No stranger foot be seen.
And the busy village hum, love,
Shall echo through the glen.
Meet me, &c.
[Illustration]
DRINK TO ME ONLY
WITH THINE EYES.
J. Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials. Sold by W. Marshall.
Sold by T. Pierce, Southborough. (Cards Printed Cheap.)
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine,
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine;
The thirst that from my soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.
[Illustration]
The Mistletoe Bough
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials. Sold by Pierce,
Southborough, Bennet, Brighton; and Sharman, Cambridge.
The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,
The baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.
The baron beheld with a father's pride,
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride:
While she with her bright eyes, seemed to be
The star of the goodly company.
Oh! the mistletoe bough!
"I'm weary of dancing now," she cried!
"Here tarry a moment--I'll hide--I'll hide,
And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt the first to trace
The clue to my secret lurking place."
Away she ran--and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, "Oh! where dost thou hide?
I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."
Oh! the mistletoe bough!
[Illustration]
THE _Rose will Cease to Blow_.
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials. Sold by T. Batchelor,
14, Hackney Road Crescent; W. Marshall, Bristol. Sold by Bennet
and Boyes, Brighton.
The rose will cease to blow,
The eagle turn a dove,
The streams will cease to flow,
Ere I will cease to love.
The sun shall cease to shine,
The world shall cease to move,
The stars their light resign,
Ere I will cease to love.
[Illustration]
I'M A TOUGH
True Hearted Sailor.
J. Catnach, Printer, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials, & at 14, Waterloo
Road, (late Hill's). Country Shops, and Travellers supplied.
I'm a tough true-hearted sailor,
Careless and all that, d'ye see,
Never at the times a railer--
What is time or tide to me?
All must die when fate must will it,
Providence ordains it so;
Every bullet has its billet,
Man the boat, boys--Yeo, heave, yeo!
Life's at best a sea of trouble,
He who fears it is a dunce,
Death, to me, an empty bubble,
I can never die but once,
Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it,
Yet I have a tear for woe,
Every bullet has its billet, &c.
[Illustration]
WHEN BIBO THOUGHT FIT.
Printed and Sold by J. CATNACH, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.
When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of champagne as an egg's full of meat;
He wak'd in the boat, and to Charon he said,
He would be rowed back, for he was not yet dead.
'Trim the boat, and sit quiet,' stern Charon replied--
'You may have forgot--you were drunk when you died!'
[Illustration]
THE SUN
That Lights the ROSES.
A. Ryle and Co., Printers, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, and 35,
Hanover Street, Portsea, where upwards of 4000 different sorts of
ballads are continually on sale together with 40 new penny song books.
Tho' dimple cheeks may give delight
Where rival beauties blossom;
Th'o balmy lips to love invite,
To extacy the bosom.
Yet sweeter far yon summer sky,
Whose blushing tints discloses,
Give me the lustre beaming eye,
The Sun that lights the Roses.
[Illustration]
THE Woodpecker.
London:--Printed by J. Paul & Co., 2 & 3, Monmouth Court.
I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said if there's peace to be found it the world,
A heart that is humble might hope for it here.
CHORUS.
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,
But the woodpecker tapping in the hollow beech tree.
And here in this lone little wood, I exclaim'd,
With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
Who would blush when I prais'd her, and weep if I blam'd,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die.
Every leaf, &c.
[Illustration]
YE Topers All.
London:--Published by Ryle and Paul, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.
Where an immense number of songs are always ready.
Ye topers all drink to the soul,
Of this right honest fellow;
Who always loved a flowing bowl,
And would in death be mellow.
The lamp of life be kindled up,
With spirit stout and glowing;
His heart inspired thus with a cup,
Ascends where nectar's flowing.
[Illustration]
Death of Nelson.
London:--Ryle & Co., Printers, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Bloomsbury.
RECITATIVE.
O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppress'd
Britannia mourns her hero now at rest.
But these bright laurels ne'er shall fade with years,
Whose leaves are water'd by a Nation's tears.
AIR.
