LORD DERWENTWATER_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 4 (of 5)

#A.# ‘Lord Dunwaters,’ Motherwell’s MS., p. 331; ‘Lord Derwentwater,’

Motherwell’s Minstrelsy, p. 349.

#B.# ‘Lord Derwentwater,’ Notes and Queries, First Series, XII, 492.

#C.# Bell’s Rhymes of Northern Bards, 1812, p. 225, three stanzas.

#D.# ‘Lord Derntwater,’ Kinloch MSS, I, 323.

#E.# ‘Lord Derwentwater,’ Notes and Queries, Fourth Series, XI, 499.

#F.# ‘Lord Arnwaters,’ Buchan’s MSS, II, 478.

#G.# ‘Lord Dunwaters,’ Motherwell’s MS., p. 126.

#H.# ‘Lord Derwentwater’s Death,’ Shropshire Folk-Lore, edited by

Charlotte Sophia Burne, p. 537.

#I.# The Gentleman’s Magazine, vol. xcv, 1825, Part First, p. 489.

Three stanzas of this ballad were printed in 1812 (#C#). #I# followed in

1825, a full copy, which would have been a very good one had it been

given as taken down, and not restored “to something like poetical

propriety.”[86] The editor of the “old song” observes that it was one of

the most popular in the north of England for a long period after the

event which it records, and a glance at what is here brought together

will show that the ballad was at least equally popular in Scotland. #I#

is repeated in Richardson’s Borderer’s Table-Book, VI, 291, and in

Harland and Wilkinson’s Ballads and Songs of Lancashire, 1882, p. 265.

Mr J. H. Dixon, in Notes and Queries, 4th Series, XI, 389, says that the

ballad “originally appeared in the Town and Country Magazine.”

‘Lord Derwentwater’s Goodnight,’ Hogg’s Jacobite Relics, II, 30, 268,

was both communicated and composed by Robert Surtees. ‘Derwentwater,’

Cromek’s Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810, p. 127, is from

the pen of Allan Cunningham. It is repeated in Hogg’s Jacobite Relics,

1821, II, 28, and in Cunningham’s Songs of Scotland, 1825, III, 192,

etc.; also in Kinloch MSS, V, 413, with two lines to fill out an eighth

stanza. (Translated by Loève-Veimars, p. 375.) ‘Young Ratcliffe,’

Sheldon’s Minstrelsy of the English Border, p. 400, is another ballad of

the same class.

James Ratcliffe, Earl of Derwentwater, being suspected or known to be

engaged in concerting a rising in the north of England in behalf of the

Pretender, a warrant was issued by the Secretary of State for his

apprehension, towards the end of September, 1715. Hereupon he took arms,

and he was one of the fifteen hundred English and Scots who were forced

to an inglorious surrender at Preston, November 14. The more

distinguished prisoners were conveyed to London, where they had a

boisterous reception from the mob. Derwentwater was committed to the

Tower, December 9; was impeached of high treason, and pleaded guilty, in

January; was sentenced to death, February 9, at Westminster Hall, and

was executed February 24 (1716). In a paper which he read from the

scaffold he stated that he had regarded his plea of guilty as a

formality consequent upon his “having submitted to mercy,” and declared

that he had never had “any other but King James the Third for his

rightful and lawful sovereign.”

Derwentwater had not attained the age of twenty-seven at the time of his

death. We may believe that the character given of him by the renegade

Patten was not overcharged: “The sweetness of his temper and

disposition, in which he had few equals, had so secured him the

affection of all his tenants, neighbors, and dependants that multitudes

would have lived and died with him. The truth is, he was a man formed by

nature to be generally beloved, for he was of so universal a beneficence

that he seemed to live for others. As he lived among his own people,

there he spent his estate, and continually did offices of kindness and

good neighborhood to everybody, as opportunity offered. He kept a house

of generous hospitality and noble entertainment, which few in that

country do, and none come up to. He was very charitable to poor and

distressed families on all occasions, whether known to him or not, and

whether Papist or Protestant. His fate will be sensibly felt by a great

many who had no kindness for the cause he died in.”

The king’s letter, which, in the ballad, summons Derwentwater to London

(to answer for his head, #D# 3), suggests the Secretary of State’s

warrant of arrest, which his lordship, unhappily for himself, evaded.

But very probably the ballad-maker supposed Derwentwater to have gone

home after his less than six weeks in arms. As he is setting forth to

obey the mandate, his wife calls to him from child-bed to make his will.

