BOOK VII_The Oxford Book of Ballads

_154. Lady Alice_

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower-window,

Mending her midnight quoif,

And there she saw as fine a corpse

As ever she saw in her life.

‘What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?

What bear ye on your shouldèrs?’--

‘We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,

An old and true lover of yours.’--

III

‘O lay him down gently, ye six men tall,

All on the grass so green,

And to-morrow, when the sun goes down,

Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

‘And bury me in Saint Mary’s church,

All for my love so true,

And make me a garland of marjoram,

And of lemon-thyme, and rue.’

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,

Lady Alice all in the west,

And the roses that grew on Giles Collins’s grave,

They reached Lady Alice’s breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,

And he sever’d those roses in twain;

Sure never were seen such true lovers before,

Nor e’er will there be again.

_155. Lord Lovel_

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate,

Combing his milk-white steed,

When up came Lady Nancy Belle,

To wish her lover good speed.

‘Where are you going, Lord Lovel?’ she said,

‘Oh where are you going?’ said she.

‘I’m going, my Lady Nancy Belle,

Strange countries for to see.’

III

‘When will you be back, Lord Lovel?’ she said,

‘Oh when will you come back?’ said she.

‘In a year, or two, or three at the most,

I’ll return to my fair Nancỳ.’

But he had not been gone a year and a day,

Strange countries for to see,

When languishing thoughts came into his head,

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see.

So he rode, and he rode, on his milk-white steed,

Till he came to London town,

And there he heard St. Pancras’ bells,

And the people all mourning round.

‘Oh what is the matter?’ Lord Lovel he said,

‘Oh what is the matter?’ said he;

‘A lord’s lady is dead,’ a woman replied,

‘And some call her Lady Nancỳ.’

VII

So he order’d the grave to be open’d wide.

And the shroud he turnèd down,

And there he kiss’d her clay-cold lips,

Till the tears came trickling down.

VIII

Lady Nancy she died, as it might be, today,

Lord Lovel he died as tomorrow;

Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief,

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ Church,

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir;

And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,

And out of her lover’s a briar.

They grew, and they grew, to the church-steeple top,

And then they could grow no higher;

So there they entwined in a true-lovers’ knot,

For all lovers true to admire.

_156. The Trees So High_

All the trees they are so high,

The leaves they are so green,

The day is past and gone, sweet-heart,

That you and I have seen.

It is cold winter’s night,

You and I must bide alone:

Whilst my pretty lad is young

And is growing.

In a garden as I walked,

I heard them laugh and call;

There were four and twenty playing there,

They played with bat and ball.

O the rain on the roof,

Here and I must make my moan:

Whilst my pretty lad is young

And is growing.

III

I listen’d in the garden,

I lookèd o’er the wall;

‘Midst five and twenty gallants there

My love exceeded all.

O the wind on the thatch,

Here and I alone must weep:

Whilst my pretty lad is young

And is growing.

O father, father dear,

Great wrong to me is done.

That I should married be this day,

Before the set of sun.

At the huffle of the gale,

Here I toss and cannot sleep:

Whilst my pretty lad is young

And is growing.

My daughter, daughter dear,

If better be, more fit,

I’ll send him to the court awhile,

To point his pretty wit.

But the snow, snowflakes fall,

O and I am chill as dead:

Whilst my pretty lad is young

And is growing.

To let the lovely ladies know

They may not touch and taste,

I’ll bind a bunch of ribbons red

About his little waist.

But the raven hoarsely croaks,

And I shiver in my bed;

Whilst my pretty lad is young

And is growing.

VII

I married was, alas,

A lady high to be,

In court and stall and stately hall,

And bower of tapestry.

But the bell did only knell,

And I shuddered as one cold:

When I wed the pretty lad

Not done growing.

VIII

At fourteen he wedded was,

A father at fifteen,

At sixteen ’s face was white as milk,

And then his grave was green;

And the daisies were outspread,

And buttercups of gold,

O’er my pretty lad so young

Now ceased growing.

_157. The Brown Girl_

‘I am as brown as brown can be,

My eyes as black as a sloe;

I am as brisk as a nightingale,

And as wild as any doe.

‘My love has sent me a love-letter,

Not far from yonder town,

That he could not fancy me,

Because I was so brown.

III

‘I sent him his letter back again,

For his love I valu’d not,

Whether that he could fancy me

Or whether he could not.

‘He sent me his letter back again,

That he lay sick to death,

That I might then go speedily

To give him up his faith.’

Now you shall hear what love she had

Then for this love-sick man;

She was a whole long summer’s day

In a mile a going on.

When she came to her love’s bed-side,

Where he lay dangerous sick,

She could not for laughing stand

Upright upon her feet.

VII

She had a white wand all in her hand,

And smooth’d it all on his breast;

‘In faith and troth come pardon me,

I hope your soul’s at rest.’--

VIII

‘Prithee,’ said he, ‘forget, forget,

Prithee forget, forgive;

O grant me yet a little space,

That I may be well and live.’--

‘O never will I forget, forgive,

So long as I have breath;

I’ll dance above your green, green grave

Where you do lie beneath.

‘I’ll do as much for my true-love

As other maidens may;

I’ll dance and sing on my love’s grave

A whole twelvemonth and a day.’

_158. Barbara Allan’s Cruelty_

In Scarlet town, where I was born,

There was a fair maid dwellin’,

Made every youth cry _Well-a-way!_

Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,

When green buds they were swellin’,

Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,

For love of Barbara Allen.

III

He sent his man in to her then,

To the town where she was dwellin’

‘O haste and come to my master dear,

If your name be Barbara Allen.’

So slowly, slowly rase she up,

And slowly she came nigh him,

And when she drew the curtain by--

‘Young man, I think you’re dyin’.’

‘O it’s I am sick and very very sick,

And it’s all for Barbara Allen.’--

‘O the better for me ye’se never be,

Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’!

‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ says she,

‘When the red wine ye were fillin’,

That ye made the healths go round and round,

And slighted Barbara Allen?’

VII

He turn’d his face unto the wall,

And death was with him dealin’:

‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,

And be kind to Barbara Allen!’

VIII

As she was walking o’er the fields,

She heard the dead-bell knellin’;

And every jow[1290] the dead-bell gave

Cried ‘Woe to Barbara Allen.’

‘O mother, mother, make my bed,

O make it saft and narrow:

My love has died for me to-day,

I’ll die for him to-morrow.

‘Farewell,’ she said, ‘ye virgins all,

And shun the fault I fell in:

Henceforth take warning by the fall

Of cruel Barbara Allen.’

FOOTNOTES:

[1290] jow = beat, toll.

_159. The Gardener_

The gardener stands in his bower-door,

With a primrose in his hand,

And by there came a leal[1291] maiden

As jimp[1292] as a willow wand.

‘O lady, can you fancy me,

For to be my bride?

Ye’se get a’ the flowers in my garden

To be to you a weed[1293].

III

‘The lily white sall be your smock

Becomes your body best;

Your head sall be busk’d wi’ gillyflower

And the primrose in your breast.

‘Your gown sall be the sweet-william,

Your coat the camovine[1294],

Your apron a’ the salluds neat

That taste baith sweet and fine.

‘Your stockings sall be o’ the braid kail-blade,

That is baith braid and lang;

And narrow, narrow at the cute[1295],

And braid, braid at the brawn[1296].

‘Your gloves sall be the marigold,

All glittering to your hand,

Well spread o’er wi’ the blue blaewort[1297]

That grows amang corn-land.’--

VII

‘O fare ye well, young man,’ she says,

‘Farewell, and I bid adieu;

If you can fancy me,’ she says,

‘O I cannot fancy you.

VIII

‘Sin ye’ve provided a weed for me

Amang the summer flowers,

Then I’se provide anither for you

Amang the winter showers.--

‘The new-fa’n snaw to be your smock

Becomes your body best;

An’ your head sall be wound wi’ the eastern wind,

An’ the cauld rain on your breast.’

FOOTNOTES:

[1291] leal = true.