'Twas in Trafalgar's bay,
We saw the Frenchmen lay,
Each heart was bounding then;
We scorned the foreign yoke--
Our ships were British oak,
And hearts of oak our men,
Our Nelson mark'd them on the wave,
Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,
Nor thought of home or beauty;
Along the line this signal ran--
"England expects that every man
This day will do his duty!"
[Illustration]
THE SCARLET FLOWER.
A. Ryle & Co., Printers, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Bloomsbury.
She's gentle as the zephyr,
That sips of every sweet,
She fairer than the fairest lily,
In nature's soft retreat;
Her eyes are like the crystal brok,
As bright and clear to see?
Her lips outshine the Scarlet Flow'r
Of bonny Ellerslie.
[Illustration]
THE THORN.
London:--Printed at the "Catnach Press" by W. Fortey, (late A. Ryle)
2 & 3, Monmouth Court. Bloomsbury. (Established 1813.) The Oldest and
Cheapest House in the World for Ballads, (4,000 sorts) Song Books, &c.
From the white blossomed sloe,
My dear Chloe requested,
A sprig her fair breast to adorn;
No by heavens I exclaimed, may I perish
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
When I shewed her the ring and implored her to marry
She blushed like the dawning of morn,
Yes I'll consent she replyed if you'll promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn,
No by heavens I exclaim'd may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
BANKS OF THE NILE.
[Illustration]
Printed at the "Catnach Press" by W. FORTEY, Monmouth Court,
Bloomsbury, the Oldest House in the World for Ballads (4,000 sorts) Song
Books, &c. &c.
Hark! I hear the drums a beating--no longer can I stay,
I hear the trumpets sounding, my love I must away,
We are ordered from Portsmouth many a long mile,
For to join the British soldiers on the banks of the Nile.
Willie, dearest Willie, don't leave me here to mourn,
You'll make me curse and rue the day that ever I was born,
For the parting of my own true love is parting of my life,
So stay at home dear Willie, and I will be your wife.
I will cut off my yellow locks, and go along with you,
I will dress myself in velveteens, and go see Egypt too
I will fight or bear your banner, while kind fortune seems to smile,
And we'll comfort one another on the banks of the Nile.
Poor Crazy JANE.
[Illustration]
London:--Printed at the "Catnach Press" by W. S. Fortey, 2 & 3, Monmouth
Court, Bloomsbury. (Established 1813.) The Oldest and Cheapest House in
the World for Ballads, Song Books, Children's Spelling & Reading Books,
Panorama Slips, Almanacks, Valentines, Hymns, Toy Cards, Poetry Cards,
Lotteries, Characters, Note Paper, Envelopes, &c.
[Symbol: Asterism] Shopkeepers and Hawkers supplied on the lowest terms.
Why fair maid in every feature,
Are such signs of fear expressed,
Can a wandering wretched creature,
With such horror fill thy breast.
Do my frenzied looks alarm thee,
Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain,
Not for Kingdom would I harm thee,
Shun not then poor crazy Jane.
Fondly my young heart believed him,
Which was doomed to love but one;
He sighed, he vowed, and I believed him,
He was false, and I'm undone.
From that hour has reason never,
Had her empire o'er my brain,
Henry fled, with him for ever
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.
[Illustration]
"It was Christmas morning--dear Christmas morning
When bright angels and men kept watch for its dawning--
And merrily Christmas bells were out ringing,
And blithely the children their carols were singing--
'Twas a hundred years agone--or more."
From time immemorial the ballad singer, with his rough and ready
broad-sheet, has travelled over the whole surface of the country in all
seasons and weathers, yet there was one time of the year, however, when he
went out of his every-day path and touched on deeper matters than
accidents, politics, prize fights, sporting matches, murders, battles,
royalty, famous men and women. Christmas time brought, both to him and his
audience, its witness of the unity of the great family of heaven and
earth, its story of the life and death of Him in whom that unity stands.
Several examples, of Christmas carols and Scripture-sheets, bearing
Catnach's imprint lie before us, thanks to the kindness of Mr. W. S.