This business does not delay him long: one third of his estate is to be

his wife’s, and the rest to go to his children. (He had a son not two

years old at the date of his execution, and a daughter who must have

been born, at the earliest, not much before the rising. His very large

estates first passed to the crown, and were afterwards bestowed on

Greenwich hospital.) Bad omens attend his departure. As he mounts his

horse, his ring drops from his finger, or breaks, and his nose begins to

bleed, #B# 5, #D# 6, #E# 8, #F# 9, #H# 7, #I# 10; presently his horse

stumbles, #A# 8, #E# 9, #F# 10, #I# 11; it begins to rain, #H# 8. When

he comes to London, to Westminster Hall, #B# 6, #F# 11, to Whitehall,

#D# 7, rides up Westminster Street, in sight of the White Hall, #I# 12,

the lords and knights, the lords and ladies, a mob, #H# 9, call him

“traitor.” How can that be, he answers, with surprise or indignation,

except for keeping five hundred men (five thousand, seven thousand,

eight score), to fight for King Jamie? #A# 10, #D# 8, #E# 11, #F# 12,

#H# 10, #I# 13. A man with an ax claims his life, which he ungrudgingly

resigns, #B# 8, #D# 9, 10, #E# 12, 13, #F# 13, 14, #H# 11, 12, #I# 14,

15, directing that a good sum of money which he has in his pockets shall

be given to the poor, #A# 12, #D# 11, #E# 14, #F# 15, #I# 17.

In #A# 2, #D# 12, Derwentwater seems to be taken for a Scot.

Ellis, Brand’s Antiquities, 1813, II, 261, note, remarks that he had

heard in Northumberland that when the Earl of Derwentwater was beheaded,

the stream (the Divelswater) that runs past his seat at Dilston Hall

flowed with blood.[87]

The Northern Lights (perhaps the red-colored ones) were peculiarly vivid

on the night of February 16, 1716, and were long called Lord

Derwentwater’s Lights in the north of England, where, it is said, many

of the people know (or knew) them by no other name. It was even a

popular belief that the aurora borealis was first seen on that night:

Notes and Queries, Third Series, IX, 154, 268; Gibson, Dilston Hall, p.

111.

The omen of nose-bleed occurs in the ballad of ‘The Mother’s Malison,’

No 216, #C#; both nose-bleed and horse-stumbling, as omens, in Webster’s

Dutchess of Malfi, Act II, Scene 2, Dyce, 1859, p. 70, cited, with other

cases, in Ellis’s ed. of Brand’s Antiquities, II, 497.

‘Brig. Macintosh’s Farewell to the Highlands,’ or ‘Macintosh was a

Soldier Brave,’ is one half a Derwentwater ballad: see Harland’s Ballads

and Songs of Lancashire, 1865, p. 75, Ritson’s Northumberland Garland,

p. 85, Hogg’s Jacobite Relics, II, 102, etc.

* * * * *

Motherwell’s MS., p. 331, July 19, 1825, “from the recitation of

Agnes Lile, Kilbarchan, a woman verging on fifty;” learned from her

father, who died fourteen years before, at the age of eighty.

Our king has wrote a lang letter,

And sealed it owre with gold;

He sent it to my lord Dunwaters,

To read it if he could.

He has not sent it with a boy, with a boy,

Nor with anie Scotch lord;

But he’s sent it with the noblest knight

Eer Scotland could afford.

The very first line that my lord did read,

He gave a smirkling smile;

Before he had the half o ‘t read,

The tears from his eyes did fall.

‘Come saddle to me my horse,’ he said,

‘Come saddle to me with speed;

For I must away to fair London town,

For me was neer more need.’

Out and spoke his lady gay,

In child-bed where she lay:

‘I would have you make your will, my lord Dunwaters,

Before you go away.’

‘I leave to yon, my eldest son,

My houses and my land;

I leave to you, my second son,

Ten thousand pounds in hand.

‘I leave to you, my lady gay—

You are my wedded wife—

I leave to you, the third of my estate;

That’ll keep you in a lady’s life.’

They had not rode a mile but one,

Till his horse fell owre a stane:

‘It’s warning gude eneuch,’ my lord Dunwaters said,

‘Alive I’ll neer come hame.’

When they came into fair London town,

Into the courtiers’ hall,

The lords and knichts in fair London town

Did him a traitor call.

‘A traitor! a traitor!’ says my lord,

‘A traitor! how can that be,

An it was na for the keeping of five thousand men

To fight for King Jamie?

‘O all you lords and knichts in fair London town,

Come out and see me die;

O all you lords and knichts into fair London town,

Be kind to my ladie.

