Several causes have combined to give the professional minstrel a more
tenacious hold on life in Italy than in France or Germany or England.
One of them is, that Italian culture has always been less dependent
on education--or what the English poor call "book-learning"--than the
culture of those countries.
To this day you may count upon finding a blind ballad-singer in every
Italian city. The connection of blindness with popular songs is a
noteworthy thing. It is not, perhaps, a great exaggeration to say
that, had there been no blind folks in the world, there would have
been few ballads. Who knows, indeed, but that Homer would not have
earned his bread by bread-making instead of by enchanting the children
and wise men of all after-ages, had he not been "one who followed
a guide"? Every one remembers how it was the singing of a "blinde
crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style," that moved the heroic
heart of Sidney more than the blare of trumpets. Every one may not
know that in the East of Europe and in Armenia, "blinde crowders"
still wander from village to village, carrying, wheresoever they go,
the songs of a former day and the news of the latest hour;
acting, after a fashion, as professors of history and "special
correspondents," and keeping alive the sentiment of nationality
under circumstances in which, except for their agency, it must almost
without a doubt have expired.
When the Austrians occupied Trebinje in the Herzegovina, they forbade
the playing of the "guzla," the little stringed instrument which
accompanies the ballads; but the ballads will not be forgotten.
Proscription does not kill a song. What kills it sometimes, if it have
a political sense, is the fulfilment of the hopes it expresses; then
it may die a natural death. I hunted all over Naples for some one who
could sing a song which every Neapolitan, man and boy, hummed through
the year when the Redshirts brought freedom: _Camicia rossa, camicia
ardente_. It seemed that there was not one who still knew it. Just as
I was on the point of giving up the search, a blind man was produced
out of a tavern at Posilippo; a poor creature in threadbare clothes,
holding a wretched violin. He sang the words with spirit and pathos;
he is old, however, and perhaps the knowledge of them will not survive
him.
Our present business is not with songs of a national or local
interest, but with those which can hardly be said to belong to any
country in particular. And, first of all, we have to go back to a
certain _Camillo, detto il Bianchino cieco fiorentino_, who sang
ballads at Verona in the year 1629, and who had printed for the
greater diffusion of his fame a sort of rhymed advertisement
containing the first few lines of some twenty songs that belonged to
his repertory. Last but one of these samples stands the following:
"Dov' andastu jersera,
Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil;
Dov' andastu jersera?"
"When I come to look at it," adds Camillo, "this is too long; it ought
to have been the first to be sung"--alluding, of course, to the song,
not to the sample.
Later in the same century, the ballad mentioned above had the honour
of being cited before a more polite audience than that which was
probably in the habit of listening to the blind Florentine. On
the 24th of September 1656, Canon Lorenzo Panciatichi reminded
his fellow-academicians of the Crusca of what he called "a fine
observation" that had been made regarding the song:
"Dov' andastu a cena figlioul mio
Ricco, savio, e gentile?"
The observation (continued the Canon) turned on the answer the son
makes to the mother when she asks him what his sweetheart gave him for
supper. "She gave me," says the son, "_un' anguilla arrosto cotta
nel pentolin dell' olio_." The idea of a roasted eel cooked in an oil
pipkin offended the academical sense of the fitness of things; it had
therefore been proposed to say instead that the eel was hashed:
"Madonna Madre,
Il cuore sta male,
Per un anguilla in guazzetto."
Had we nothing to guide us beyond these fragments, there could be no
question but that in this Italian ballad we might safely recognise
one of the most spirited pieces in the whole range of popular
literature--the song of Lord Ronald, otherwise Rowlande, or Randal, or
"Billy, my son:"
"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?
O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"
"I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?
What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?
And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!
O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."
This version, which I quote from Mr Allingham's _Ballad Book_ (1864),
ends here; so does that given by Sir Walter Scott in the _Border
Minstrelsy_. There is, however, another version which goes on:
"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?"
"Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed sune
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?"
"My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?"
"Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?"
"The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree,
And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me."