Fortey, Catnach's successor; these broadsides bear several distinctive
marks which show that it was an object of more than ordinary care to
publishers and ballad singers. In the first place, these Christmas sheets
are double the size of the ordinary broad-sheet--measuring 30 inches by
20--and contain four or five carols--generally one long narrative ballad,
and three or four short pieces. Each of them having two or three large
woodcuts and several of smaller sizes, and having the following
distinctive titles--The Trial of Christ. Faith, Hope, and Charity. Our
Saviour's Love. The Tree of Life. The Crucifixion. The Saviour of Mankind.
The Messiah. The Harp of Israel. The Saviour's Garland. Divine Mirth. And
The Life of Joseph, to which is appended:--
LONDON: PRINTED AND SOLD BY
J. CATNACH, 2, MONMOUTH COURT, 7, DIALS,
WHERE MAY BE HAD THE FOLLOWING SHEETS, WITH CUTS.
The Last Day, Our Saviour's Letter, The Son of Righteousness, Travels of
the Children of Israel, Glory of Solomon, The Morning Star, The Noble Army
of Martyrs, Christmas Gambols, The Hertfordshire Tragedy, and a Variety of
Others are in a state of forwardness for the Press.
[Illustration]
"Looking at these Christmas broad-sheets," says the writer of an article
on street-ballads, in the "National Review," for October, 1861, "it would
really seem as if the poorest of our brethren claimed their right to
higher nourishment than common for their minds and souls, as well as for
their bodies, at the time of year when all Christendom should rejoice. And
this first impression is confirmed when we examine their contents. In all
those which we have seen, the only piece familiar to us is that noble old
carol 'While shepherds watched their flocks by night,' where the rest come
from, we cannot even conjecture; but in the whole of them there is not one
which we should wish were not there. We have been unable to detect in them
even a coarse expression; and of the hateful narrowness and intolerance,
the namby-pamby, the meaningless cant, the undue familiarity with holy
things, which makes us turn with a shudder from so many modern collections
of hymns, there is simply nothing.
"Account for it how we will, there is the simple fact. Perhaps it may lead
us to think somewhat differently of those whom we are in the habit of
setting down in the mass as little better than heathens. We cannot
conclude this article better than by giving an extract or two from these
Christmas broad-sheets."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
"The Saviour's Garland, a choice Collection of the most esteemed Carols,"
has the usual long narrative ballad, which begins:
"Come, all you faithful Christians
That dwell upon the earth,--
Come celebrate the morning
Of our dear Saviour's birth:
This is the happy morning,--
This is the happy morn
Whereon, to save our ruined race,
The Son of God was born."
And after telling simply the well-known story, it ends:
"Now to him up ascended,
Then let your praises be,
That we His steps may follow,
And He our pattern be;
That when our lives are ended
We may hear His blessed call:
'Come, Souls, receive the Kingdom
Prepared for you all.'"
[Illustration]
Another, "The Star of Bethlehem, a collection of esteemed Carols for the
present year," opens its narrative thus:
"Let all that are to mirth inclined
Consider well and bear in mind
What our good God for us has done,
In sending His beloved Son.
Let all our songs and praises be
Unto His heavenly Majesty;
And evermore amongst our mirth
Remember Christ our Saviour's birth.
The twenty-fifth day of December
We have great reason to remember;
In Bethlehem, upon that morn,
There was a blessed Saviour born," &c.
One of the short pieces, by no means the best, we give whole:
"With one consent let all the earth
The praise of God proclaim,
Who sent the Saviour, by whose birth
To man salvation came.
All nations join and magnify
The great and wondrous love
Of Him who left for us the sky,
And all the joys above.
But vainly thus in hymns of praise
We bear a joyful part,
If while our voices loud we raise,
We lift not up our heart.
We, by a holy life alone,
Our Saviour's laws fulfil;
By those His glory is best shown
Who best perform His will.
May we to all His words attend
With humble, pious care;
Then shall our praise to heaven ascend,
And find acceptance there."
