Chapter 2

The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson cartoon. How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the amiable, coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a sordid picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well if they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.

Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the most renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all have the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence, "Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in the ballad of George Barnwell,

All youths of fair England That dwell both far and near, Regard my story that I tell And to my song give ear.

That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing!

VIII

But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole people! These ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be recognised.

It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores. Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they paid their servants?

In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch in the great background, the life of the common people? How many even realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national disaster, such as the Black Plague?

A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this defect. Thomas Percy, whose _Reliques_ must ever be the main source of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later, found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only the resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the echoes of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes these ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we have to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the true significance of the song.

For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the Latin Service.

"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion. And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious offspring of Mother Church.

Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers. A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War? Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred coming of Peace?

Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing. The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: 'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!' Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay...

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'Kulla-lo-lo!'_ With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay...

But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: 'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.' No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay...

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay ...

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! O the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

THE FROLICKSOME DUKE

or

THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE

Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport: But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest, Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.

The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben, Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then. O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, And they put him to bed for to take his repose.

Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.

Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, He desired to know what apparel he'd ware: The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd, And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.

Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, Which he straitways put on without longer dispute; With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride; For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife? Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.

From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace Did observe his behaviour in every case. To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red, With a rich golden canopy over his head: As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine. Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, Till at last he began for to tumble and roul From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, And restore him his old leather garments again: 'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first; There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.

For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem, That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought; But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade, Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round, Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend, Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.

Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? Then I shall be a squire I well understand: Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace, I was never before in so happy a case.

THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER

There was a shepherd's daughter Came tripping on the waye; And there by chance a knighte shee mett, Which caused her to staye.

Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide, These words pronounced hee: O I shall dye this daye, he sayd, If Ive not my wille of thee.

The Lord forbid, the maide replyde, That you shold waxe so wode! "But for all that shee could do or saye, He wold not be withstood."

Sith you have had your wille of mee, And put me to open shame, Now, if you are a courteous knighte, Tell me what is your name?

Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart, And some do call mee Jille; But when I come to the kings faire courte They call me Wilfulle Wille.

He sett his foot into the stirrup, And awaye then he did ride; She tuckt her girdle about her middle, And ranne close by his side.

But when she came to the brode water, She sett her brest and swamme; And when she was got out againe, She tooke to her heels and ranne.

He never was the courteous knighte, To saye, faire maide, will ye ride? "And she was ever too loving a maide To saye, sir knighte abide."

When she came to the kings faire courte, She knocked at the ring; So readye was the king himself To let this faire maide in.

Now Christ you save, my gracious liege, Now Christ you save and see, You have a knighte within your courte, This daye hath robbed mee.

What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? Of purple or of pall? Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring From off thy finger small?

He hath not robbed mee, my liege, Of purple nor of pall: But he hath gotten my maiden head, Which grieves mee worst of all.

Now if he be a batchelor, His bodye He give to thee; But if he be a married man, High hanged he shall bee.

He called downe his merrye men all, By one, by two, by three; Sir William used to bee the first, But nowe the last came hee.

He brought her downe full fortye pounde, Tyed up withinne a glove: Faire maide, He give the same to thee; Go, seeke thee another love.

O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde, Nor Ile have none of your fee; But your faire bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee.

Sir William ranne and fetched her then Five hundred pound in golde, Saying, faire maide, take this to thee, Thy fault will never be tolde.

Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt, These words then answered shee, But your own bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee.

Would I had dranke the water cleare, When I did drinke the wine, Rather than any shepherds brat Shold bee a ladye of mine!

Would I had drank the puddle foule, When I did drink the ale, Rather than ever a shepherds brat Shold tell me such a tale!

A shepherds brat even as I was, You mote have let me bee, I never had come to the kings faire courte, To crave any love of thee.

He sett her on a milk-white steede, And himself upon a graye; He hung a bugle about his necke, And soe they rode awaye.

But when they came unto the place, Where marriage-rites were done, She proved herself a dukes daughtèr, And he but a squires sonne.

Now marrye me, or not, sir knight, Your pleasure shall be free: If you make me ladye of one good towne, He make you lord of three.

Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd, If thou hadst not been trewe, I shold have forsaken my sweet love, And have changed her for a newe.

And now their hearts being linked fast, They joyned hand in hande: Thus he had both purse, and person too, And all at his commande.

KING ESTMERE

Hearken to me, gentlemen, Come and you shall heare; Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren That ever borne y-were.

The tone of them was Adler younge, The tother was kyng Estmere; The were as bolde men in their deeds, As any were farr and neare.

As they were drinking ale and wine Within kyng Estmeres halle: When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr, A wyfe to glad us all?

Then bespake him kyng Estmere, And answered him hastilee: I know not that ladye in any land That's able to marrye with mee.

Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother, Men call her bright and sheene; If I were kyng here in your stead, That ladye shold be my queene.

Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother, Throughout merry Englànd, Where we might find a messenger Betwixt us towe to sende.

Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr, Ile beare you companye; Many throughe fals messengers are deceived, And I feare lest soe shold wee.

Thus the renisht them to ryde Of twoe good renisht steeds, And when the came to kyng Adlands halle, Of redd gold shone their weeds.

And when the came to kyng Adlands hall Before the goodlye gate, There they found good kyng Adlànd Rearing himselfe theratt.

Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland; Now Christ you save and see. Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right hartilye to mee.

