Epopees, _chansons de geste_, romantic ballads, occasional or
ceremonial songs, nursery rhymes, singing-games, rustic dramas; to
these must be added the great order of purely personal and lyrical
songs, of which the unique and exclusive subject is love. Popular love
songs have one quality in common: a sincerity which is not perhaps
reached in the entire range of lettered amorous poetry. Love is to
these singers a thing so serious that however high they fly, they do
not outsoar what is to them the atmosphere of truth. "La passion parle
la toute pure," as Moliere said of the old song:
Si le roi m'avoit donne
Paris, sa grande ville,
Et qu'il me fallut quitter
L'amour de ma mie:
Je dirois au roi Henri
Reprenez votre Paris
J'aime mieux ma mie, oh gay!
J'aime mieux ma mie.
An immense, almost incredible, number of popular songs have been set
down during the last twenty years by collectors who, like Tigri in
Tuscany, and Pitre in Sicily, have done honour to their birthlands,
and an enduring service to literature. It has been seen that Italy,
Portugal, and Spain have songs which, though differing in shape, are
yet materially alike. Where was the original fount of this lyrical
river? Some would look for it in Arabia, and cite the evident poetic
fertility of those countries where Arab influence once prevailed.
Others regard the existing passion-verse as a descendant of the
mediaeval poetry associated with Provence. Others, again, while
admitting that there may have been modifications of form, find it
hard to believe that there was ever a time, since the type was first
established, when the southern peasant was dumb, or when he did not
sing in substance very much as he does now.
Whatever theory be ultimately accepted, it is certain that the popular
love-poetry of southern nations, such as it has been received direct
from peasant lips, is not the least precious gift we owe to the
untaught, uncultured poet, who after having been for long ages ignored
or despised, is now raised to his rightful place near the throne of
his illustrious brother, the perfect lettered poet. Pan sits unrebuked
by the side of Apollo.
* * * * *
These introductory remarks are meant to do no more than to show the
principal landmarks of folk-poetry. The subject is a wide one, as
they best know who have given it the most careful attention. In
the following essays, I have dealt with a few of its less familiar
aspects. I would, in conclusion, express my gratitude to the
indefatigable excavators of popular lore whose large labours have
made my small work possible, and to all who have helped, whether by
furnishing unedited specimens or by procuring copies of rare books.
My cordial thanks are also due to the editors and publishers of the
_Cornhill Magazine_, _Fraser's Magazine_, the _National Review_,
the _British Quarterly Review_, the _Revue Internationale_, the
_Antiquary_, and the _Record_ and _Journal_ of the Folk-lore Society,
for leave to reprint such part of this book as had appeared in those
publications.
SALO, LAGO DI GARDA,
_January 15 1886_.
[Footnote 1: Voltaire.]
[Footnote 2:
Sire cuens, j'ai viele
Devant vous, en vostre oste;
Si ne m'avez, riens done,
Ne mes gages aquite
C'est vilanie;
Foi que doi Sainte Marie!
Ainc ne vos sievrai je mie,
M'aumosniere est mal garnie
Et ma malle mal farsie.
Sire cuens, quar comandez
De moi vostre volonte.
Sire, s'il vous vient a gre
Un beau don car me donez
Par cortoisie.
Talent ai, n'en dotez mie,
De r'aler a ma mesnie.
Quant vois borse desgarnie,
Ma feme ne me rit mie.
Ains me dit: Sire Engele
En quel terre avez este,
Qui n'avez rien conqueste
Aval la ville?
Vez com vostre male plie,
Ele est bien de vent farsie.
Honi soit qui a envie
D'estre en vostre compaignie.
Quant je vieng a mon hoste
Et ma feme a regarde
Derier moi le sac enfle,
Et ge qui sui bien pare
De robe grise,
Sachiez qu'ele a tot jus mise
La quenoille, sans faintise.
Elle me rit par franchise,
Les deux bras au col me lie.
Ma feme va destrousser
Ma male, sanz demorer.
Mon garcon va abruver
Mon cheval et conreer.
Ma pucele va tuer
Deux chapons por deporter
A la sause aillie;
Ma fille m'apporte un pigne.
En sa main par cortoisie
Lors sui de mon ostel sire,
A mult grant joie, sans ire,
Plus que nus ne porroit dire.
]
[Footnote 3: Not to speak of Charlemagne, who ordered a
collection to be made of German songs.]
[Footnote 4: A fuller description of German harvest customs,
with remarks on their presumed meaning, will be found in the
Rev. J. Van den Gheyn's "Essais de Mythologie et de Philologie
comparee," 1885.]
[Footnote 5: Mr W. R. S. Ralston has kindly communicated to me
this Russian version, which he translates: "Snail, snail, put
forth thy horns, I will give to thee cakes."]
[Footnote 6: "Les deux Masques," tome i. p. 1.]
[Footnote 7: "Confessions," book iii. chap. 11.]
[Footnote 8: "Shakespeare's Dramatic Art," 1876.]