads is, that they have
been transmitted from old time, undergoing modifications from the
minds of nurses, and other humble reciters, as they came along. If so,
they ought to have presented the same plebeian strain of ideas and
phraseology as _James Hatelie_; but we see they do not: they are, on
the contrary, remarkably poetical, pure, and dignified.
Here I may, once for all, in opposition to Professor Aytoun and others,
express my belief that the ballads in question are for the most part
printed nearly, and, in some instances, entirely, in the condition in
which they were left by the author. In _Edward_, I question if a line
has been corrupted or a word altered. _Sir Patrick Spence_ and
_Gilderoy_ are both so rounded and complete, so free, moreover,
from all vulgar terms, that I feel nearly equally confident about them.
All those which Percy obtained in manuscripts from Scotland, are neat
finished compositions, as much so as any ballad of Tickell or
Shenstone. Those from Mrs Brown's manuscript have also an author's
finish clearly impressed on them. It is a mere assumption that they
have been sent down, with large modifications, from old times. Had it
been true, the ballads would have been full of vulgarisms, as we find
to be the condition of certain of them which Peter Buchan picked up
among the common people, after (shall we say) seventy or eighty years
of traditionary handling. Now, no such depravation appears in the
versions printed by Percy, Scott, and Jamieson.
It may be objected to the arguments founded on the great number of
parallel passages, that these are but the stock phraseology of all
ballad-mongers, and form no just proof of unity of authorship. If this
were true, it might be an objection of some force; but it is not true.
The _formulae_ in question are to be found hardly at all in any of the
rustic or homely ballads. They are not to be found in any ballads which
there is good reason to believe so old as the early part of the
seventeenth century. They are to be found in no ballads which may even
doubtfully be affiliated to England. All this, of course, can only be
fully ascertained by a careful perusal of some large collection of
ballads. Yet, even in such a case, a few examples may be viewed with
interest, and not unprofitably. Of the plebeian ballads, a specimen has
just been adduced. Let us proceed, then, to exemplify the ballads of
the seventeenth century. First, take _Fair Margaret and Sweet William_,
which Percy brought forward from a stall copy as, apparently, the
ballad quoted in Fletcher's _Knight of the Burning Pestle_; though
subjected to some alteration during the intermediate century and a
half. It is as follows:
As it fell out on a long summer day,
Two lovers they sat on a hill;
They sat together that long summer day,
And could not take their fill.
'I see no harm by you, Margaret,
And you see none by me;
Before to-morrow at eight o'clock,
A rich wedding you shall see.'
Fair Margaret sat in her bouir window,
Combing her yellow hair;
There she spied sweit William and his bride,
As they were a-riding near.
Then doun she layed her ivorie combe,
And braided her hair in twain:
She went alive out of her bouir,
But never cam alive in't again.
When day was gone, and nicht was come,
And all men fast asleip,
Then came the spirit of fair Margaret,
And stood at William's feet.
'Are you awake, sweit William?' she said;
'Or, sweit William, are you asleip?
God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,
And me of my winding-sheet!'
When day was come, and nicht was gone,
And all men waked from sleip,
Sweit William to his lady said:
'My deir, I have cause to weep.
'I dreimt a dreim, my dear ladye;
Such dreims are never good:
I dreimt my bouir was full of red swine,
And my bride-bed full of blood.'
'Such dreims, such dreims, my honoured sir,
They never do prove good;
To dreim thy bouir was full of red swine,
And thy bride-bed full of blood.'
He called up his merry-men all,
By one, by two, and by three;
Saying: 'I'll away to fair Margaret's bouir,
By the leave of my ladye.'
And when he came to fair Margaret's bouir,
He knockit at the ring;
And who so ready as her seven brethren
To let sweit William in.
Then he turned up the covering sheet:
'Pray, let me see the deid;
Methinks, she looks all pale and wan;
She hath lost her cherry red.
'I'll do more for thee, Margaret,
Than any of thy kin,
For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
Though a smile I cannot win.'
With that bespake the seven brethren,
Making most piteous moan:
'You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
And let our sister alone.'