[1292] jimp = slender.

[1293] weed = clothing.

[1294] camovine = camomile.

[1295] cute = ankle.

[1296] brawn = calf.

[1297] blaewort = corn bluebottle.

_160. The Lowlands o’ Holland_

‘My love has built a bonny ship, and set her on the sea,

With seven score good mariners to bear her companỳ;

There’s three score is sunk, and three score dead at sea,

And the Lowlands o’ Holland has twin’d[1298] my love and me.

‘My love he built another ship, and set her on the main,

And nane but twenty mariners for to bring her hame;

But the weary wind began to rise, and the sea began to rout,

My love then and his bonny ship turn’d withershins[1299] about.

III

‘Then shall neither coif come on my head nor comb come in my hair;

Then shall neither coal nor candle-light shine in my bower mair;

Nor will I love another one until the day I die,

Sin’ the Lowlands o’ Holland has twin’d my love and me.’--

‘O haud your tongue, my daughter dear, be still and be content;

There are mair lads in Galloway, ye neen nae sair lament.’--

‘O there is none in Gallow, there’s none at a’ for me,

For I never loved a love but one, and he’s drown’d in the sea.’

FOOTNOTES:

[1298] twin’d = parted.

[1299] withershins = around against the sun.

_161. The Spanish Lady’s Love_

Will you hear a Spanish lady

How she woo’d an English man?

Garments gay and rich as may be,

Decked with jewels, she had on;

Of a comely countenance and grace was she,

And by birth and parentage of high degree.

As his prisoner there he kept her,

In his hands her life did lie;

Cupid’s bands did tie her faster,

By the liking of an eye;

In his courteous company was all her joy,

To favour him in any thing she was not coy.

III

At the last there came commandment

For to set the ladies free,

With their jewels still adornèd,

None to do them injury:

‘Alas!’ then said this lady gay, ‘full woe is me;

O let me still sustain this kind captivity!

‘Gallant captain, show some pity

To a lady in distress;

Leave me not within this city,

For to die in heaviness;

Thou hast set this present day my body free,

But my heart in prison strong remains with thee.’--

‘How should’st thou, fair lady, love me,

Whom thou know’st thy country’s foe?

Thy fair words make me suspect thee;

Serpents lie where flowers grow.’--

‘All the harm I think to thee, most gracious knight,

God grant unto myself the same may fully light:

‘Blessèd be the time and season

That you came on Spanish ground;

If our foes you may be termèd,

Gentle foes we have you found.

With our city you have won our hearts each one;

Then to your country bear away that is your own.’--

VII

‘Rest you still, most gallant lady,

Rest you still, and weep no more;

Of fair lovers there are plenty;

Spain doth yield a wondrous store.’--

‘Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,

But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.

VIII

‘Leave me not unto a Spaniard;

You alone enjoy my heart;

I am lovely, young, and tender,

And so love is my desart.

Still to serve thee day and night my mind is press’d;

The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.’--

‘It would be a shame, fair lady,

For to bear a woman hence;

English soldiers never carry

Any such without offence.’--

‘I will quickly change myself if it be so,

And like a page I’ll follow thee where’er thou go.’--

‘I have neither gold nor silver

To maintain thee in this case,

And to travel, ’tis great charges,

As you know, in every place.’--

‘My chains and jewels every one shall be thine own,

And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.’--

‘On the seas are many dangers;

Many storms do there arise,

Which will be to ladies dreadful,

And force tears from watery eyes.’--

‘Well in truth I shall endure extremity,

For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.’--

XII

‘Courteous lady, leave this fancy;

Here comes all that bleeds the strife;

I in England have already

A sweet woman to my wife:

I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain,

Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.’--

XIII

‘Oh how happy is that woman,

That enjoys so true a friend!

Many happy days God send you!

Of my suit I’ll make an end:

On my knees I pardon crave for this offence,

Which did from love and true affection first commence.

XIV

‘Commend me to thy loving lady:

Bear to her this chain of gold,

And these bracelets for a token;

Grieving that I was so bold.

All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee,

For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.

‘I will spend my days in prayer,

Love and all his laws defy,

In a nunnery will I shroud me,

Far from any company:

But ere my prayers have end, be sure of this,

To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.

XVI

‘Thus farewell, most gentle captain,

Farewell too my heart’s content!

Count not Spanish ladies wayward,

Though to thee my love was bent:

Joy and true prosperity go still with thee!’--

‘The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladỳ!’

_162. The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington_

There was a youth, and a well-belovèd youth,

And he was an esquire’s son,

He loved the bailiff’s daughter dear,

That lived in Islington.

But she was coy, and she would not believe

That he did love her so,

No, nor at any time she would

Any countenance to him show.

III

But when his friends did understand

His fond and foolish mind,

They sent him up to fair London,

An apprentice for to bind.

And when he had been seven long years,

And his love he had not seen;

‘Many a tear have I shed for her sake

When she little thought of me.’

All the maids of Islington

Went forth to sport and play;

All but the bailiff’s daughter dear;

She secretly stole away.

She put off her gown of gray,

And put on her puggish[1300] attire;

She’s up to fair London gone,

Her true-love to require.

VII

As she went along the road,

The weather being hot and dry,

There was she aware of her true-love,

At length came riding by.

VIII

She stept to him, as red as any rose,

And took him by the bridle-ring:

‘I pray you, kind sir, give me one pennỳ,

To ease my weary limb.’--

‘I prithee, sweetheart, canst thou tell me

Where that thou wast born?’--

‘At Islington, kind sir,’ said she,

‘Where I have had many a scorn.’--

‘I prithee, sweetheart, canst thou tell me

Whether thou dost know

The bailiff’s daughter of Islington?’--

‘She’s dead, sir, long ago.’--

‘Then will I sell my goodly steed,

My saddle and my bow;

I will into some far countrey,

Where no man doth me know.’--

XII

‘Oh stay, O stay, thou goodly youth!

She’s alive, she is not dead;

Here she standeth by thy side,

And is ready to be thy bride.’--

XIII

‘O farewell grief, and welcome joy,

Ten thousand times and o’er!

For now I have seen my own true-love,

That I thought I should have seen no more.’

FOOTNOTES:

[1300] puggish = tramp’s.

_163. The Blind Beggar’s Daughter of Bednall-Green_

It was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,

He had a fair daughter of beauty most bright;

And many a gallant brave suitor had she,

For none was so comely as pretty Bessee.

And though she was of favour most faire,

Yet seeing she was but a poor beggar’s heyre.

Of ancyent housekeepers despisèd was she,

Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessee.

III

Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessy did say,

‘Good father, and mother, let me go away

To seek out my fortune, whatever it be.’

This suit then they granted to pretty Bessee.

Then Bessy, that was of beauty so bright,

All clad in grey russet, and late in the night,

From father and mother alone parted she;

Who sighèd and sobbèd for pretty Bessee.

She went till she came to Stratford-le-Bow;

Then knew she not whither, nor which way to go:

With tears she lamented her hard destinìe,

So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessee.

She kept on her journey until it was day,

She went unto Rumford along the high way;

Where at the Queen’s Arms entertainèd was she:

So fair and well favoured was pretty Bessee.

VII

She had not been there a month to an end,

But master and mistress and all was her friend:

And every brave gallant, that once did her see,

Was straightway enamour’d of pretty Bessee.

VIII

Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,

And in their songs daily her love was extoll’d;

Her beauty was blazèd in every degree;

So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.

The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;

She showed herself courteous, and modestly coy;

And at her commandèment still would they be;

So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.

Four suitors at once unto her did go;

They cravèd her favour, but still she said ‘no;

I would not wish gentles to marry with me.’--

Yet ever they honoured pretty Bessee.

The first of them was a gallant young knight,

And he came unto her disguised in the night:

The second a gentleman of good degree,

Who wooèd and suèd for pretty Bessee.

XII

A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,

He was the third suitor, and proper withal:

Her master’s own son the fourth man must be,

Who swore he would die for pretty Bessee.

