Chapter 14

Now, by the third part you will hear, This young man, as it doth appear, With care he then secured his chink, And to the vintner’s went to drink.

When the proud vintner did him see, He frowned on him immediately, And said, ‘Begone! or else with speed, I’ll kick thee out of doors, indeed.’

Smiling, the young man he did say, ‘Thou cruel knave! tell me, I pray, As I have here consumed my store, How durst thee kick me out of door?

‘To me thou hast been too severe; The deeds of eightscore pounds a-year, I pawned them for three hundred pounds, That I spent here;—what makes such frowns?’

The vintner said unto him, ‘Sirrah! Bring me one hundred pounds to-morrow By nine o’clock,—take them again; So get you out of doors till then.’

He answered, ‘If this chink I bring, I fear thou wilt do no such thing. He said, ‘I’ll give under my hand, A note, that I to this will stand.’

Having the note, away he goes, And straightway went to one of those That made him drink when moneyless, And did the truth to him confess.

They both went to this heap of gold, And in a bag he fairly told A thousand pounds, ill yellow-boys, And to the tavern went their ways.

This bag they on the table set, Making the vintner for to fret; He said, ‘Young man! this will not do, For I was but in jest with you.’

So then bespoke the young man’s friend: ‘Vintner! thou mayest sure depend, In law this note it will you cast, And he must have his land at last.’

This made the vintner to comply,— He fetched the deeds immediately; He had one hundred pounds, and then The young man got his deeds again.

At length the vintner ’gan to think How he was fooled out of his chink; Said, ‘When ’tis found how I came off, My neighbours will me game and scoff.’

So to prevent their noise and clatter The vintner he, to mend the matter, In two days after, it doth appear, Did cut his throat from ear to ear.

Thus he untimely left the world, That to this young man proved a churl. Now he who followed drunkenness, Lives sober, and doth lands possess.

Instead of wasting of his store, As formerly, resolves no more To act the same, but does indeed Relieve all those that are in need.

Let all young men now, for my sake, Take care how they such havoc make; For drunkenness, you plain may see, Had like his ruin for to be.

THE BOWES TRAGEDY.

Being a true relation of the Lives and Characters of ROGER WRIGHTSON and MARTHA RAILTON, of the Town of Bowes, in the County of York, who died for love of each other, in March, 1714/5

Tune of _Queen Dido_.

[_The Bowes Tragedy_ is the original of Mallet’s _Edition and Emma_. In these verses are preserved the village record of the incident which suggested that poem. When Mallet published his ballad he subjoined an attestation of the facts, which may be found in Evans’ _Old Ballads_, vol. ii. p. 237. Edit. 1784. Mallet alludes to the statement in the parish registry of Bowes, that ‘they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave,’ &c. The following is an exact copy of the entry, as transcribed by Mr. Denham, 17th April, 1847. The words which we have printed in brackets are found interlined in another and a later hand by some person who had inspected the register:—

‘Ro_d_ger Wrightson, Jun., and Martha Railton, both of Bowes, Buried in one grave: He _D_ied in a Fever, and upon tolling his passing Bell, she cry’d out My heart is broke, and in a _F_ew hours expir’d, purely [_or supposed_] thro’ Love, March 15, 1714/5, aged about 20 years each.’

Mr. Denham says:—

‘_The Bowes Tragedy_ was, I understand, written immediately after the death of the lovers, by the then master of Bowes Grammar School. His name I never heard. My father, who died a few years ago (aged nearly 80), knew a younger sister of Martha Railton’s, who used to sing it to strangers passing through Bowes. She was a poor woman, advanced in years, and it brought her in many a piece of money.’]

LET Carthage Queen be now no more The subject of our mournful song; Nor such old tales which, heretofore, Did so amuse the teeming throng; Since the sad story which I’ll tell, All other tragedies excel.

Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bowes, Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell; He courted Martha Railton, whose Repute for virtue did excel; Yet Roger’s friends would not agree, That he to her should married be.

Their love continued one whole year, Full sore against their parents’ will; And when he found them so severe, His loyal heart began to chill: And last Shrove Tuesday, took his bed, With grief and woe encompassèd.

Thus he continued twelve days’ space, In anguish and in grief of mind; And no sweet peace in any case, This ardent lover’s heart could find; But languished in a train of grief, Which pierced his heart beyond relief.