We do not suppose that the contents of these Christmas broad-sheets are
supplied by the same persons who write the murder-ballads, or the attacks
on crinoline. They may be borrowed from well known hymn books for anything
we know. But if they are borrowed, we must still think it much to the
credit of the selectors, that, where they might have found so much that is
objectionable and offensive, they should have chosen as they have done. We
only hope that their successors, whoever they may be who will become the
caterers for their audiences, will set nothing worse before them.
Christmas broad-sheets formed an important item in the office of the
"Catnach Press," as the sale was enormous, and Catnach always looked
forward for a large return of capital, and a "good clearance" immediately
following the spurt for Guy Fawkes' speeches, in October of each year. But
although the sale was very large, it only occupies one "short month." This
enabled them to make Carols a stock job, so that when trade in the Ballad,
Sensational, "Gallows," or any other line of business was dull, they used
to fill up every spare hour in the working off or colouring them, so as to
be ready to meet the extraordinary demand which was sure to be made at the
fall of the year.
[Illustration]
Like most of the old English customs, Christmas-carol singing is fast
dying out. Old peripatetic stationers well remember the rich harvest they
once obtained at Christmas times by carol selling. Now there are very few
who care to invest more than a shilling or two at a time on the venture;
whereas in times long past, all available capital was readily embarked in
the highly-coloured and plain sheets of the birth of our Saviour, with the
carol of "Christians awake," or "The Seven Good Joys of Mary:"--
"The first good joy our Mary had,
It was the joy of one,
To see her own Son, Jesus,
To suck at her breast-bone.
To suck at her breast-bone, God-man,
And blessed may He be
Both Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
To all eternity."
[Illustration]
Now, whether carol singing has degenerated with carol poetry, and
consequently the sale of Christmas carols diminished is a question we need
not enter upon; but when we turn to the fine old carols of our
forefathers, we cannot help regretting that many of these are buried in
the records of the long past.
Here are a couple of verses of one, said to be the first carol or
drinking-song composed in England. The original is in Anglo-Norman
French:--
"Lordlings, from a distant home,
To seek old Christmas are we come,
Who loves our minstrelsy--
And here unless report mis-say,
The greybeard dwells; and on this day
Keeps yearly wassail, ever gay
With festive mirth and glee.
* * * * *
Lordlings, it is our host's command,
And Christmas joins him hand in hand,
To drain the brimming bowl;
And I'll be foremost to obey,
Then pledge we, sirs, and drink away,
For Christmas revels here to day,
And sways without control.
Now _wassail_ to you all! and merry may you be,
And foul that wight befall, who drinks not health to me."
One can well imagine the hearty feeling which would greet a party of
minstrels carolling out such a song as the above in Christmas days of
yore; and then contrast the picture with a _troupe_ from St. Giles's or
Whitechapel bawling out "God Rest you Merry Gentlemen!" The very thought
of the contrast sends a shudder through the whole human system; and no
wonder the first were received with welcome feasting, and the latter
driven "with more kicks than half-pence" from the doors.
In an old book of "Christmasse Carolles newely emprinted at London, in the
fletestrete at the sygne of the Sonne by Wynkyn de Worde. The yere of our
Lorde, m.d.xxi. Quarto." Is a carol on "Bryngyng in the Bore's Head":--
"The bore's head in hand bring I,
With garlandes gay and rosemary,
I pray you all synge merely,
_Qui estis in convivio_.
The bore's head, I understande
Is the chiefe servyce in this lande,
Loke wherever it be fande,
_Servite cum Contico_.
Be gladde, lordes, both more and lasse,
For this hath ordayned our stewarde,
To chere you all this Christmasse
The bore's head with mustarde."
[Illustration]
With certain alterations, this carol is still, or at least was very
recently, retained at Queen's College, Oxford, and sung to a cathedral
chant of the psalms.
It would occupy too much space to search into the origin of Christmas
carols. They are doubtless coeval with the original celebrations of
Christmas, first as a strictly Romish sacred ceremony, and afterwards as
one of joyous festivity.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
This "Moral-Sheet" entitled "THE STAGES OF LIFE: or, The various Ages and
Degrees of Human Life explained by these Twelve different Stages, from our
Birth to our Graves," had a great sale.