XIII

‘And, if thou wilt marry with me,’ quoth the knight,

‘I’ll make thee a lady with joy and delight;

My heart so enthrallèd is by thy beautìe,

That soon I shall die for pretty Bessee.’

XIV

The gentleman said, ‘Come, marry with me,

As fine as a lady my Bessy shall be:

My life is distressèd: O hear me,’ quoth he;

‘And grant me thy love, my pretty Bessee.’--

‘Let me be thy husband,’ the merchant did say,

‘Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;

My ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee,

And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.’

XVI

Then Bessy she sighed, and thus she did say,

‘My father and mother I mean to obey;

First get their good will, and be faithful to me,

And then you shall marry your pretty Bessee.’

XVII

To every one this answer she made,

Wherefore unto her they joyfully said,

‘This thing to fulfil we all do agree;

But where dwells thy father, my pretty Bessee?’

XVIII

‘My father,’ she said, ‘is soon to be seen:

The silly blind beggar of Bednall-green,

That daily sits begging for charitìe,

He is the good father of pretty Bessee.

XIX

‘His marks and his tokens are known very well;

He always is led with a dog and a bell:

A silly old man, God knoweth, is he,

Yet he is the father of pretty Bessee.’

‘Nay then,’ quoth the merchant, ‘thou art not for me!’

‘Nor,’ quoth the innholder, ‘my wife thou shalt be.’

‘I lothe,’ said the gentle, ‘a beggar’s degree,

And therefore adieu, my pretty Bessee!’

XXI

‘Why then,’ quoth the knight, ‘hap better or worse,

I weigh not true love by the weight of the purse,

And beauty is beauty in every degree;

Then welcome unto me, my pretty Bessee.

XXII

‘With thee to thy father forthwith I will go.’--

‘Nay soft,’ quoth his kinsmen, ‘it must not be so;

A poor beggar’s daughter no lady shall be,

Then take thy adieu of pretty Bessee.’

XXIII

But soon after this, by break of the day

The Knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.

The young men of Rumford, as thick as might be,

Rode after to fetch again pretty Bessee.

XXIV

As swift as the wind to ryde they were seen,

Until they came near unto Bednall-green;

And as the Knight lighted most courteouslìe,

They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.

XXV

But rescue came speedily over the plain,

Or else the young Knight for his love had been slain.

This fray being ended, then straightway he see

His kinsmen come railing at pretty Bessee.

XXVI

Then spake the blind beggar, ‘Although I be poor,

Yet rail not against my child at my own door:

Though she be not deckèd in velvet and pearl,

Yet will I drop angels with you for my girl.

XXVII

‘And then, if my gold may better her birth,

And equal the gold that you lay on the earth,

Then neither rail nor grudge you to see

The blind beggar’s daughter a lady to be.

XXVIII

‘But first you shall promise, and have it well known,

The gold that you dropt shall all be your own.’

With that they replied, ‘Contented be we.’

‘Then here’s,’ quoth the beggar, ‘for pretty Bessee!’

XXIX

With that an angel he cast on the ground,

And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;

And oftentimes it was provèd most plain,

For the gentlemen’s one the beggar dropt twain:

XXX

So that the place, wherein they did sit,

With gold it was coverèd every whit.

The gentlemen then, having dropt all their store,

Said, ‘Now, beggar, hold, for we have no more,

XXXI

‘Thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright.’--

‘Then marry,’ quoth he, ‘my girl to this Knight;

And here,’ added he, ‘I will now throw you down

A hundred pounds more to buy her a gown.’

XXXII

The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen,

Admirèd the beggar of Bednall-green:

And all those, that were her suitors before,

Their flesh for very anger they tore.

XXXIII

Thus was fair Bessy match’d to the Knight,

And then made a lady in others’ despite:

A fairer lady there never was seen

Than the blind beggar’s daughter of Bednall-green.

XXXIV

But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,

What brave lords and knights thither were prest,

The second fitt shall set forth to your sight

With marvellous pleasure and wished delight.

PART II

XXXV

Of a blind beggar’s daughter most bright,

That late was betrothed unto a young Knight;

All the discourse thereof you did see:

But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.

XXXVI

Within a gorgeous palace most brave,

Adornèd with all the cost they could have,

This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe,

And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.

XXXVII

All kind of dainties and delicates sweet

Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet;

Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,

Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.

XXXVIII

This marriage through England was spread by report,

So that a great number thereto did resort

Of nobles and gentles in every degree;

And all for the fame of pretty Bessee.

XXXIX

To church then went this gallant young Knight;

His bride followed after, an angel most bright,

With troops of ladies--the like ne’er was seen

As went with sweet Bessy of Bednall-green.

This marriage being solemnized then,

With musick performed by the skilfullest men,

The nobles and gentles sat down at that tide,

Each one admiring the beautiful bride.

XLI

Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,

To talk and to reason a number begun:

They talk’d of the blind beggar’s daughter most bright,

And what with his daughter he gave to the Knight.

XLII

Then spake the nobles, ‘Much marvel have we,

This jolly blind beggar we cannot here see.’

‘My lords,’ quoth the bride, ‘my father’s so base,

He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.’--

XLIII

‘The praise of a woman in question to bring,

Before her own face, were a flattering thing,

But we think thy father’s baseness,’ quoth they,

‘Might by thy beauty be clean put away.’

XLIV

They had no sooner these pleasant words spoke,

But in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak;

A fair velvet cap, and a feather had he,

And now a musician forsooth he would be.

XLV

He had a dainty lute under his arm,

He touchèd the strings, which made such a charm,

Says, ‘Please you to hear any musick of me,

I’ll sing you a song of pretty Bessee.’

XLVI

With that his lute he twangèd straightway,

And thereon began most sweetly to play;

And after that lessons were played two or three,

He strain’d out this song most delicatelìe.

XLVII

‘A poor beggar’s daughter did dwell on a green,

Who for her fairness might well be a queen:

A blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she,

And many one callèd her pretty Bessee.

XLVIII

‘Her father he had no goods, nor no land,

But begg’d for a penny all day with his hand;

And yet to her marriage he gave thousands three,

And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.

XLIX

‘And if any one here her birth do disdain,

Her father is ready, with might and with main,

To prove she is come of noble degree:

Therefore never flout at pretty Bessee.’

With that the lords and the company round

With hearty laughter were ready to swound;

At last said the lords, ‘Full well we may see,

The bride and the beggar’s beholden to thee.’

On this the bride all blushing did rise,

The pearly drops standing within her fair eyes,

‘O pardon my father, grave nobles,’ quoth she,

‘That through blind affection thus doteth on me.’

LII

‘If this be thy father,’ the nobles did say,

‘Well may he be proud of this happy day;

Yet by his countenance well may we see,

His birth and his fortune did never agree:

LIII

‘And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray

(And look that the truth thou to us do say)

Thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be;

For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.’--

LIV

‘Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,

One song more to sing, and then I have done;

And if that it may not win good report,

Then do not give me a groat for my sport.

‘Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shall be;

Once chief of all the great barons was he,

Yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase,

Now lost and forgotten are he and his race.

LVI

‘When the barons in arms did King Henry oppose,

Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;

A leader of courage undaunted was he,

And ofttimes he made their enemies flee.

LVII

‘At length in the battle on Evesham plain,

The barons were routed, and Montfort was slain;

Most fatal that battle did prove unto thee,

Though thou wast not born then, my pretty Bessee!

LVIII

‘Along with the nobles, that fell at that tide,

His eldest son Henry, who fought by his side,

Was fell’d by a blow he received in the fight;

A blow that deprived him for ever of sight.

LIX

‘Among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay,

Till evening drew on of the following day;

When by a young lady discovered was he;

And this was thy mother, my pretty Bessee!

‘A baron’s fair daughter stept forth in the night

To search for her father, who fell in the fight,

And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he lay,

Was movèd with pity, and brought him away.

LXI

‘In secret she nurst him, and swagèd his pain,

While he through the realm was believed to be slain:

At length his fair bride she consented to be,

And made him glad father of pretty Bessee.