‘There’s fifty pounds in my richt pocket,

Divide it to the poor;

There’s other fifty pounds in my left pocket,

Divide it from door to door.’

* * * * *

Notes and Queries, First Series, XII, 492, 1855; learned some forty

five years before from an old gentleman, who, about 1773, got it by

heart from an old washerwoman singing at her tub.

The king he wrote a love-letter,

And he sealed it up with gold,

And he sent it to Lord Derwentwater,

For to read it if he could.

The first two lines that he did read,

They made him for to smile;

But the next two lines he looked upon

Made the tears from his eyes to fall.

‘Oh,’ then cried out his lady fair,

As she in child-bed lay,

‘Make your will, make your will, Lord Derwentwater,

Before that you go away.’

‘Then here’s for thee, my lady fair,

. . . . . . .

A thousand pounds of beaten gold,

To lead you a lady’s life.’

. . . . . . .

. . . his milk-white steed,

The ring dropt from his little finger,

And his nose it began to bleed.

He rode, and he rode, and he rode along,

Till he came to Westminster Hall,

Where all the lords of England’s court

A traitor did him call.

‘Oh, why am I a traitor?’ said he;

‘Indeed, I am no such thing;

I have fought the battles valiantly

Of James, our noble king.’

O then stood up an old gray-headed man,

With a pole-axe in his hand:

‘’Tis your head, ’tis your head, Lord Derwentwater,

’Tis your head that I demand.’

. . . . . . .

His eyes with weeping sore,

He laid his head upon the block,

And words spake never more.

* * * * *

Bell’s Rhymes of Northern Bards, 1812, p. 225.

The king has written a broad letter,

And seald it up with gold,

And sent it to the lord of Derwentwater,

To read it if he would.

He sent it with no boy, no boy,

Nor yet with eer a slave,

But he sent it with as good a knight

As eer a king could have.

When he read the three first lines,

He then began to smile;

And when he read the three next lines

The tears began to sile.

* * * * *

Kinloch MSS, I, 323.

The king has written a braid letter,

And seald it up wi gowd,

And sent it to Lord Derntwater,

To read it if he coud.

The first lines o ‘t that he read,

A blythe, blythe man was he;

But ere he had it half read through,

The tear blinded his ee.

‘Go saddle to me my milk-white horse,

Go saddle it with speed;

For I maun ride to Lun[n]on town,

To answer for my head.’

‘Your will, your will, my lord Derntwater,

Your will before ye go;

For you will leave three dochters fair,

And a wife to wail and woe.’

‘My will, my will, my lady Derntwater?

Ye are my wedded wife;

Be kind, be kind to my dochters dear,

If I should lose my life.’

He set his ae fit on the grund,

The tither on the steed;

The ring upon his finger burst,

And his nose began to bleed.

He rode till he cam to Lunnon town,

To a place they ca Whiteha;

And a’ the lords o merry England

A traitor him gan ca.

‘A traitor! a traitor! O what means this?

A traitor! what mean ye?’

‘It’s a’ for the keeping o five hundred men

To fecht for bonny Jamie.’

Then up started a gray-headed man,

Wi a braid axe in his hand:

‘Your life, your life, my lord Derntwater,

Your life’s at my command.’

‘My life, my life, ye old gray-headed man,

My life I’ll freely gie;

But before ye tak my life awa

Let me speak twa words or three.

‘I’ve fifty pounds in ae pocket,

Go deal it frae door to door;

I’ve fifty five i the other pocket,

Go gie it to the poor.

‘The velvet coat that I hae on,

Ye may tak it for your fee;

And a’ ye lords o merry Scotland

Be kind to my ladie!’

* * * * *

Communicated to Notes and Queries, Fourth Series, XI, 499, 1873, by

Mr J. P. Morris, as taken down by him from the recitation of a woman

nearly seventy years of age, at Ulverston, North Lancashire.

The king wrote a letter to my lord Derwentwater,

And he sealed it with gold;

He sent it to my Lord Derwentwater,

To read it if he could.

He sent it by no boy,

He sent it by no slave,

But he sent it by as true a knight

As heart could wish or have.

The very first line that he looked upon

Made him for to laugh and to smile;

The very next line that he looked upon,

The tears from his eyes did fall.

He called to his stable-boy

To saddle his bonny grey steed,

‘That I unto loving London

May ride away with speed.’

His wife heard him say so,

In childbed as she lay;

Says she, ‘My lord Derwentwater,

Make thy will before thou goest away.’

