Chapter 9
"And, if thou wilt marry with me," quoth the knight, "I'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; My heart's so inthrall-ed by thy beaut-ie, That soon I shall die for pretty Bessee."
The gentleman said, "Come, marry with me, As fine as a lady my Bessy shall be: My life is distress-ed: O hear me," quoth he; "And grant me thy love, my pretty Bessee."
"Let me be thy husband," the merchant could 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."
Then Bessy she sigh-ed, and thus she did say, "My father and mother I mean to obey; First get their good will, and be faithful to me, And you shall enjoy your pretty Bessee."
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?"
"My father," she said, "is soon to be seen: The seely blind beggar of Bethnal Green, That daily sits begging for charit-ie, He is the good father of pretty Bessee."
"His marks and his tokens are known very well; He always is led with a dog and a bell: A seely 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 loathe," said the gentle, "a beggar's degree, And therefore adieu, my pretty Bessee!"
"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:
"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."
But soon after this, by the 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.
As swift as the wind to ride they were seen, Until they came near unto Bethnal Green; And as the knight lighted most courteouslie, They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.
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.
Then spake the blind beggar, "Although I be poor, Yet rail not against my child at my own door: Though she be not deck-ed in velvet and pearl, Yet will I drop angels with you for my girl.
"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.
"But first you shall promise, and have it well known, The gold that you drop shall all be your own." With that they repli-ed, "Contented be we." "Then here's," quoth the beggar, "for pretty Bessee!"
And with that an angel he cast on the ground, And dropp-ed in angels full three thousand pound; And oftentimes it was prov-ed most plain, For the gentlemen's one the beggar dropped twain:
So that the place, wherein they did sit, With gold it was cover-ed every whit. The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, Said, "Now, beggar, hold; for we have no more.
"Thou hast fulfill-ed 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."
The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen, Admir-ed the beggar of Bethnal Green: And all those, that were her suitors before, Their flesh for very anger they tore.
Thus the fair Bess was matched 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 Bethnal Green.
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 wish-ed delight.
THE SECOND FYTTE.
Of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, That late was betroth-ed unto a young knight; All the discourse thereof you did see; But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
Within a gorgeous palace most brave, Adorn-ed with all the cost they could have, This wedding was kept most sumptuousl-ie, And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.
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.
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.
To church then went this gallant young knight, His bride followed after, an angel most bright, With gay troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen As went with sweet Bessy of Bethnal Green.
This marriage being sol-emniz-ed then, With music performed by the skilfullest men, The nobles and gentles sate down at that tide, Each one admiring the beautiful bride.
Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, To talk and to reason a number begun; They talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
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."
"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."
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.
He had a dainty lute under his arm, He touch-ed the strings, which made such a charm, Says, "Please you to hear any music of me, I'll sing you a song of pretty Bessee."
With that his lute he twang-ed straightway, And thereon began most sweetly to play; And after that lessons were played two or three, He strained out this song most delicatel-ie.
"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 call-ed her pretty Bessee.
"Her father he had no goods, nor no land, But begged 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.
"And if any one here her birth do disdain, Her father is ready, with might and with main, To prove she is come of a 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."
"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:
"And therefore, blind man, we bid 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."
"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.
"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 oft-times he made their bold enemies flee.
"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!
"Along with the nobles, that fell at that tide, His eldest son Henry, who fought by his side, Was felled by a blow he received in the fight: A blow that deprived him for ever of sight.
"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 mov-ed with pity, and brought him away.
"In secret she nursed him, and swag-ed 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.
"And now, lest our foes our lives should betray, We cloth-ed ourselves in beggar's array; Her jewels she sold, and hither came we: All our comfort and care was our pretty Bessee.
"And here have we liv-ed in fortune's despite, Though poor, yet contented with humble delight: Full forty winters thus have I been A silly blind beggar of Bethnal Green.
"And here noble lord-es, is ended the song Of one that once to your own rank did belong: And thus have you learn-ed a secret from me, That ne'er had been known but for pretty Bessee."
Now when the fair company every one, Had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown, They all were amaz-ed, as well they might be, Both at the blind beggar, and pretty Bessee.
With that the fair bride they all did embrace, Saying, "Sure thou art come of an honourable race, Thy father likewise is of noble degree, And thou art well worthy a lady to be."
Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, A bridegroom most happy then was the young knight, In joy and felicity long liv-ed he, All with his fair lady, the pretty Bessee.
THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.