LXII

‘And now, lest our foes our lives should betray,

We clothèd ourselves in beggars’ array;

Her jewels she sold, and hither came we:

All our comfort and care was our pretty Bessee.

LXIII

‘And here have we livèd in fortune’s despite,

Though poor, yet contented with humble delight:

Full forty winters thus have I been

A silly blind beggar of Bednall-green.

LXIV

‘And here, noble lords, is ended the song

Of one that once to your own rank did belong:

And thus have you learnèd a secret from me,

That ne’er had been known, but for pretty Bessee.’

LXV

Now when the fair company every one,

Had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown,

They all were amazèd, as well they might be,

Both at the blind beggar, and pretty Bessee.

LXVI

With that the fair bride they all did embrace,

Saying, ‘Sure thou art come of an hon’rable race;

Thy father likewise is of noble degree,

And thou art well worthy a lady to be.’

LXVII

Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight,

A bridegroom most happy then was the young Knight,

In joy and felicitie long livèd he,

All with his fair lady, the pretty Bessee.

_164. The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman_

_A Broadside Version of_ ‘Young Beichan’

Lord Bateman was a noble lord,

A noble lord of high degree;

He shipp’d himself all aboard of a ship,

Some foreign country for to see.

He sailèd east, he sailèd west,

Until he came to famed Turkey,

Where he was taken and put to prison,

Until his life was quite weary.

III

All in this prison there grew a tree,

O there it grew so stout and strong!

Where he was chain’d all by the middle,

Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter,

The fairest my two eyes e’er see;

She stole the keys of her father’s prison,

And swore Lord Bateman she would let go free.

O she took him to her father’s cellar,

And gave to him the best of wine;

And every health she drank unto him

Was, ‘I wish, Lord Bateman, as you was mine.’

‘O have you got houses, have you got land,

And does Northumberland belong to thee?

And what would you give to the fair young lady

As out of prison would let you go free?’--

VII

‘O I’ve got houses and I’ve got land,

And half Northumberland belongs to me;

And I will give it all to the fair young lady

As out of prison would let me go free.’--

VIII

‘O in seven long years, I’ll make a vow

For seven long years, and keep it strong,

That if you’ll wed no other woman,

O I will wed no other man.’

O she took him to her father’s harbour,

And gave to him a ship of fame,

Saying, ‘Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,

I fear I never shall see you again!’

Now seven long years is gone and past,

And fourteen days, well known to me;

She packèd up all her gay clothing,

And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.

O when she arrived at Lord Bateman’s castle,

How boldly then she rang the bell!

‘Who’s there? who’s there?’ cries the proud young porter,

‘O come unto me pray quickly tell.’--

XII

‘O is this here Lord Bateman’s castle,

And is his lordship here within?’--

‘O yes, O yes,’ cries the proud young porter

‘He’s just now taking his young bride in.’--

XIII

‘O bid him to send me a slice of bread

And a bottle of the very best wine,

And not forgetting the fair young lady

As did release him when close confine.’

XIV

O away and away went this proud young porter,

O away and away and away went he,

Until he come to Lord Bateman’s chamber,

When he went down on his bended knee.

‘What news, what news, my proud young porter?

What news, what news? Come tell to me.’--

‘O there is the fairest young lady

As ever my two eyes did see.

XVI

‘She has got rings on every finger,

And on one finger she has got three;

With as much gay gold about her middle

As would buy half Northumberlee.

XVII

‘O she bids you to send her a slice of bread,

And a bottle of the very best wine,

And not forgetting the fair young lady

As did release you when close confine.’

XVIII

Lord Bateman then in passion flew,

And broke his sword in splinters three,

Saying, ‘I will give half of my father’s land,

If so be as Sophia has crossed the sea.’

XIX

Then up and spoke this young bride’s mother,

Who never was heard to speak so free;

Saying, ‘You’ll not forget my only daughter,

If so be as Sophia has crossed the sea.’--

‘O it’s true I made a bride of your daughter,

But she’s neither the better nor the worse for me;

She came to me with a horse and saddle,

But she may go home in a coach and three.’

XXI

Lord Bateman then prepared another marriage,

With both their hearts so full of glee,

Saying, ‘I’ll roam no more to foreign countries,

Now that Sophia has crossed the sea.’

_165. Mary Ambree_

When captains couragious, whom death could not daunte,

Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt[1301],

They muster’d their souldiers by two and by three,

And the foremost in battle was Mary Ambree.

When brave Sir John Major was slaine in her sight,

Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,

Because he was slaine most treacherouslie,

She vow’d to revenge him, did Mary Ambree.

III

She clothèd herselfe from the top to the toe

In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;

A faire shirt of mail then slippèd on she;

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

A helmet of proofe she strait did provide,

A strong arminge sword she girt by her side,

And on each hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee;

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

Then tooke she her sworde and her target in hand,

Bidding all such as wo’ld to be sworn of her band;

To wayte on her person came thousand and three:

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

‘My soldiers,’ she saith, ‘soe valiant and bold,

Nowe follow your captaine, whom you doe beholde;

Still foremost in battel myself will I be’:

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

VII

Then cry’d out her souldiers, and loude they did say,

‘Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,

Thy harte and thy weapons soe well do agree,

There was none that was ever like Mary Ambree.’

VIII

She chearèd her souldiers, that foughten for life,

With ancyent[1302] and standard, with drum and with fyfe,

With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

‘Before I will see the worst of you all

To come into danger of death or of thrall,

This hand and this life I will venture so free’:

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

She led up her souldiers in battaile array

Gainst three times theyr number by break of the daye;

Seven howers in skirmish continuèd shee:

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

She fillèd the skyes with the smoke of her shott,

And her enemyes bodyes with bullets soe hott;

For one of her owne men a score killèd shee:

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

XII

And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent,

Away all her pellets and powder had sent,

Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three:

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree!

XIII

Being falselye betrayèd for lucre of hyre,

At length she was forcèd to make a retyre;

Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew she:

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree?

XIV

Her foes they beset her on everye side,

As thinking close siege shee co’ld never abide;

To beate down the wallès they all did decree:

But stoutlye defyed them brave Mary Ambree.

Then tooke she her sword and her target in hand,

And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,

There daring their captaines to match any three:

O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!

XVI

‘Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give

To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?

Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee.’--

O then smilèd sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.

XVII

‘Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold,

Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?’--

‘A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,

Who shortèlye with us a pris’ner must bee.’--

XVIII

‘No captaine of England; behold in your sight

Two brests in my bosome, and therfore no knight:

Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,

But a poor simple lass, callèd Mary Ambree.’--

XIX

‘But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,

Whose valor hath prov’d so undaunted in warre?

If England doth yield such brave lasses as thee,

Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree!’

Then to her owne country shee backe did returne,

Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne:

Therfore, English captaines of every degree,

Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree!

FOOTNOTES:

[1301] Gaunt = Ghent.

[1302] ancyent = ensign.

_166. The Lady turned Serving-Man_

You beauteous ladies great and small,

I write unto you, one and all,

Whereby that you may understand

What I have suffer’d in this land.

I was by birth a lady fair,

My father’s chief and only heir;

But when my good old father died,

Then I was made a young knight’s bride.

III

And then my love built me a bower,

Bedeck’d with many a fragrant flower;

A braver bower you ne’er did see

Than my true love did build for me.

But there came thieves late in the night,

They robb’d my bower, and slew my knight,

And after that my knight was slain

I could no longer there remain.

My servants all from me did fly

In the midst of my extremity,

And left me by myself alone

With a heart more cold than any stone.

Yet, though my heart was full of care,

Heaven would not suffer me to despair;

Wherefore in haste I changed my name

From fair Elise to Sweet William.

VII

And therewithal I cut my hair,

And dress’d myself in man’s attire;

And in my beaver, hose, and band,

I travell’d far through many a land.

VIII

With a silver rapier by my side,

So like a gallant I did ride;

The thing that I delighted on,

It was to be a serving-man.