Lord Ronald has already been met with, though somewhat disguised, both
in Germany and in Sweden, but his appearance two hundred and fifty
years ago at Verona has a peculiar interest attached to it. That
England shares most of her songs with the Northern nations is a fact
familiar to all; but, unless I am mistaken, this is almost the first
time of discovering a purely popular British ballad in an Italian
dress.
It so happens that to the fragments quoted by Camillo and the Canon
can be added the complete story as sung at the present date in
Tuscany, Venetia, and Lombardy. Professor d'Ancona has taken pains to
collate the slightly different texts, because few Italian folk-songs
now extant can be traced even as far back as the seventeenth century.
The learned Professor, whose great antiquarian services are well
known, does not seem to be aware that the song has currency out of
Italy. The best version is one set down from word of mouth in the
district of Como, and of this I subjoin a literal rendering:
"Where were you yester eve?
My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Where were you yester eve?"
"I with my love abode;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I with my love abode;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What supper gave she you?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What supper gave she you?"
"I supped on roasted eel;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I supped on roasted eel;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"And did you eat it all?
My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
And did you eat it all?"
"Only the half I eat;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Only the half I eat;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Where went the other half?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Where went the other half?"
"I gave it to the dog;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I gave it to the dog;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die?"
"What did you with the dog?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What did you with the dog?"
"It died upon the way;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
It died upon the way;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Poisoned it must have been!
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Poisoned it must have been!"
"Quick for the doctor send;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Quick for the doctor send;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die.
"Wherefore the doctor call?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Wherefore the doctor call?"
"That he may visit me;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
That he may visit me;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
* * * * *
"Quick for the parson send;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Quick for the parson send;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Wherefore the parson call?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Wherefore the parson call?"
"So that I may confess;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
So that I may confess;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
* * * * *
"Send for the notary;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Send for the notary;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Why call the notary?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Why call the notary?"
"To make my testament;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To make my testament;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your mother leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your mother leave?"
"To her my palace goes;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To her my palace goes;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your brothers leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your brothers leave?"
"To them the coach and team;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To them the coach and team;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your sisters leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your sisters leave?"
"A dower to marry them;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
A dower to marry them;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your servants leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your servants leave?"
"The road to go to Mass;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
The road to go to Mass;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your tomb?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What leave you to your tomb?"
"Masses seven score and ten;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Masses seven score and ten;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your love?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What leave you to your love?"
"The tree to hang her on;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
The tree to hang her on;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
At first sight it would seem that the supreme dramatic element of the
English song--the circumstance that the mother does not know, but only
suspects, with increasing conviction, the presence of foul play--is
weakened in the Lombard ballad by the refrain, "Alas, alas, that I
should have to die." But a little more reflection will show that this
is essentially of the nature of an _aside_. In many instances the
office of the burden in old ballads resembles that of the chorus in
a Greek play: it is designed to suggest to the audience a clue to the
events enacting which is not possessed by the _dramatis personae_--at
least not by all of them.
In the northern songs, Lord Ronald is a murdered child: a character
in which he likewise figures in the Scotch lay of "The Croodlin Doo."
This is the Swedish variant:
"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?"
"I have been to B[oe]nne to see my brother;
Alas! how I suffer."
"What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?"
"Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?"
"I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?"
"Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?"
"Good grain in the grange, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?"
"A big ship to sail in, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?"
"Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?"
"The chains of hell, step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?"
"The same hell, my nurse.
Alas! how I suffer."
A point connected with the diffusion of ballads is the extraordinarily
wide adoption of certain conventional forms. One of these is the form
of testamentary instructions by means of which the plot of a song is
worked up to its climax. It reappears in the "Cruel Brother"--which, I
suppose, is altogether to be regarded as of the Roland type:
"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?"
_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._
"The milk-white steed that brought me here,"
_As the primrose spreads so sweetly._
"What would ye give to your mother, dear?"
_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._
"My wedding shift which I do wear,"
_As the primrose spreads so sweetly._
"But she must wash it very clean,"
_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_,
"For my heart's blood sticks in every seam,"
_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.
"What would ye give to your sister Anne?"