‘It’s to my little son I give

My houses and my land,

And to my little daughter

Ten thousand pounds in hand.

‘And unto thee, my lady gay,

Who is my wedded wife,

The third part of my estate thou shalt have,

To maintain thee through thy life.’

He set his foot in the level stirrup,

And mounted his bonny grey steed;

The gold rings from his fingers did break,

And his nose began for to bleed.

He had not ridden past a mile or two,

When his horse stumbled over a stone;

‘These are tokens enough,’ said my lord Derwentwater,

‘That I shall never return.’

He rode and he rode till he came to merry London,

And near to that famous hall;

The lords and knights of merry London,

They did him a traitor call.

‘A traitor! a traitor! a traitor!’ he cried,

‘A traitor! how can that be,

Unless it’s for keeping five hundred men

For to fight for King Jamie?’

It’s up yon steps there stands a good old man,

With a broad axe in his hand;

Says he, ‘Now, my lord Derwentwater,

Thy life’s at my command.’

‘My life, my life, thou good old man,

My life I’ll give to thee,

And the green coat of velvet on my back

Thou mayst take it for thy fee.

‘There’s fifty pounds and five in my right pocket,

Give that unto the poor;

There’s twenty pounds and five in my left pocket,

Deal that from door to door.’

Then he laid his head on the fatal block,

* * * * * *

* * * * *

Buchan’s MSS, II, 478.

The king has written a broad letter,

And seald it with his hand,

And sent it on to Lord Arnwaters,

To read and understand.

Now he has sent it by no boy,

No boy, nor yet a slave,

But one of England’s fairest knights,

The one that he would have.

When first he on the letter lookd,

Then he began to smile;

But ere he read it to an end,

The tears did trickling fall.

He calld upon his saddle-groom

To saddle his milk-white steed,

‘For I unto London must go,

For me there is much need.’

Out then speaks his gay lady,

In child-bed where she lay:

‘Make your will, make your will, my knight,

For fear ye rue the day.’

‘I’ll leave unto my eldest son

My houses and my lands;

I’ll leave unto my youngest son

Full forty thousand pounds.

‘I’ll leave unto my gay lady,

And to my loving wife,

The second part of my estate,

To maintain a lady’s life.’

He kissd her on the pillow soft,

In child-bed where she lay,

And bade farewell, neer to return,

Unto his lady gay.

He put his foot in the stirup,

His nose began to bleed;

The ring from ‘s finger burst in two

When he mounted on his steed.

He had not rode a mile or two

Till his horse stumbled down;

‘A token good,’ said Lord Arnwaters,

‘I’ll never reach London town.’

But when into Westminster Hall,

Amongst the nobles all,

‘A traitor, a traitor, Lord Arnwaters,

A traitor,’ they did him call.

‘A traitor? a traitor how call ye me?

And a traitor how can I be

For keeping seven thousand valiant men

To fight for brave Jamie?’

Up then came a brave old man,

With a broad ax in his hand:

‘Your life, your life, Lord Arnwaters,

Your life’s at my command.’

‘My life, my life, my brave old man,

My life I’ll give to thee,

And the coat of green that’s on my back

You shall have for your fee.

‘There’s fifty pounds in one pocket,

Pray deal ‘t among the poor;

There’s fifty and four in the other pocket,

Pray deal ‘t from door to door.

‘There’s one thing more I have to say,

This day before I die;

To beg the lords and nobles all

To be kind to my lady.’

* * * * *

Motherwell’s MS., p. 126, from the recitation of Mrs Trail, Paisley,

July 9, 1825: a song of her mother’s.

The king has wrote a long letter,

And sealed it with his han,

And he has sent it to my lord Dunwaters,

To read it if he can.

The very first line he lookit upon,

It made him to lauch and to smile;

The very next line he lookit upon,

The tear from his eye did fall.

‘As for you, my auldest son,

My houses and my land;

And as for you, my youngest son,

Ten thousand pound in hand.

‘As for you, my gay lady,

You being my wedded wife,

The third of my estate I will leave to you,

For to keep you in a lady’s life.’

* * * * * *

* * * * *

Shropshire Folk-Lore, edited by Charlotte Sophia Burne, p. 537; as

recited in 1881 by Mrs Dudley, of Much Wenlock.

The king he wrote a letter,

And sealëd it with gold,

And sent it to Lor Derwentwater,

To read it if he could.

The first three lines he looked upon,

They made him to smile;

And the next three lines he looked upon

Made tears fall from his eyes.

O then bespoke his gay lady,

As she on a sick-bed lay:

‘Make your will, my lord,

Before you go away.’