Thus in my sumptuous man’s array

I bravely rode along the way;

And at the last it chancèd so

That I to the King’s court did go.

Then to the King I bow’d full low,

My love and duty for to show;

And so much favour I did crave,

That I a serving-man’s place might have.

‘Stand up, brave youth,’ the King replied,

‘Thy service shall not be denied;

But tell me first what thou canst do;

Thou shalt be fitted thereunto.

XII

‘Wilt thou be usher of my hall,

To wait upon my nobles all?

Or wilt thou be taster of my wine,

To wait on me when I do dine?

XIII

‘Or wilt thou be my chamberlain,

To make my bed both soft and fine?

Or wilt thou be one of my guard?

And I will give thee thy reward.’

XIV

Sweet William, with a smiling face,

Said to the King, ‘If’t please your Grace

To show such favour unto me,

Your chamberlain I fain would be.’

The King then did the nobles call,

To ask the counsel of them all;

Who gave consent Sweet William he

The King’s own chamberlain should be.

XVI

Now mark what strange thing came to pass:

As the King one day a-hunting was,

With all his lords and noble train,

Sweet William did at home remain.

XVII

Sweet William had no company then

With him at home, but an old man:

And when he saw the house was clear,

He took a lute which he had there:

XVIII

Upon the lute Sweet William play’d,

And to the same he sang and said,

With a sweet and noble voice

Which made the old man to rejoice:

XIX

‘My father was as brave a lord

As ever Europe did afford,

My mother was a lady bright,

My husband was a valiant knight:

‘And I myself a lady gay,

Bedeck’d with gorgeous rich array;

The bravest lady in the land

Had not more pleasure at command.

XXI

‘I had my music every day,

Harmonious lessons for to play;

I had my virgins fair and free

Continually to wait on me.

XXII

‘But now, alas! my husband’s dead,

And all my friends are from me fled;

My former joys are pass’d and gone,

For I am now a serving-man.’

XXIII

At last the King from hunting came,

And presently, upon the same,

He callèd for this good old man,

And thus to speak the King began:

XXIV

‘What news, what news, old man?’ quoth he;

‘What news hast thou to tell to me?’--

‘Brave news,’ the old man he did say,

‘Sweet William is a lady gay.’--

XXV

‘If this be true thou tell’st to me,

I’ll make thee lord of high degree;

But if thy words do prove a lie,

Thou shall be hang’d up presently.’

XXVI

But when the King the truth had found,

His joys did more and more abound:

According as the old man did say,

Sweet William was a lady gay.

XXVII

Therefore the King without delay

Put on her glorious rich array,

And upon her head a crown of gold

Which was most famous to behold.

XXVIII

And then, for fear of further strife,

He took Sweet William for his wife:

The like before was never seen,

A serving-man to be a queen.

_167. The Simple Ploughboy_

O the Ploughboy was a-ploughing

With his horses on the plain,

And was singing of a song as on went he:

‘Since that I have fall’n in love,

If the parents disapprove,

’Tis the first thing that will send me to the sea.’

When the parents came to know

That their daughter loved him so,

Then they sent a gang, and press’d him for the sea.

And they made of him a tar,

To be slain in cruel war;

Of the simple Ploughboy singing on the lea.

III

The maiden sore did grieve,

And without a word of leave,

From her father’s house she fled secretlie,

In male attire dress’d,

With a star upon her breast,

All to seek her simple Ploughboy on the sea.

Then she went o’er hill and plain,

And she walked in wind and rain,

Till she came to the brink of the blue sea,

Saying, ‘I am forced to rove,

For the loss of my true love,

Who is but a simple Ploughboy from the lea.’

Now the first she did behold,

O it was a sailor bold,

‘Have you seen my simple Ploughboy?’ then said she.

‘They have press’d him to the fleet,

Sent him tossing on the deep,

Who is but a simple Ploughboy from the lea.’

Then she went to the Captaìn,

And to him she made complain,

‘O a silly Ploughboy’s run away from me!’

Then the Captain smiled and said,

‘Why Sir! surely you’re a maid!

So the Ploughboy I will render up to thee.’

VII

Then she pullèd out a store,

Of five hundred crowns and more,

And she strew’d them on the deck, did she.

Then she took him by the hand,

And she row’d him to the land,

Where she wed the simple Ploughboy back from sea.

_168. Cawsand Bay_

In Cawsand Bay lying, with the Blue Peter flying,

And all hands on deck for the anchor to weigh,

When off came a lady, as fresh as a daisy,

And modestly hailing, the damsel did say:

‘Ship ahoy! bear a hand there! I wants a young man there,

So heave us a man-rope, or send him to me;

His name’s Henry Grady, and I am a lady,

Arrived to prevent him from going to sea.’

III

Now the captain, his honour, when he looked upon her,

He ran down the side for to hand her on board.

Cried he, with emotion, ‘What son of the ocean

Can thus be looked after by Helena Ford?’

Then the lady made answer, ‘That there is a man, sir,

I’ll make him as free as a Duke or a Lord.’--

‘Oh no!’ says the capp’en, ‘That can’t very well happen,

I’ve got sailing orders--you, sir, stop on board.’

But up spoke the lady, ‘Don’t you mind him, Hal Grady,

He once was your capp’en, but now you’re at large.

You shan’t stop on board her, for all that chap’s order!’

Then out of her bosom she drew his discharge.

Said the captain, ‘I’m hang’d now, you’re cool, and I’m bang’d now!’

Said Hal, ‘Here, old Weatherface, take all my clothes.’

And ashore then he steer’d her; the lads they all cheer’d her;

But the captain was jealous, and looked down his nose.

VII

Then she got a shore tailor to rig up her sailor

In white nankeen trowsers and long blue-tail’d coat;

And he looked like a squire, for all to admire,

With a dimity handkercher tied round his throat.

VIII

They’d a house that was greater than any first-rater,

With footmen in livery handing the drink,

And a garden to go in, where flowers were blowing,

The buttercup, daisy, the lily, the pink.

And he got edication befitting his station

(For we all of us know we’re not too old to larn);

And his messmates they found him, his little ones round him,

All chips of the old block from the stem to the starn.

_169. The Greenland Fishery_

In seventeen hundred and ninety-four,

On March the twentieth day;

We hoist our colours to the mast,

And for Greenland bore away, brave boys!

And for Greenland bore away.

We were twelve gallant men aboard,

And to the North did steer:

Old England left we in our wake--

We sailors knew no fear, brave boys!

We sailors knew no fear.

III

Our boatswain to the mast-head went,

Wi’ a spy glass in his hand;

He cries, ‘A whale! a whale doth blow,

She blows at every span, brave boys!

She blows at every span.’

Our Captain on the master deck

(A very good man was he),

‘Overhaul! overhaul! let the boat tackle fall,

And launch your boat to sea, brave boys!

And launch your boat to sea.’

Our boat being launch’d, and all hands in,

The whale was full in view;

Resolved was then each seaman bold

To steer where the whale-fish blew, brave boys!

To steer where the whale-fish blew.

The whale was struck, and the line paid out,

She gave a flash with her tail;

The boat capsized, and we lost four men,

And we never caught that whale, brave boys!

And we never caught that whale.

VII

Bad news we to the Captain brought,

The loss of four men true.

A sorrowful man was our Captain then,

And the colours down he drew, brave boys!

And the colours down he drew.

VIII

‘The losing of this whale,’ said he,

‘Doth grieve my heart full sore;

But the losing of four gallant men

Doth hurt me ten times more, brave boys!

Doth hurt me ten times more.

‘The winter star doth now appear,

So, boys, the anchor weigh;

’Tis time to leave this cold countrỳ,

And for England bear away, brave boys!

And for England bear away.

‘For Greenland is a barren place,

A land where grows no green,

But ice and snow, and the whale-fish blow,

And the daylight’s seldom seen, brave boys!

And the daylight’s seldom seen!’

_170. The Old Cloak_

This winter’s weather it waxeth cold,

And frost it freezeth on every hill,

And Boreas blows his blast so bold

That all our cattle are like to spill.