'If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
I do but what is right;
I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,
By day nor yet by night.
'Deal on, deal on, my merry-men all;
Deal on your cake and your wine:
For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.'
Fair Margaret died to-day, to-day,
Sweit William died to-morrow;
Fair Margaret died for pure true love,
Sweit William died for sorrow.
Margaret was buried in the lower chancel,
And William in the higher;
Out of her breast there sprang a rose,
And out of his a brier.
They grew till they grew unto the church-top,
And then they could grow no higher;
And there they tied in a true lovers' knot,
Which made all the people admire.
Then came the clerk of the parish,
As you the truth shall hear,
And by misfortune cut them down,
Or they had now been there.
Here, it will be observed, beyond the expression, 'my merry-men all,'
there is no trace of the phraseology so marked in the group of ballads
under our notice. Take, also, a ballad which, from the occurrences
referred to, may be considered as antecedent to the epoch of
_Hardyknute_, and we shall observe an equal, if not more complete,
absence of the phraseology and manner of this class of ballads. It
relates to a tragic love-story of 1631, as ascertained from the
grave-stone of the heroine in the kirk-yard of Fyvie, Aberdeenshire:
Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter,
His name was Andrew Lammie;
He had the art to gain the heart
Of Mill-o'-Tifty's Annie.
* * *
She sighed sore, but said no more,
Alas, for bonny Annie!
She durst not own her heart was won
By the trumpeter of Fyvie.
At night when they went to their beds,
All slept full sound but Annie;
Love so opprest her tender breast,
Thinking on Andrew Lammie.
'Love comes in at my bed-side,
And love lies down beyond me,
Love has possessed my tender breast,
And wastes away my body.
'At Fyvie yetts there grows a flower,
It grows baith braid and bonny;
There is a daisy in the midst o' it.
And it's ca'd by Andrew Lammie.
'O gin that flower were in my breast,
For the love I bear the laddie,
I wad kiss it, and I wad clap it,
And daut it for Andrew Lammie.
'The first time I and my love met
Was in the woods of Fyvie;
His lovely form and speech so sweet
Soon gained the heart of Annie.
'Oh, up and down, in Tifty's den,
Where the burns run clear and bonny,
I've often gone to meet my love,
My bonny Andrew Lammie.
'He kissed my lips five thousand times,
And aye he ca'd me bonny;
And a' the answer he gat frae me,
Was, "My bonny Andrew Lammie!"'
But now, alas! her father heard
That the trumpeter of Fyvie
Had had the art to gain the heart
Of Tifty's bonny Annie.
And he has syne a letter wrote,
And sent it on to Fyvie,
To tell his daughter was bewitched
By his servant, Andrew Lammie.
When Lord Fyvie this letter read,
O dear, but he was sorry;
'The bonniest lass in Fyvie's land
Is bewitched by Andrew Lammie.'
Then up the stair his trumpeter
He called soon and shortly;
'Pray tell me soon what's this you've done
To Tifty's bonny Annie?'
'In wicked art I had no part,
Nor therein am I canny;
True love alone the heart has won
Of Tifty's bonny Annie.
'Woe betide Mill-o'-Tifty's pride,
For it has ruined many;
He'll no hae't said that she should wed
The trumpeter of Fyvie.'
* * *
'Love, I maun gang to Edinburgh;
Love, I maun gang and leave thee.'
She sighed sore, and said no more,
But, 'Oh, gin I were wi' ye!'
'I'll buy to thee a bridal goun;
My love, I'll buy it bonny!'
'But I'll be dead, ere ye come back
To see your bonny Annie.'
'If you'll be true, and constant too,
As my name's Andrew Lammie,
I shall thee wed when I come back,
Within the kirk of Fyvie.'
'I will be true, and constant too,
To thee, my Andrew Lammie;
But my bridal-bed will ere then be made
In the green kirk-yard of Fyvie.'
He hied him hame, and having spieled
To the house-top of Fyvie,
He blew his trumpet loud and shrill,
'Twas heard at Mill-o'-Tifty.