[Illustration]
INFANCY
_To 10 Years old._
"His vain delusive thoughts are fill'd
With vain delusive joys--
The empty bubble of a dream,
Which waking change to toys."
_From 10 to 20 Years old._
"His heart is now puff'd up,
He scorns the tutor's hand;
He hates to meet the least control
And glories to command."
_From 20 to 30 Years old._
"There's naught here that can withstand
The rage of his desire,
His wanton flames are now blown up,
His mind is all on fire."
_From 30 to 40 Years old._
"Look forward and repent
Of all thy errors past,
That so thereby thou may'st attain
True happiness at last."
_From 40 to 50 Years old._
"At fifty years he is
Like the declining sun,
For now his better half of life,
Man seemeth to have run."
_From 50 to 60 Years old._
"His wasted taper now
Begins to lose its light,
His sparkling flames doth plainly show
'Tis growing towards night."
_From 60 to 70 Years old._
"Perplex'd with slavish fear
And unavailing woe,
He travels on life's rugged way
With locks as white as snow."
_From 70 to 80 Years old._
"Infirmity is great,
At this advanced age,
And ceaseless grief and weakness leagued,
Now vent their bitter rage."
_From 80 to 90 Years old._
"Life's 'Vital Spark'--the soul,
Is hovering on the verge
Of an eternal world above,
And waiting to emerge."
[Illustration]
_From 90 to 100 Years old._
"The sun is sinking fast
Behind the clouds of earth,
Oh may it shine with brighter beams,
Where light receiv'd her birth."
[Illustration:
Printed by
J. CATNACH,
***2,***
_Monmouth-Court, 7 Dials_,
LONDON.]
Catnach was now at the height of his fame as a printer of ballads,
Christmas-pieces, carols, lotteries, execution papers, dying speeches,
catchpennies, primers and battledores, and his stock of type and woodcuts
had very considerably increased to meet his business demands. And it may
be said that he was the very Napoleon of buyers at sales by auction of
"printers' stock." On one occasion, when lot after lot was being knocked
down to him, one of the "Littlejohn crew" of "knock-out-men" of the
period, observed to the auctioneer, "Why, sir, Mr. Catnach is buying up
all the lots." "Yes," replied the auctioneer, "And what's more, Mr.
Catnach will pay for them and clear away all his lots in the morning;"
then adding somewhat pointedly, "which is a thing I can't say of all
parties who attend my sales."
But although we are informed, _vivâ voce_ of a contemporary, that Jemmy
Catnach was so large a buyer at sales by auction of "printers' stock," we
may, with some degree of safety, come to the conclusion that he could have
only bought such lots that would be considered by other master printers as
worthless, and that it was the apparent cheapness that would be the
incentive for his buying up all the worn-out and battered letter, for
Jemmy was a man who hated "innowations" as he used to call improvements,
and he, therefore, had a great horror in laying out his money in new and
improved manufactured type, because, as he observed, he kept so many
standing forms, and when certain sorts ran short he was not particular,
and would tell the boys to use anything which would make a good shift. For
instance, he never considered a compositor could be aground for a
lowercase "l" while he had a figure "1" or a cap "I" to fall back upon; by
the same rule, the cap. "O" and figure "0" were synonymous with "Jemmy;"
the lowercase "p," "b," "d," and "q," would all do duty for each other in
_turn_, and if they could not always find Roman letters to finish a word
with, why the compositor knew very well that the "reader" would not mark
out Ita_lic_, nor wrong founts.
From a small beginner in the world, Catnach was soon able to see his way
clear to amass a fortune. He had now established his reputation as a man
of enterprise, and he was very sensitive to maintain a sort of
shabby-genteel appearance. It was amusing, especially when over his glass,
to hear him describe the effect the "awfuls" had on the public. The
proprietor of any of our leading journals could not have felt prouder than
did Catnach, as he saw drafted from his press the many thousands of varied
productions.