Bell, my wife, she loves no strife;

She said unto me quietlye,

‘Rise up, and save cow Crumbock’s life!

Man, put thine old cloak about thee!’

_He._ O Bell my wife, why dost thou flyte[1303]?

Thou kens my cloak is very thin:

It is so bare and over worn,

A crickè thereon cannot renn.

Then I’ll no longer borrow nor lend;

For once I’ll new apparell’d be;

To-morrow I’ll to town and spend;

For I’ll have a new cloak about me.

III

_She._ Cow Crumbock is a very good cow:

She has been always true to the pail;

She has help’d us to butter and cheese, I trow,

And other things she will not fail.

I would be loth to see her pine.

Good husband, counsel take of me:

It is not for us to go so fine--

Man, take thine old cloak about thee!

_He._ My cloak it was a very good cloak,

It hath been always true to the wear;

But now it is not worth a groat:

I have had it four and forty year’.

Sometime it was of cloth in grain[1304]:

’Tis now but a sigh clout[1305], as you may see:

It will neither hold out wind nor rain;

And I’ll have a new cloak about me.

_She._ It is four and forty years ago

Sine the one of us the other did ken;

And we have had, betwixt us two,

Of children either nine or ten:

We have brought them up to women and men:

In the fear of God I trow they be:

And why wilt thou thyself misken?

Man, take thine old cloak about thee!

_He._ O Bell my wife, why dost thou flyte?

Now is now, and then was then:

Seek now all the world throughout,

Thou kens not clowns from gentlemen:

They are clad in black, green, yellow and blue,

So far above their own degree.

Once in my life I’ll take a view;

For I’ll have a new cloak about me.

VII

_She._ King Stephen was a worthy peer;

His breeches cost him but a crown;

He held them sixpence all too dear,

Therefore he called the tailor ‘lown.’

He was a king and wore the crown,

And thou’se but of a low degree:

It’s pride that puts this country down:

Man, take thy old cloak about thee!

VIII

_He._ Bell my wife, she loves not strife,

Yet she will lead me, if she can:

And to maintain an easy life

I oft must yield, though I’m good-man.

It’s not for a man with a woman to threap[1306],

Unless he first give o’er the plea:

As we began, so will we keep,

And I’ll take my old cloak about me.

FOOTNOTES:

[1303] flyte = scold.

[1304] cloth in grain = scarlet cloth.

[1305] sigh clout = a rag for straining.

[1306] threap = argue.

_171. Widdicombe Fair_

‘Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your grey mare,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

For I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair,

Wi’ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,

Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.’

_Chorus_. Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

‘And when shall I see again my grey mare?’--

All along, down along, out along, lee.

‘By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,

Wi’ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer,’ &c.

III

Then Friday came, and Saturday noon,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

But Tom Pearse’s old mare hath not trotted home,

Wi’ Bill Brewer, &c.

So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o’ the hill,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

And he seed his old mare down a-making her will

Wi’ Bill Brewer, &c.

So Tom Pearse’s old mare, her took sick and her died.

All along, down along, out along, lee.

And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried.

Wi’ Bill Brewer, &c.

But this isn’t the end o’ this shocking affair,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career

Of Bill Brewer, &c.

VII

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

Tom Pearse’s old mare doth appear, gashly white,

Wi’ Bill Brewer, &c.

VIII

And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

From Tom Pearse’s old mare in her rattling bones,

And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,

Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all

_Chorus._ Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

_172. Get up and Bar the Door_

It fell about the Martinmas time,

And a gay time it was then,

When our goodwife got puddings to make,

And she’s boil’d them in the pan.

The wind sae cauld blew south and north,

And blew into the floor;

Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,

‘Gae out and bar the door.’--

III

‘My hand is in my hussyfskap,

Goodman, as ye may see;

An’ it shou’dna be barr’d this hundred year,

It’s no be barr’d for me’

They made a paction ’tween them twa,

They made it firm and sure,

That the first word whae’er shou’d speak,

Shou’d rise and bar the door.

Then by there came two gentlemen,

At twelve o’ clock at night,

And they could neither see house nor hall,

Nor coal nor candle-light.

‘Now whether is this a rich man’s house,

Or whether is it a poor?’

But ne’er a word wad ane o’ them speak,

For barring of the door.

VII

And first they ate the white puddings,

And then they ate the black.

Tho’ muckle thought the goodwife to hersel’

Yet ne’er a word she spake.

VIII

Then said the one unto the other,

‘Here, man, tak ye my knife;

Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,

And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’--

‘But there’s nae water in the house,

And what shall we do than?’--

‘What ails ye at the pudding-broo,

That boils into the pan?’

O up then started our goodman,

An angry man was he:

‘Will ye kiss my wife before my een,

And sca’d me wi’ pudding-bree?’

Then up and started our goodwife,

Gied three skips on the floor:

‘Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word!

Get up and bar the door.’

_173. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury_

An ancient story I’ll tell you anon

Of a notable prince, that was callèd King John;

And he rulèd England with maine and with might,

For he did great wrong, and maintein’d little right.

And I’ll tell you a story, a story so merrye,

Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;

How, for his house-keeping and high renowne,

They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

III

An hundred men, the King did heare say,

The Abbot kept in his house every day;

And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,

In velvet coates waited the Abbot about.

‘How now, Father Abbot, I heare it of thee

Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,

And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,

I feare thou work’st treason against my crown.’--

‘My liege,’ quo’ the Abbot, ‘I would it were knowne,

I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;

And I trust your Grace will doe me no deere

For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.’

‘Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault it is highe,

And now for the same thou needest must dye;

For except thou canst answer me questions three,

Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.

VII

‘And first,’ quo’ the King, ‘when I’m in this stead,

With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,

Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,

Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

VIII

‘Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,

How soone I may ride the whole worlde about.

And at the third question thou must not shrinke,

But tell me here truly what I do thinke.’--

‘O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,

Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet:

But if you will give me but three weekes space,

I’ll do my endeavour to answer your Grace.

‘Now three weekes space to thee will I give,

And that is the longest time thou hast to live;

For if thou dost not answer my questions three,

Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.’

Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,

And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;

But never a doctor there was so wise,

That could with his learning an answer devise.

XII

Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,

And he mett with his shepheard a-going to fold:

‘How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home;

What newes do you bring us from good King John?’--

XIII

‘Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;

That I have but three days more to live:

For if I do not answer him questions three,

My head will be smitten from my bodìe.

XIV

‘The first is to tell him there in that stead,

With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,

Among all his liege-men so noble of birthe,

To within one penny of what he is worthe.

‘The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,

How soone he may ride this whole worlde about:

And at the third question I must not shrinke,

But tell him there truly what he does thinke.’--

XVI

‘Now cheare up, sire Abbot, did you never hear yet,

That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?

Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,

And I’ll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

XVII

‘Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,

I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:

And if you will but lend me your gowne,

There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.’--

XVIII

‘Now horses and serving-men thou shall have,

With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,

With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,

Fit to appeare ’fore our Father the Pope.’--

XIX

‘Now welcome, sire Abbot,’ the King he did say,

‘’Tis well thou’rt come back to keepe thy day;

For and if thou canst answer my questions three,

Thy life and thy living both savèd shall bee.

‘And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,

With my crown of golde so fair on my head,

Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,

Tell me to one penny what I am worthe.’--

XXI

‘For thirty pence our Saviour was sold

Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;

And twenty-nine is the worthe of thee,

For I thinke thou art one penny worser than hee.’

XXII

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,

‘I did not thinke I had been worthe so littel!

--Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,

How soone I may ride this whole world about.’--

XXIII

‘You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,

Until the next morning he riseth againe;

And then your Grace need not make any doubt,

But in twenty-four hours you’ll ride it about.’

XXIV

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,

‘I did not think it could be gone so soone!

--Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,

But tell me here truly what I do thinke.’--

XXV

‘Yea, that shall I do, and make your Grace merry:

You thinke I’m the Abbot of Canterbùrye;

But I’m his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,

That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.’