Her father locked the door at night,
Laid by the keys fu' canny;
And when he heard the trumpet sound,
Said: 'Your cow is lowing, Annie.'
'My father, dear, I pray forbear,
And reproach no more your Annie;
For I'd rather hear that cow to low
Than hae a' the kine in Fyvie.
'I would not for your braw new gown,
And a' your gifts sae many,
That it were told in Fyvie's land
How cruel you are to me.'
Her father struck her wondrous sore,
As also did her mother;
Her sisters always did her scorn,
As also did her brother.
Her brother struck her wondrous sore,
With cruel strokes and many;
He brak her back in the hall-door,
For loving Andrew Lammie.
'Alas, my father and mother dear,
Why are you so cruel to Annie?
My heart was broken first by love,
Now you have broken my bodie.
'Oh, mother dear, make ye my bed,
And lay my face to Fyvie;
There will I lie, and thus will die,
For my love, Andrew Lammie.'
Her mother she has made her bed,
And laid her face to Fyvie;
Her tender heart it soon did break,
And she ne'er saw Andrew Lammie.
When Andrew home from Edinburgh came,
With mickle grief and sorrow:
'My love has died for me to-day,
I'll die for her to-morrow.'
He has gone on to Tifty's den,
Where the burn runs clear and bonny;
With tears he viewed the Bridge of Heugh,
Where he parted last with Annie.
Then he has sped to the church-yard,
To the green church-yard of Fyvie;
With tears he watered his true love's grave,
And died for Tifty's Annie.
Let me repeat my acknowledgment that, while these extracts occupy more
space than can well be spared, they form an imperfect means of
establishing the negative evidence required in the case. But let the
reader peruse the ballads of Buchan's collection known to relate to
incidents of the seventeenth century, and he will find that they are
all alike free from the favourite expressions of the unknown, or dimly
known ballad-writer in question.
Let it never be objected that, if any one person living in the reigns
of Queen Anne and George I. had composed so many fine poems, he or she
could not have remained till now all but unknown. In the first half of
the present century, there appeared in Scotland a series of fugitive
pieces--songs--which attained a great popularity, without their being
traced to any author. Every reader will remember _The Land of the
Leal_, _Caller Herring_, _The Laird o' Cockpen_, _The Auld House_, and
_He's ower the Hills that I lo'e weel_. It was not till after many
years of fame that these pieces were found to be the production of a
lady of rank, Carolina Baroness Nairn, who had passed through a life of
seventy-nine years without being known as a song-writer to more than
one person. It was the fate of this songstress to live in days when
there was an interest felt in such authorships, insuring that she
should sooner or later become known; but, had she lived a hundred years
earlier, she might have died and left no sign, as I conjecture to have
been the case with the author of this fine group of ballads; and future
Burnses might have pondered over her productions, with endless regret
that the names of their _authors_ were 'buried among the wreck of
things that were.'
If there be any truth or force in this speculation, I shall be
permitted to indulge in the idea that a person lived a hundred years
before Scott, who, with his feeling for Scottish history, and the
features of the past generally, constructed out of these materials a
similar romantic literature. In short, Scotland appears to have had a
Scott a hundred years before the actual person so named. And we may
well believe that if we had not had the first, we either should not
have had the second, or he would have been something considerably
different, for, beyond question, Sir Walter's genius was fed and
nurtured on the ballad literature of his native country. From his _Old
Mortality_ and _Waverley_, back to his _Lady_ _of the Lake and
Marmion_; from these to his _Lay of the Last Minstrel_; from that to
his _Eve of St John_ and _Glenfinlas_; and from these, again, to the
ballads which he collected, mainly the produce (as I surmise) of an
individual precursor, is a series of steps easily traced, and which no
one will dispute. Much significance there is, indeed, in his own
statement, that _Hardyknute_ was the first poem he ever learned, and
the last he should forget. Its author--if my suspicion be correct--was
his literary foster-mother, and we probably owe the direction of his
genius, and all its fascinating results, primarily to her.