Now anxious Martha sore distressed, A private message did him send, Lamenting that she could not rest, Till she had seen her loving friend: His answer was, ‘Nay, nay, my dear, Our folks will angry be I fear.’

Full fraught with grief, she took no rest, But spent her time in pain and fear, Till a few days before his death She sent an orange to her dear; But’s cruel mother in disdain, Did send the orange back again.

Three days before her lover died, Poor Martha with a bleeding heart, To see her dying lover hied, In hopes to ease him of his smart; Where she’s conducted to the bed, In which this faithful young man laid.

Where she with doleful cries beheld, Her fainting lover in despair; At which her heart with sorrow filled, Small was the comfort she had there; Though’s mother showed her great respect, His sister did her much reject.

She stayed two hours with her dear, In hopes for to declare her mind; But Hannah Wrightson {108a} stood so near, No time to do it she could find: So that being almost dead with grief, Away she went without relief.

Tears from her eyes did flow amain, And she full oft would sighing say, ‘My constant love, alas! is slain, And to pale death, become a prey: Oh, Hannah, Hannah thou art base; Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace!’

She spent her time in godly prayers, And quiet rest did from her fly; She to her friends full oft declares, She could not live if he did die: Thus she continued till the bell, Began to sound his fatal knell.

And when she heard the dismal sound, Her godly book she cast away, With bitter cries would pierce the ground. Her fainting heart ’gan to decay: She to her pensive mother said, ‘I cannot live now he is dead.’

Then after three short minutes’ space, As she in sorrow groaning lay, A gentleman {108b} did her embrace, And mildly unto her did say, ‘Dear melting soul be not so sad, But let your passion be allayed.’

Her answer was, ‘My heart is burst, My span of life is near an end; My love from me by death is forced, My grief no soul can comprehend.’ Then her poor heart it waxèd faint, When she had ended her complaint.

For three hours’ space, as in a trance, This broken-hearted creature lay, Her mother wailing her mischance, To pacify her did essay: But all in vain, for strength being past, She seemingly did breathe her last.

Her mother, thinking she was dead, Began to shriek and cry amain; And heavy lamentations made, Which called her spirit back again; To be an object of hard fate, And give to grief a longer date.

Distorted with convulsions, she, In dreadful manner gasping lay, Of twelve long hours no moment free, Her bitter groans did her dismay: Then her poor heart being sadly broke, Submitted to the fatal stroke.

When things were to this issue brought, Both in one grave were to be laid: But flinty-hearted Hannah thought, By stubborn means for to persuade, Their friends and neighbours from the same, For which she surely was to blame.

And being asked the reason why, Such base objections she did make, She answerèd thus scornfully, In words not fit for Billingsgate: ‘She might have taken fairer on— Or else be hanged:’ Oh heart of stone!

What hell-born fury had possessed, Thy vile inhuman spirit thus? What swelling rage was in thy breast, That could occasion this disgust, And make thee show such spleen and rage, Which life can’t cure nor death assuage?

Sure some of Satan’s minor imps, Ordainèd were to be thy guide; To act the part of sordid pimps, And fill thy heart with haughty pride; But take this caveat once for all, Such devilish pride must have a fall.

But when to church the corpse was brought, And both of them met at the gate; What mournful tears by friends were shed, When that alas it was too late,— When they in silent grave were laid, Instead of pleasing marriage-bed.

You parents all both far and near, By this sad story warning take; Nor to your children be severe, When they their choice in love do make; Let not the love of cursèd gold, True lovers from their love withhold.

THE CRAFTY LOVER;

OR, THE LAWYER OUTWITTED.

Tune of _I love thee more and more_.

[THIS excellent old ballad is transcribed from a copy printed in Aldermary church-yard. It still continues to be published in the old broadside form.]

OF a rich counsellor I write, Who had one only daughter, Who was of youthful beauty bright; Now mark what follows after. {111} Her uncle left her, I declare, A sumptuous large possession; Her father he was to take care Of her at his discretion.

She had ten thousand pounds a-year, And gold and silver ready, And courted was by many a peer, Yet none could gain this lady. At length a squire’s youngest son In private came a-wooing, And when he had her favour won, He feared his utter ruin.