There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, And he was a squire's son: He loved the bailiffs daughter dear, That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coy, and would not believe That he did love her so; No, nor at any time would she Any countenance to him show.
But when his friends did understand His fond and foolish mind, They sent him up to fair Lond-on An apprentice for to bind.
And when he had been seven long years, And never his love could see: "Many a tear have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of me."
Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and play, All but the bailiff's daughter dear; She secretly stole away.
She pull-ed off her gown of green, And put on ragged attire, And to fair London she would go Her true love to inquire.
And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank, And her true love came riding by.
She started up, with a colour so red, Catching hold of his bridle-rein; "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, "Will ease me of much pain."--
"Before I give you one penny, sweetheart, Pray tell me where you were born."-- "At Islington, kind sir," said she, "Where I have had many a scorn."--
"I pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me, O tell me, whether you know The bailiffs daughter of Islington."-- "She is dead, sir, long ago."--
"If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some far countrie, Where no man shall me know."--
"O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth, She standeth by thy side: She is here alive, she is not dead,-- And ready to be thy bride."--
"O farewell grief, and welcome joy, Ten thousand times therefore! For now I have found mine own true love, Whom I thought I should never see more."
BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY.
In Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin', Made every youth cry, Well away! 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.
He sent his man unto her then, To the town where she was dwellin'; "You must come to my master dear, Gif your name be Barbara Allen.
"For death is printed on his face, And o'er his heart is stealin': Then haste away to comfort him, O lovely Barbara Allen."
Though death be printed on his face And o'er his heart is stealin', Yet little better shall he be For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nigh him; And all she said, when there she came, "Young man, I think y'are dying."
He turned his face unto her straight, With deadly sorrow sighing; "O lovely maid, come pity me, I'm on my deathbed lying."--
"If on your deathbed you do lie, What needs the tale you are tellin'; I cannot keep you from your death: Farewell," said Barbara Allen.
He turned his face unto the wall, As deadly pangs he fell in: "Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all! Adieu to Barbara Allen!"
As she was walking o'er the fields, She heard the bell a knellin'; And every stroke did seem to say,-- UNWORTHY BARBARA ALLEN.
She turned her body round about, And spied the corpse a coming: "Lay down, lay down the corpse," she said, "That I may look upon him."
With scornful eye she look-ed down, Her cheek with laughter swellin'; Whilst all her friends cried out amain, UNWORTHY BARBARA ALLEN.
When he was dead, and laid in grave, Her heart was struck with sorrow, "O mother, mother, make my bed, For I shall die to-morrow!
"Hard-hearted creature him to slight, Who lov-ed me so dearly: O that I had been more kind to him, When he was alive and near me!"
She, on her deathbed as she lay, Begged to be buried by him; And sore repented of the day, That she did e'er deny him.
"Farewell," she said, "ye maidens all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen."
SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.
There came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous groan, And aye he tirl-ed at the pin; But answer made she none.
"Is this my father Philip? Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willie, From Scotland new come home?"
"'Tis not thy father Philip; Nor yet thy brother John: But 'tis thy true love Willie From Scotland new come home.
"O sweet Margret! O dear Margret! I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee."
"Thy faith and troth thou'se never get, Of me shalt never win, Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin."
"If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lip, Thy days will not be lang.
"O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee."--
"Thy faith and troth thou'se never get, Of me shalt never win, Till thou take me to yon kirkyard, And wed me with a ring."--
"My bones are buried in a kirkyard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, That's speaking now to thee."
She stretch-ed out her lily-white hand, As for to do her best: "Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest!"
Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corpse followed she.
"Is there any room at your head, Willie? Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep?"
"There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, There's nae room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet."
Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: "'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret, That I were gane away."
No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous groan, Evanished in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone.
"O stay, my only true love, stay!" The constant Margret cried: Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een, Stretched her saft limbs, and died.
THE BRAES O' YARROW.
Ten lords sat drinking at the wine, Intill a morning early; There fell a combat them among, It must be fought,--nae parly.
--"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord, O stay, my ain dear marrow."-- "Sweetest mine, I will be thine, And dine wi' you to-morrow."
She's kissed his lips, and combed his hair, As she had done before, O; Gied him a brand down by his side, And he is on to Yarrow.
As he gaed ower yon dowie knowe, As aft he'd dune before, O; Nine arm-ed men lay in a den, Upo' the braes o' Yarrow.
