TWM’S appearance as a “fair” ballad singer at Cardigan. A sudden alarm.
Poor Parson Inco. Twm’s hasty flight.
“The longest lane has a turning,” and the weariest journey has an end,
and at length Twm found himself in Cardigan, and prepared himself at once
to commence his whimsical vocation. Although naturally bold, and more
full of confidence than beseemed the modesty of youth, it was not without
considerable efforts in struggling with some remains of diffidence that
he at length ventured to sing in the public street; but he had fortified
himself with a draught of strong beer, and his voice, in his own opinion,
being almost unequalled in the country, he thought it foolish to
hesitate. He fixed himself in rather an obscure part of the fair; but
his musical voice and humorous execution of a comic song soon drew a
crowd about him, and put his ballads in speedy request.
Adapting the usual gait and manner of street-vocalists, holding his hand
to his mouth to secure increased power, he introduced each song with a
whimsical description of its matter, in a strain of drollery that set the
grinning rustics in high glee; “Here, my merry men and maidens,” quoth
he, “is a pretty song about a young damsel, who was taken in by a false
lover, that courted her for what he could get, and having wheedled her
out of her heart and money, ran away and left her to wear the willow.”
THE SLIGHTED MAID’S LAMENT. {149}
In comfort and in credit,
By the side of Pen-y-vole
I lived:—all knew and said it,
None could my will control;
Until a worthless lover
Did try my heart to move:
Ah, soon my joys were over!
I listened to his love.
From far he travelled to me,
Full many and many a night,
I thought he came to woo me—
My heart was all delight:
My cash he thought of gaining,
It was not me he sought,
E’er mourning and complaining
For clothes—and clothes I bought.
A pair of shoes I placed him
Between his soles and ground,
With stockings then I graced him,
With hat his head I crown’d;
Red garters then I bought him,
At fair the best I saw,
To bind his hose, od rod him!
Instead of bands of straw.
I bought him leather breeches
Strong as a barley sack,
And laid out half my riches
To clothe the beggar’s back;
I gave him money willing,
(Vexation now upbraids!)
With which the thankless villain
Soon treated other maids.
When thus he had bereft me
Of cash, and ah, my heart!
The cruel rover left me,
It grieved me then to part;
Those clothes will rend in tatters,
They cannot last him long:
A curse attends such matters,
False lovers curse is strong!
His coat will rend in creases,
His stockings break in holes,
His breeches go to pieces,
His shoes part from their soles;
His hair, like garden carrot,
Full soon will want a hat;
How soon, indeed I care not,—
The devil care for that!
His listeners appreciated his first song so much that all his copies were
soon disposed of; so he selected another, before singing which he said:
“Now this, my friends, is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to
leave old Cymry and go to London, from which place, I warrant you, he
would have been glad enough to return, as they have neither leeks,
cheese, nor flummery, nor anything else there fit for a Christian
people.”
WHEN a wild rural Welsh boy I ran o’er the hills,
And sprang o’er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills,
The high oak I climb’d for the nest of the kite,
And plung’d in the river with ardent delight!
Ah, who then so cheerful, so happy as me,
As I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brandee?
How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake,
While fearful of nought but the never-seen snake,
And gather’d brown nuts from the copses around,
While ev’ry bush echoed with harmony’s sound!
Oh, gladness then thrill’d me! I bounded as free
As a hart o’er the lawn through the meads of Brandee.
Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm,
How kindly was tendered the new milk so warm,
O’er her best loaf as butter-or-honey she’d spread,
The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head,
And sure that she shortly again would see me
Whenever my rambles led forth from Brandee.
How oft have I run with my strawberry wreath
To rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath,
And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen!
Oh! still I think how joyously sung little Gwen!
The old folks, oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we,
Then Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brandee.
At the fair of Devynnock, o’ertaken by night,
Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light,
The wandering spirit, the hobgoblin fell,
Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell:
I’ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see,
Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brandee.
Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went,
My deeds ever blameless, my heart e’er content,
Unknown to ambition, and free from all care,
A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair;
Oh bless’d were those days! long departed from me,
Far, far’s my loved Cambria! far, far is Brandee!
This did not take so well as the first, but Twm, now thoroughly
interested in his new vocation, commenced a fresh ditty, which he
announced as a sequel to the last.
ROSY GWEN.
Rosy Gwen, Rosy Gwen,
Beloved of maids, beloved of men:
Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,
In youth’s early day—ah, what cheer’d me then?
’Twas her voice so sweet,
Her person neat,
Her form so sleek,
Her spirit meek,
And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.
Gentle girl, gentle girl,
Coral lipp’d, with teeth of pearl,
On either cheek a vivid rose,
And raven tresses graced thy brows!
Ah, thou wert my love and playmate then!
Happy lass of smiles,
Unvers’d in wiles,
Of guileless breast—
Of minds the best.
Oh my merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen!
Years have flown, years have flown,
And Gwenny thour’t a woman grown,
While Time, that bears for most a sting,
Has fann’d thy beauties with his wing;
Yet brighter thou canst not be than when
O’er the mountain steep
Thou drov’st thy sheep,
And sang in glee
A child with me,
Oh my cheery-merry-cheek’d young Rosy Gwen.
As the last was but tolerated, the singer soon found that a merry strain
was most congenial to their fancies. He therefore gave them the old and
popular duet of “Hob y deri dando,” rendered more comical by his singing
alternately shrill and gruff, for male and female’s parts.
HOB Y DERI DANDO. {153}
_Ivor_. The summer storm is on the mountain,
Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!