_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._
"My gay gold ring and my feathered fan,"
_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.
"What would ye give to your brother John?"
_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._
"A rope and a gallows to hang him on!"
_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.
"What would ye give to your brother John's wife?"
_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._
"Grief and sorrow to end her life!"
_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.
"What would ye give to your own true lover?"
_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._
"My dying kiss, and my love for ever!"
_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.
The Portuguese ballad of "Helena," which has not much in common with
"Lord Roland"--except that it is a story of treachery--is brought into
relation with it by its bequests. Helena is a blameless wife whom a
cruel mother-in-law first encourages to pay a visit to her parents,
and then represents to her husband as having run away from him in
his absence. No sooner has he returned from his journey than he rides
irate after his wife. When he arrives he is met by the news that a son
is born to him, but unappeased he orders the young mother to rise
from her bed and follow him. She obeys, saying that in a well-ordered
marriage it is the husband who commands; only, before she goes, she
kisses her son and bids her mother tell him of these kisses when he
grows up. Then her husband takes her to a high mountain, where the
agony of death comes upon her. The husband asks: "To whom leavest thou
thy jewels?" She answers: "To my sister; if thou wilt permit it."
"To whom leavest thou thy cross and the stones of thy necklace?" "The
cross I leave to my mother; surely she will pray for me; she will
not care to have the stones, thou canst keep them--if to another thou
givest them, better than I, let her adorn herself with them." "Thy
substance, to whom leavest thou?" "To thee, my husband; God grant it
may profit thee." "To whom leavest thou thy son, that he may be well
brought up?" "To thy mother, and may it please God that he should make
himself loved of her." "Not to that dog," cries the husband, his eyes
at last opened, "she might well kill him. Leave him rather to thy
mother, who will bring him up well; she will know how to wash him with
her tears, and she will take the coif from her head to swaddle him."
A strange, wild Roumanian song, translated by Mr C. F. Keary
(_Nineteenth Century_, No. lxviii.), closes with a list of "gifts" of
the same character:
"But mother, oh mother, say how
Shall I speak, and what name call him now?"
"My beloved, my step-son,
My heart's love, my cherished one."
"And her, O my mother, what word
Shall I give her, what name?"
"My step-daughter, abhorred,
The whole world's shame."
"Then, my mother, what shall I take him?
What gift shall I make him?"
"A handkerchief fine, little daughter,
Bread of white wheat for thy loved one to eat,
And a glass of wine, my daughter."
"And what shall I take _her_, little mother,
What gift shall I make _her_?"
"A kerchief of thorns, little daughter;
A loaf of black bread for her whom he wed,
And a cup of poison, my daughter."
Before parting with "Lord Ronald" it should be noticed that the song
clearly travelled in song-shape, not simply as a popular tradition;
and that its different adaptators have been still more faithful to the
shape than to the substance. It is not so easy to decide whether the
victim was originally a child or a lover, whether the north or the
south has preserved the more correct version. Some crime of the middle
ages may have been the foundation of the ballad; on the other hand
it is conceivable that it formed part of the enormous accumulation of
literary odds and ends brought to Europe from the east, by pilgrims
and crusaders. Stories that, as we know them, seem distinctly
mediaeval, such as Boccaccio's "Falcon," have been traced to India.
If a collection were made of the ballads now sung by no more widely
extended class than the three thousand ballad singers inscribed in the
last census of the North-Western Provinces and Oude, what a priceless
boon would not be conferred upon the student of comparative folk-lore!
We cannot arrive at a certainty even in regard to the minor question
of whether Lord Ronald made his appearance first in England or in
Italy. The English and Italian songs bear a closer affinity to
each other than is possessed by either towards the Swedish variant.
Supposing the one to be directly derived from the other--a supposition
which in this case does not seem improbable--the Italian was most
likely the original. There was a steady migration into England of
Italian literature, literate and probably also illiterate, from the
thirteenth to the sixteenth century. The English ballad-singers may
have been as much on the look-out for a new, orally communicated song
from foreign parts, as Chaucer was for a poem of Petrarch's or a tale
of Boccaccio's.