‘O there is for my eldest son

My houses and my land,

And there is for my youngest son

Ten thousand pounds in hand.

‘There is for you, my gay lady,

My true and lawful wife,

The third part of my whole estate,

To maintain you a lady’s life.’

Then he called to his stable-groom

To bring him his gray steed;

For he must to London go,

The king had sent indeed.

When he put his foot in the stirrup,

To mount his grey steed,

His gold ring from his finger burst,

And his nose began to bleed.

He had not gone but half a mile

When it began to rain;

‘Now this is a token,’ his lordship said,

‘That I shall not return again.’

When he unto London came,

A mob did at him rise,

And they callëd him a traitor,

Made the tears fall from his eyes.

‘A traitor, a traitor!’ his lordship said,

. . . . . . .

Is it for keeping eight score men

To fight for pretty Jimmee?’

O then bespoke a grave man,

With a broad axe in his hand:

‘Hold your tongue, Lord Derwentwater,

Your life lies at my command.’

‘My life, my life,’ his lordship said,

‘My life I will give to thee,

And the black velvet coat upon my back,

Take it for thy fee.’

Then he laid his head upon the block,

He did such courage show,

And asked the executioner

To cut it off at one blow.

* * * * *

The Gentleman’s Magazine, 1825, vol. xcv, Part First, p. 489, taken

down by G. H., apparently in Westmoreland, from the dictation of an

old person who had learned it from her father; restored “to

something like poetical propriety” by the assistance of “a poetical

friend.”

King George he did a letter write,

And sealed it up with gold,

And sent it to Lord Derwentwater,

To read it if he could.

He sent his letter by no post,

He sent it by no page,

But sent it by a gallant knight

As eer did combat wage.

The first line that my lord lookd on

Struck him with strong surprise;

The second, more alarming still,

Made tears fall from his eyes.

He called up his stable-groom,

Saying, Saddle me well my steed,

For I must up to London go,

Of me there seems great need.

His lady, hearing what he said,

As she in child-bed lay,

Cry’d, My dear lord, pray make your will

Before you go away.

‘I’ll leave to thee, my eldest son,

My houses and my land;

I’ll leave to thee, my younger son,

Ten thousand pounds in hand.

‘I’ll leave to thee, my lady gay,

My lawful married wife,

A third part of my whole estate,

To keep thee a lady’s life.’

He knelt him down by her bed-side,

And kissed her lips so sweet;

The words that passd, alas! presaged

They never more should meet.

Again he calld his stable-groom,

Saying, Bring me out my steed,

For I must up to London go,

With instant haste and speed.

He took the reins into his hand,

Which shook with fear and dread;

The rings from off his fingers dropt,

His nose gushd out and bled.

He had but ridden miles two or three

When stumbling fell his steed;

‘Ill omens these,’ Derwentwater said,

‘That I for James must bleed.’

As he rode up Westminster street,

In sight of the White Hall,

The lords and ladies of London town

A traitor they did him call.

‘A traitor!’ Lord Derwentwater said,

‘A traitor how can I be,

Unless for keeping five hundred men

Fighting for King Jemmy?’

Then started forth a grave old man,

With a broad-mouthd axe in hand:

‘Thy head, thy head, Lord Derwentwater,

Thy head’s at my command.’

‘My head, my head, thou grave old man,

My head I will give thee;

Here’s a coat of velvet on my back

Will surely pay thy fee.

‘But give me leave,’ Derwentwater said,

‘To speak words two or three;

Ye lords and ladies of London town,

Be kind to my lady.

‘Here’s a purse of fifty sterling pounds,

Pray give it to the poor;

Here’s one of forty-five beside

You may dole from door to door.’

He laid his head upon the block,

The axe was sharp and strong,

. . . . . . .

* * * * *

#A.#

2^4. Ere.

7^3. the 3rd.

_Motherwell has made a few changes in his printed copy._

12. _This stanza is given in Notes and Queries, First Series, I,

318, by a scholar of Christ’s Hospital, who informs us that the

ballad was there current about 1785–1800:_

There’s fifty pounds in my right pocket,

To be given to the poor;

There’s fifty pounds in my left pocket,

To be given from door to door.

#E.#

1^2. And sealëd it with gold _in Mr J. P. Morris’s communication

to Notes and Queries, the same volume_, p. 333.

#F.#

2^1. by and by: _cf._ #E# 2.

2^2. No one, no not a slave: _cf._ #E# 2.

#I.#

18. _The remainder of four stanzas appended by_ G. H. _is

omitted._

209