_Gweno_. And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,
Hob y deri dando for the shade.
_Ivor_. Let my mantle love protect thee,
Gentle Gweno dear;
_Gweno_. Ivor kind will ne’er neglect me
Faithful far and near;
_Both_. Through life the hue of first love true,
Will never never fade.
* * * * *
_Ivor_. Thus may the frowns of life pass over,
Happy then our lot,
_Gweno_. And the smile of peace be bright as ever
In our humble cot!
_Both_. Through life the hue of first love true
Will never never fade!
_Ivor_. The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,
Hob y deri dando, far they spread;
_Gweno_. The lark is up, and bright the sun too,
Hob y deri dando, on the mead!
He sang the last three tunes, and sold a dozen copies; but just as he was
going to favour his audience with _Nos Galan_, the malignant face of
Parson Evans presented itself before him.
As our hero wore petticoats, many gallant swains offered their treats of
cake and ale, some of which was accepted; and presuming on that
circumstance, they amusingly put in their claims to further notice, and
seemed inclined to quarrel, as for a sweetheart.
With this phalanx of protectors, beaus, and chaperons, Twm resolved to
employ them in a new scheme of vengeance on the unpopular parson. “You
see that old fellow in black,” said he, directing their attention to him
as he passed, “he is a bumbailiff, and the greatest villain in all the
country I come from; and at this very moment, I’ll be bound for it, he is
hunting out some poor fellow to put him in prison. He wanted to be a
lover of mine, but only intended to ruinate me; but if he had loved me
ever so much I would not have had him, if his old yellow skin was stuffed
with diamonds. The villainous old catchpole! it was owing to refusing
him for a sweetheart, that he grew as spiteful as a snake, and by telling
a parcel of falsehoods he got me turned out of my place without a
character, so that I am now brought to this—to sing ballads in the
streets.”
Here, assuming a whimpering tone, Twm was compelled to smother a fit of
laughter, which emotion was taken for sobbing, and consequently drew much
on the sympathy of those now addressed! but suddenly withdrawing the
apron that veiled the features, he exclaimed, with the vehemence of a
young termagant, “I’d give the world to see that old fellow tossed in a
blanket!” Mark Antony’s effort of eloquence to rouse the Roman citizens
to avenge the death of Cæsar, was not more effective than our hero’s
appeal.
Every one of those swains manifested the usual predilection for the
smiles of a handsome young woman; being “full of distempering draughts”
and ripe for a freak, their zeal became inflamed to a ferment; each felt
himself the leading hero to avenge the wrongs of the fair ballad singer,
in the manner suggested by himself.
One of the young men, a native of the town, and son to the innkeeper,
immediately procured a blanket, when, watching their opportunity as the
supposed bailiff passed along, one tripped up his heels, while the rest
received him in the extended blanket, and proceeded to the work-like play
of giving the Black Kite an airing; or as Ready Rosser, a cunning clod of
the party, expressed it, playing the wind-instrument to the tune of the
Bumbailiff’s courante. The athletic employments of grasping the
plough-handles, as they guided it through a stubborn soil, and the no
less powerful exertions of wielding the axe, or hedge-bill, had their due
effect in nerving the brawny arms of those youths of the farm and
woodlands for this rough exercise.
Drawing the extended blanket as tight as a drumhead, with their united
efforts, up they tossed, re-tossed, and received into what threatened to
be his winding-sheet, the quivering and terribly-frightened body of the
Rev. and very worshipful Inco Evans. Whatever it might be to the parson,
(and we do not venture to assert that it was agreeable to him,) the
spectator of this singular and unexpected entertainment could not but
enjoy it for the comical revolutions of the right rev. gentleman were, to
say the least of them, very mirth-inspiring. As he flew upward, all legs
and wings, and descended in the same sprawling style, one compared him to
a cat shot from a cannon; another to a staked toad tossed in the air;
while the hapless victim of their frolic foamed at the mouth with rage,
and uncouthly floundered in his attempt to grasp the blanket in his fall.
If for a moment he seized its edge, and shouted his threats of vengeance,
a terrific bump against the stony street loosened his hold, and up he
bounced, again like the rebounding ball, struck on the flag-stone by the
eager hand of a merry schoolboy.
Wearied by their arduous labours, and tempted by the shining handful of
silver which the woe-begone parson eagerly offered as a conciliatory
bribe, they at length desisted, each venting his jest on the crest-fallen
Evans, “hoping it would be a warning not to prosecute again a poor
friendless girl.” Inco answered not; but finding himself unable to walk,
he was carried to the Inn, where he remained some days before he was able
to remount his horse.
The knot of swains now separated, and ran in different directions to
avoid being recognized as the perpetrators of the “freak;” but soon met
again at an appointed place, where they had left our hero, between the
empty carts of the ware vendors.
On their arrival at the place, they searched in vain for their
enchantress, in whose service they had wrought so gallantly, but no
traces of the fair one could they find. There was a general smelling of
a trick put upon them, and consequent “curses on all jilting jades, and
biting ballad-singers,” uttered by the unlucky clods.
A brilliant idea suddenly struck Ready Rosser. He had taken off his coat
and left it in the careful custody of the injured damsel. Where was she?
Could she have disappeared? All doubts were soon removed, for on
ascertaining the precise spot where he had left her, he found her
complete feminine attire, made into a bundle and fastened to a cart with
a band of straw, left as a love-gift for him, while she kept his as a
similar token of affection; having inscribed with chalk on the side of
the cart.—“An exchange is no robbery;” a motto in which our rustic could
not see, in its present application, any principles of justice whatever.