XXVI

The King he laughed, and swore by the Masse,

‘I’ll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!’--

‘Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,

For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.’--

XXVII

‘Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee

For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;

And tell the old Abbot when thou comest home,

Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.

_174. The Children in the Wood_

Now ponder well, you parents dear,

These words which I shall write;

A doleful story you shall hear,

In time brought forth to light.

A gentleman of good account

In Norfolk dwelt of late,

Who did in honour far surmount

Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was and like to die,

No help his life could save;

His wife by him as sick did lie,

And both possest one grave.

No love between these two was lost,

Each was to other kind;

In love they lived, in love they died,

And left two babes behind:

III

The one a fine and pretty boy

Not passing three years old,

The other a girl more young than he,

And framed in beauty’s mould.

The father left his little son,

As plainly did appear,

When he to perfect age should come,

Three hundred pounds a year;

And to his little daughter Jane

Five hundred pounds in gold,

To be paid down on marriage-day,

Which might not be controll’d.

But if the children chanced to die

Ere they to age should come,

Their uncle should possess their wealth;

For so the will did run.

‘Now, brother,’ said the dying man,

‘Look to my children dear;

Be good unto my boy and girl,

No friends else have they here:

To God and you I recommend

My children dear this day;

But little while be sure we have

Within this world to stay.

‘You must be father and mother both,

And uncle, all in one;

God knows what will become of them

When I am dead and gone.’

With that bespake their mother dear:

‘O brother kind,’ quoth she,

‘You are the man must bring our babes

To wealth or misery!

VII

‘And if you keep them carefully,

Then God will you reward;

But if you otherwise should deal,

God will your deeds regard.’

With lips as cold as any stone,

They kiss’d their children small:

‘God bless you both, my children dear!’

With that the tears did fall.

VIII

These speeches then their brother spake

To this sick couple there:

‘The keeping of your little ones,

Sweet sister, do not fear;

God never prosper me nor mine,

Nor aught else that I have,

If I do wrong your children dear

When you are laid in grave!’

The parents being dead and gone,

The children home he takes,

And brings them straight unto his house,

Where much of them he makes.

He had not kept these pretty babes

A twelvemonth and a day,

But, for their wealth, he did devise

To make them both away.

He bargain’d with two ruffians strong,

Which were of furious mood,

That they should take these children young,

And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife an artful tale:

He would the children send

To be brought up in London town

With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes,

Rejoicing at that tide,

Rejoicing with a merry mind

They should on cock-horse ride.

They prate and prattle pleasantly,

As they ride on the way,

To those that should their butchers be

And work their lives’ decay:

XII

So that the pretty speech they had

Made Murder’s heart relent;

And they that undertook the deed

Full sore did now repent.

Yet one of them, more hard of heart,

Did vow to do his charge,

Because the wretch that hirèd him

Had paid him very large.

XIII

The other won’t agree thereto,

So here they fall to strife;

With one another they did fight

About the children’s life:

And he that was of mildest mood

Did slay the other there,

Within an unfrequented wood.--

The babes did quake for fear!

XIV

He took the children by the hand,

Tears standing in their eye,

And bade them straightway follow him,

And look they did not cry;

And two long miles he led them on,

While they for food complain:

‘Stay here,’ quoth he; ‘I’ll bring you bread

When I come back again.’

These pretty babes, with hand in hand,

Went wandering up and down;

But never more could see the man

Approaching from the town.

Their pretty lips with blackberries

Were all besmear’d and dyed;

And when they saw the darksome night,

They sat them down and cried.

XVI

Thus wander’d these poor innocents,

Till death did end their grief;

In one another’s arms they died,

As wanting due relief:

No burial this pretty pair

From any man receives,

Till Robin Redbreast piously

Did cover them with leaves.

XVII

And now the heavy wrath of God

Upon their uncle fell;

Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,

His conscience felt an hell:

His barns were fired, his goods consumed,

His lands were barren made,

His cattle died within the field,

And nothing with him stay’d.

XVIII

And in a voyage to Portugal

Two of his sons did die;

And, to conclude, himself was brought

To want and misery:

He pawn’d and mortgaged all his land

Ere seven years came about.

And now at last his wicked act

Did by this means come out.

XIX

The fellow that did take in hand

These children for to kill,

Was for a robbery judged to die,

Such was God’s blessed will:

Who did confess the very truth,

As here hath been display’d:

The uncle having died in jail,

Where he for debt was laid.

You that executors be made,

And overseërs eke,

Of children that be fatherless,

And infants mild and meek,

Take you example by this thing,

And yield to each his right,

Lest God with suchlike misery

Your wicked minds requite.

_175. The Suffolk Miracle_

A wonder stranger ne’er was known

Than what I now shall treat upon.

In Suffolk there did lately dwell

A farmer rich and known full well.

He had a daughter fair and bright,

On whom he placed his chief delight;

Her beauty was beyond compare,

She was both virtuous and fair.

III

A young man there was living by,

Who was so charmèd with her eye,

That he could never be at rest;

He was by love so much possest.

He made address to her, and she

Did grant him love immediately;

But when her father came to hear,

He parted her and her poor dear.

Forty miles distant was she sent,

Unto his brother’s, with intent

That she should there so long remain,

Till she had changed her mind again.

Hereat this young man sadly grieved,

But knew not how to be relieved;

He sigh’d and sobb’d continually

That his true love he could not see.

VII

She by no means could to him send,

Who was her heart’s espousèd friend;

He sigh’d, he grieved, but all in vain,

For she confined must still remain.

VIII

He mourn’d so much that doctor’s art

Could give no ease unto his heart,

Who was so strangely terrified

That in short time for love he died.

She that from him was sent away

Knew nothing of his dying day;

But constant still she did remain,

And loved the dead, although in vain.

After he had in grave been laid

A month or more, unto this maid

He comes in middle of the night,

Who joy’d to see her heart’s delight.

Her father’s horse which well she knew,

Her mother’s hood and safeguard[1307] too,

He brought with him to testify

Her parents’ order he came by.

XII

Which when her uncle understood,

He hoped it would be for her good,

And gave consent to her straightway

That with him she should come away.

XIII

When she was got her love behind,

They pass’d as swift as any wind,

That in two hours, or little more,

He brought her to her father’s door.

XIV

But as they did this great haste make,

He did complain his head did ache;

Her handkerchief she then took out,

And tied the same his head about.

And unto him she thus did say:

‘Thou art as cold as any clay,

When we come home a fire we’ll have’;

But little dream’d he went to grave.

XVI

Soon were they at her father’s door,

And after she ne’er saw him more;

‘I’ll set the horse up,’ then he said,

And there he left this harmless maid.

XVII

She knock’d, and straight a man he cried,

‘Who’s there?’ ‘’Tis I,’ she then replied;

Who wonder’d much her voice to hear,

And was possest with dread and fear.

XVIII

Her father he did tell, and then

He stared like an affrighted man:

Down stairs he ran, and when he see her,

Cried out, ‘My child, how cam’st thou here?’

XIX

‘Pray, sir, did you not send for me

By such a messenger?’ said she:

Which made his hair stand on his head,

As knowing well that he was dead.

‘Where is he?’ then to her he said.--

‘He’s in the stable,’ quoth the maid.--

‘Go in,’ said he, ‘and go to bed;

I’ll see the horse well litterèd.’

XXI

He stared about, and there could he

No shape of any mankind see,

But found his horse all on a sweat;

Which made him in a deadly fret.

XXII

His daughter he said nothing to,

Nor no-one else (though well they knew

That he was dead a month before),

For fear of grieving her full sore.

XXIII

Her father to his father went

Who was deceased, with full intent

To tell him what his daughter said;

So both came back unto this maid.

XXIV

They ask’d her, and she still did say

’Twas he that then brought her away;

Which when they heard, they were amazed,

And on each other strangely gazed.

XXV

A handkerchief she said she tied

About his head, and that they tried;

The sexton they did speak unto

That he the grave would then undo.

XXVI

Affrighted then they did behold

His body turning into mould,

And though he had a month been dead

This kerchief was about his head.