The youthful lady straightway cried, ‘I must confess I love thee, Though lords and knights I have denied, Yet none I prize above thee: Thou art a jewel in my eye, But here,’ said she, ‘the care is,— I fear you will be doomed to die For stealing of an heiress.’

The young man he replied to her Like a true politician; ‘Thy father is a counsellor, I’ll tell him my condition. Ten guineas they shall be his fee, He’ll think it is some stranger; Thus for the gold he’ll counsel me, And keep me safe from danger.’

Unto her father he did go, The very next day after; But did not let the lawyer know The lady was his daughter. Now when the lawyer saw the gold That he should be she gainer, A pleasant trick to him he told With safety to obtain her.

‘Let her provide a horse,’ he cried, ‘And take you up behind her; Then with you to some parson ride Before her parents find her: That she steals you, you may complain, And so avoid their fury. Now this is law I will maintain Before or judge or jury.

‘Now take my writing and my seal, Which I cannot deny thee, And if you any trouble feel, In court I will stand by thee.’ ‘I give you thanks,’ the young man cried, ‘By you I am befriended, And to your house I’ll bring my bride After the work is ended.’

Next morning, ere the day did break, This news to her he carried; She did her father’s counsel take And they were fairly married, And now they felt but ill at case, And, doubts and fears expressing, They home returned, and on their knees They asked their father’s blessing,

But when he had beheld them both, He seemed like one distracted, And vowed to be revenged on oath For what they now had acted. With that bespoke his new-made son— ‘There can be no deceiving, That this is law which we have done Here is your hand and sealing!’

The counsellor did then reply, Was ever man so fitted; ‘My hand and seal I can’t deny, By you I am outwitted. ‘Ten thousand pounds a-year in store ‘She was left by my brother, And when I die there will be more, For child I have no other.

‘She might have had a lord or knight, From royal loins descended; But, since thou art her heart’s delight, I will not be offended; ‘If I the gordian knot should part, ‘Twere cruel out of measure; Enjoy thy love, with all my heart, In plenty, peace, and pleasure.’

THE DEATH OF QUEEN JANE.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[WE have seen an old printed copy of this ballad, which was written probably about the date of the event it records, 1537. Our version was taken down from the singing of a young gipsy girl, to whom it had descended orally through two generations. She could not recollect the whole of it. In Miss Strickland’s _Lives of the Queens of England_, we find the following passage: ‘An English ballad is extant, which, dwelling on the elaborate mourning of Queen Jane’s ladies, informs the world, in a line of pure bathos,

In black were her ladies, and black were their faces.’

Miss Strickland does not appear to have seen the ballad to which she refers; and as we are not aware of the existence of any other ballad on the subject, we presume that her line of ‘pure bathos’ is merely a corruption of one of the ensuing verses.]

QUEEN JANE was in travail For six weeks or more, Till the women grew tired, And fain would give o’er. ‘O women! O women! Good wives if ye be, Go, send for King Henrie, And bring him to me.’

King Henrie was sent for, He came with all speed, In a gownd of green velvet From heel to the head. ‘King Henrie! King Henrie! If kind Henrie you be, Send for a surgeon, And bring him to me.’

The surgeon was sent for, He came with all speed, In a gownd of black velvet From heel to the head. He gave her rich caudle, But the death-sleep slept she. Then her right side was opened, And the babe was set free.

The babe it was christened, And put out and nursed, While the royal Queen Jane She lay cold in the dust.

* * * * *

So black was the mourning, And white were the wands, Yellow, yellow the torches, They bore in their hands.

The bells they were muffled, And mournful did play, While the royal Queen Jane She lay cold in the clay.

Six knights and six lords Bore her corpse through the grounds; Six dukes followed after, In black mourning gownds. The flower of Old England Was laid in cold clay, Whilst the royal King Henrie Came weeping away.

THE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN;

OR, CATSKIN.

[THE following version of this ancient English ballad has been collated with three copies. In some editions it is called _Catskin’s Garland_; _or_, _the Wandering Young Gentlewoman_. The story has a close similarity to that of _Cinderella_, and is supposed to be of oriental origin. Several versions of it are current in Scandinavia, Germany, Italy, Poland, and Wales. For some account of it see _Pictorial Book of Ballads_, ii. 153, edited by Mr. J. S. Moore.]