You have a daughter, said Adler younge, Men call her bright and sheene, My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, Of Englande to be queene.

Yesterday was att my deere daughter Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne; And then she nicked him of naye, And I doubt sheele do you the same.

The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim, And 'leeveth on Mahound; And pitye it were that fayre ladye Shold marrye a heathen hound.

But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere, For my love I you praye; That I may see your daughter deere Before I goe hence awaye.

Although itt is seven yeers and more Since my daughter was in halle, She shall come once downe for your sake To glad my guestes alle.

Downe then came that mayden fayre, With ladyes laced in pall, And halfe a hundred of bold knightes, To bring her from bowre to hall; And as many gentle squiers, To tend upon them all.

The talents of golde were on her head sette, Hanged low downe to her knee; And everye ring on her small fingèr Shone of the chrystall free.

Saies, God you save, my deere madam; Saies, God you save and see. Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right welcome unto mee.

And if you love me, as you saye, Soe well and hartilye, All that ever you are comin about Sooner sped now itt shal bee.

Then bespake her father deare: My daughter, I saye naye; Remember well the kyng of Spayne, What he sayd yesterday.

He wold pull downe my hales and castles, And reeve me of my life. I cannot blame him if he doe, If I reave him of his wyfe.

Your castles and your towres, father, Are stronglye built aboute; And therefore of the king of Spaine Wee neede not stande in doubt.

Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère, By heaven and your righte hand, That you will marrye me to your wyfe, And make me queene of your land.

Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth By heaven and his righte hand, That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, And make her queene of his land.

And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, To goe to his owne countree, To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, That marryed the might bee.

They had not ridden scant a myle, A myle forthe of the towne, But in did come the kyng of Spayne, With kempès many one.

But in did come the kyng of Spayne, With manye a bold barone, Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, Tother daye to carrye her home.

Shee sent one after kyng Estmere In all the spede might bee, That he must either turne againe and fighte, Or goe home and loose his ladye.

One whyle then the page he went, Another while he ranne; Tull he had oretaken king Estmere, I wis, he never blanne.

Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere! What tydinges nowe, my boye? O tydinges I can tell to you, That will you sore annoye.

You had not ridden scant a mile, A mile out of the towne, But in did come the kyng of Spayne With kempès many a one:

But in did come the kyng of Spayne With manye a bold barone, Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter, Tother daye to carry her home.

My ladye fayre she greetes you well, And ever-more well by mee: You must either turne againe and fighte, Or goe home and loose your ladyè.

Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother, My reade shall ryde at thee, Whether it is better to turne and fighte, Or goe home and loose my ladye.

Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge, And your reade must rise at me, I quicklye will devise a waye To sette thy ladye free.

My mother was a westerne woman, And learned in gramaryè, And when I learned at the schole, Something she taught itt mee.

There growes an hearbe within this field, And iff it were but knowne, His color, which is whyte and redd, It will make blacke and browne:

His color, which is browne and blacke, Itt will make redd and whyte; That sworde is not in all Englande, Upon his coate will byte.

And you shall be a harper, brother, Out of the north countrye; And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte, And beare your harpe by your knee.

And you shal be the best harpèr, That ever tooke harpe in hand; And I wil be the best singèr, That ever sung in this lande.

Itt shal be written on our forheads All and in grammaryè, That we towe are the boldest men, That are in all Christentyè.

And thus they renisht them to ryde, On tow good renish steedes; And when they came to king Adlands hall, Of redd gold shone their weedes.

And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall, Untill the fayre hall yate, There they found a proud portèr Rearing himselfe thereatt.

Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud portèr; Sayes, Christ thee save and see. Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr, Of whatsoever land ye bee.

Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge, Come out of the northe countrye; Wee beene come hither untill this place, This proud weddinge for to see.

Sayd, And your color were white and redd, As it is blacke and browne, I wold saye king Estmere and his brother, Were comen untill this towne.

Then they pulled out a ryng of gold, Layd itt on the porters arme: And ever we will thee, proud porter, Thow wilt saye us no harme.

Sore he looked on king Estmere, And sore he handled the ryng, Then opened to them the fayre hall yates, He lett for no kind of thyng.

King Estmere he stabled his steede Soe fayre att the hall bord; The froth, that came from his brydle bitte, Light in kyng Bremors beard.

Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper, Saies, Stable him in the stalle; It doth not beseeme a proud harper To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.

My ladde he is no lither, he said, He will doe nought that's meete; And is there any man in this hall Were able him to beate

Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine, Thou harper, here to mee: There is a man within this halle Will beate thy ladd and thee.

O let that man come downe, he said, A sight of him wold I see; And when hee hath beaten well my ladd, Then he shall beate of mee.

Downe then came the kemperye man, And looketh him in the eare; For all the gold, that was under heaven, He durst not neigh him neare.

And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine, And how what aileth thee? He saies, It is writt in his forhead All and in gramaryè, That for all the gold that is under heaven I dare not neigh him nye.

Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe, And plaid a pretty thinge: The ladye upstart from the borde, And wold have gone from the king.

Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, For Gods love I pray thee, For and thou playes as thou beginns, Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.

He stroake upon his harpe againe, And playd a pretty thinge; The ladye lough a loud laughter, As shee sate by the king.

Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper, And thy stringes all, For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have' As heere bee ringes in the hall.

What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,' If I did sell itt yee? "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt, When abed together wee bee."