XXVII

This thing unto her then they told,

And the whole truth they did unfold.

She was thereat so terrified

And grieved, she quickly after died.

FOOTNOTES:

[1307] safeguard = riding-skirt.

_176. Bessie Bell and Mary Gray_

O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,

They war twa bonnie lasses;

They biggit[1308] a bower on yon burn-brae,

And theekit[1309] it o’er wi’ rashes.

They theekit it o’er wi’ rashes green,

They theekit it o’er wi’ heather;

But the pest cam frae the burrows-town,

And slew them baith thegither.

III

They thought to lye in Methven kirkyard,

Amang their noble kin;

But they maun lye in Stronach haugh[1310],

To biek[1311] forenent the sin[1312].

And Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,

They war twa bonnie lasses;

They biggit a bower on yon burn-brae,

And theekit it o’er wi’ rashes.

FOOTNOTES:

[1308] biggit = built.

[1309] theekit = thatched.

[1310] haugh = water-mead.

[1311] biek = bask.

[1312] sin = sun.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

The numbers are ballad numbers, not page numbers.

A fair maid sat in her bower door 72

A ship I have got in the North Country 132

A wonder stranger ne’er was known 175

About Yule when the wind blew cule 82

Adieu, madame, my mother dear 151

A’ the boys of merry Lincoln 79

All the trees they are so high 156

All under the leaves and the leaves of life 111

An ancient story I’ll tell you anon 173

An earthly nourrice sits and sings 31

Annan water’s wading deep 92

As I pass’d by a river side 102

As I sat under a sycamore tree 104

As I was a-walking mine alane 140

As I was cast in my first sleepe 59

As I was walking all alane 67

As I was walking mine alane 11

As it befel in midsummer-time 130

As it fell on a holy-day 133

As it fell on one holy-day 50

As it fell out on a long summer’s day 62

As it fell out one May morning 110

As it fell out upon a day 109

Be it right or wrong these men among 69

_But how many months be in the year?_ 118

By Arthur’s Dale as late I went 74

_Can I not sing but ‘Hoy’_ 103

Childe Maurice hunted the Silver Wood 47

Childe Waters in his stable stood 46

Clerk Colven and his gay ladie 29

Clerk Saunders and may Margaret 27

Come, all you brave gallants, and listen a while 119

Come, gentlemen all, and listen a while 120

Come listen to me, yon gallants so free 121

Cospatrick has sent o’er the faem 5

Der lived a king inta da aste 15

Erlinton had a fair daughter 37

Ettrick Forest is a fair forest 84

Fair Margret was a proud ladye 26

False Sir John a-wooing came 10

Foul fa’ the breast first treason bred in! 139

Four-and-twenty nobles rade to the King’s ha’ 85

Glasgerion was a King’s own son 40

God! let never soe old a man 53

God send the land deliverance 146

Gude Lord Scroope’s to the hunting gane 143

Hearken to me, gentlemen 41

Her mother died when she was young 13

Hie upon Hielands 96

Hit wes upon a Scere-thorsday 97

Hynd Horn’s bound, love, and Hynd Horn’s free 35

‘I am as brown as brown can be 157

I have heard talk of bold Robin Hood 123

‘I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low 7

I herde a carpyng of a clerk 112

I was a lady of high renown 87

‘I was but seven year auld 14

I wish I were where Helen lies 152

In Cawsand Bay lying, with the Blue Peter flying 168

In London was Young Beichan born 45

In Scarlet town, where I was born 158

In seventeen hundred and ninety-four 169

In somer, when the shawes be sheyne 117

In summer time, when leaves grow green 118

In summer time, when leaves grow green 124

In the third day of May 17

Inverey cam’ doun Deeside, whistlin’ and playin’ 149

It fell about the Lammas tide 127

It fell about the Martinmas 77

It fell about the Martinmas time 172

It fell about the Martinmas tyde 141

It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day 135

It fell upon a Wadensday 21

It’s Lamkin was a mason good 78

It’s narrow, narrow, mak your bed 42

It was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight 163

It was a knight in Scotland born 71

It was intill a pleasant time 25

It was the worthy Lord of Lorn 76

Jesus, Lord mickle of might 3

Johnnie rose up in a May morning 136

Joseph was an old man 101

King Easter has courted her for her lands 70

Kinge Arthur lives in merry Carlisle 19

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower-window 154

Late at e’en, drinkin’ the wine 150

Let never a man a wooing wend 16

Lithe and listen, Gentlemen 115

Lord Bateman was a noble lord 164

Lord Ingram and Childe Vyet 51

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate 155

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet 54

Lordings, listen, and hold you still 126

Lully, lulley! lully, lulley! 100

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane 83

Mark this song, for it is true 108

May Margaret sits in her bower door 36

Mery it was in the grene foreste 114

‘My love has built a bonny ship, and set her on the sea 160

My love he built me a bonny bower 153

My plaid awa’, my plaid awa’ 8

Now is Christëmas y-come 107

Now Liddesdale has lain lang in 142

Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid 138

Now list and lithe, you gentlemen 129

Now ponder well, you parents dear 174

O Alison Gross, that lives in yon tow’r 12

O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray 176

O bonny Baby Livingston 147

‘O brent’s your brow, my Lady Elspat 86

O did ye ever hear o’ brave Earl Brand? 38

O have ye na heard o’ the fause Sakelde? 137

O heard ye na o’ the silly blind Harper 144

‘O I forbid you, maidens a’ 2

O Jellon Grame sit in Silverwood 49

‘O lady, rock never your young son young 30

O Rose the Red and White Lilly 55

O the Ploughboy was a ploughing 167

‘O well’s me o’ my gay goss-hawk 60

‘O wha will shoe my bonny foot? 43

O wha would wish the wind to blau 48

‘O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? 66

‘O where hae ye been, my long, long love 28

O Willie’s large o’ limb and lith 113

_O wow for day!_ 50

Of a’ the maids o’ fair Scotland 91

Our King he kept a false steward 4

Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye 58

‘Rise up, rise up, now Lord Douglas,’ she says 39

Saies, ‘Come here, cuzen Gawaine so gay 18

Saint Stephen was a clerk 98

She lean’d her back unto a thorn 22

Sum speiks of lords, sum speiks of lairds 89

Sweet Willy’s taen him o’er the faem 6

The Angel Gabriel from God 106

The bonny heir, and the well faur’d heir 80

The Duke of Gordon had three daughters 94

The eighteenth of October 145

The first good joy our Mary had 105

The gardener stands in his bower door 159

The _George-Aloe_, and the _Sweepstake_, too 131

The king sits in Dunfermline town 75

The maid she went to the well to washe 99

The Percy out of Northumberland 128

The shepard upon a hill he sat 103

‘The wind doth blow to-day, my love 34

The young lords o’ the north country 73

There are twelve months in all the year 122

There cam’ seven Egyptians on a day 148

‘There is a feast in your father’s house 56

There lived a wife at Usher’s well 32

There was a knight and a lady bright 24

There was a may, and a weel-far’d may 88

There was a rich lord, and he lived in Forfar 20

There was a youth, and a well-belovèd youth 162

There were three ladies play’d at the ba’ 64

There were three ravens sat on a tree 68

There were three sisters fair and bright 9

There were twa brethren in the North 63

There were twa sisters sat in a bour 23

There where three ladies live in a bower 57

This ae nighte, this ae nighte 33

This winter’s weather it waxeth cold 170

‘Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your grey mare 171

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank 1

‘Turn, Willie Macintosh 134

When captains couragious whom death could not daunte 165

When Robin Hood and Little John 125

When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre 116

When we were silly sisters seven 81

‘Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude 65

Will you hear a Spanish lady 161

Willie stands in his stable door 90

‘Willie, Willie, what makes you sae sad?’ 61

‘Willy’s rare, and Willy’s fair 93

Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands 95

‘Ye maun gang to your father, Janet 52

You beauteous ladies great and small 166

Young Bekie was as brave a knight 44