"O came ye here to hunt or hawk, As ye hae done before, O? Or came ye here to wiel' your brand, Upo' the braes o' Yarrow."--
"I came nae here to hunt nor hawk, As I hae dune before, O; But I came here to wiel' my brand, Upon the braes o' Yarrow."--
Four he hurt, and five he slew, Till down he fell himsell, O; There stood a fause lord him behin', Who thrust him thro' body and mell, O.
"Gae hame, gae hame, my brother John, And tell your sister sorrow; Your mother to come take up her son, Aff o' the braes o' Yarrow."
As he gaed ower yon high, high hill, As he had dune before, O; There he met his sister dear, Came rinnin' fast to Yarrow.
"I dreamt a dream last night," she says, "I wish it binna sorrow; I dreamt I was pu'ing the heather green, Upo' the braes o' Yarrow."--
"I'll read your dream, sister," he says, "I'll read it into sorrow; Ye're bidden gae take up your love, He's sleeping sound on Yarrow."
She's torn the ribbons frae her head, They were baith thick and narrow; She's kilted up her green claithing, And she's awa' to Yarrow.
She's taen him in her arms twa, And gien him kisses thorough, And wi' her tears she bathed his wounds, Upo' the braes o' Yarrow.
Her father looking ower his castle wa', Beheld his daughter's sorrow; "O haud yer tongue, daughter," he says, "And let be a' your sorrow; I'll wed you wi' a better lord, Than he that died on Yarrow."--
"O haud your tongue, father," she says, "And let be till to-morrow; A better lord there coudna be Than he that died on Yarrow."
She kissed his lips, and combed his hair, As she had dune before, O; Then wi' a crack her heart did brack Upon the braes o' Yarrow.
KEMP OWYNE.
Her mother died when she was young, Which gave her cause to make great moan; Her father married the warst woman That ever lived in Christendom.
She serv-ed her with foot and hand, In every thing that she could dee; Till once in an unlucky time, She threw her in ower Craigy's sea.
Says, "Lie you there, dove Isabel, And all my sorrows lie with thee; Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea, And borrow you with kisses three, Let all the warld do what they will, Oh! borrowed shall you never be."
Her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang, And twisted thrice about the tree; And all the people far and near, Thought that a savage beast was she; These news did come to Kemp Owyne, Where he lived far beyond the sea.
He hasted him to Craigy's sea, And on the savage beast looked he; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted was about the tree; And with a swing she came about, "Come to Craigy's sea and kiss with me.
"Here is a royal belt," she cried, "That I have found in the green sea; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; But if you touch me tail or fin, I vow my belt your death shall be."
He stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, The royal belt he brought him wi' Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted twice about the tree; And with a swing she came about, "Come to Craigy's sea and kiss with me.
"Here is a royal ring," she said, "That I have found in the green sea; And while your finger it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; But if you touch me tail or fin, I swear my ring your death shall be."
He stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, The royal ring he brought him wi'; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted ance about the tree; And with a swing she came about, "Come to Craigy's sea and kiss with me.
"Here is a royal brand," she said, "That I have found in the green sea; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; But if you touch me tail or fin, I swear my brand your death shall be."
He stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, The royal brand he brought him wi'; Her breath was sweet, her hair grew short, And twisted nane about the tree: And smilingly she came about, As fair a woman, as fair could be.
O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.
As I came by the shore o' Forth, And in by the craigs o' Bernie; There I spied a ship on the sea, And the skipper o' her was Charlie.
O'er the water, and o'er the sea, O'er the water to Charlie; I'll gie John Ross another bawbie, To boat me o'er to Charlie.
Charlie keeps nae needles nor pins, And Charlie keeps nae trappin'; But Charlie keeps twa bonnie black een, Would haud the lasses waukin'.
O'er the water, and o'er the sea, O'er the water to Charlie; I'll gie John Ross another bawbie, To boat me o'er to Charlie.
O Charlie is neither laird nor lord, Nor Charlie is a caddie; But Charlie has twa bonnie red cheeks, And he's my juggler laddie.
O'er the water, and o'er the sea, O'er the water to Charlie; I'll gie John Ross another bawbie, To boat me o'er to Charlie.
A pinch o' snuff to poison the whigs, A gill o' Geneva to drown them; And he that winna drink Charlie's health, May roaring seas surround him.
O'er the water, and o'er the sea, And o'er the water to Charlie; I'll gie John Brown another half-crown, To boat me o'er to Charlie.
ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.