Chapter 4

It was in a gallant palace most brave, Adornèd with all the cost they could have, This wedding it was kept most sumptuously, And all for the love of pretty Bessee.

And all kind of dainties and delicates sweet, Was brought to their banquet, as it was thought meet, Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.

The wedding through England was spread by report, So that a great number thereto did resort Of nobles and gentles of every degree, And all for the fame of pretty Bessee.

To church then away went this gallant young knight, His bride followed after, an angel most bright, With troops of ladies, the like was ne’er seen, As went with sweet Bessee of Bednall Green.

This wedding being solemnized then, With music performèd by skilfullest men, The nobles and gentlemen down at the side, Each one beholding the beautiful bride.

But after the sumptuous dinner was done, To talk and to reason a number begun, And of the blind beggar’s daughter most bright; And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.

Then spoke the nobles, ‘Much marvel have we This jolly blind beggar we cannot yet see!’ ‘My lords,’ quoth the bride, ‘my father so base Is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.’

‘The praise of a woman in question to bring, Before her own face is a flattering thing; But we think thy father’s baseness,’ quoth they, ‘Might by thy beauty be clean put away.’

They no sooner this pleasant word spoke, But in comes the beggar in a silken cloak, A velvet cap and a feather had he, And now a musician, forsooth, he would be.

And being led in from catching of harm, He had a dainty lute under his arm, Said, ‘Please you to hear any music of me, A song I will sing you of pretty Bessee.’

With that his lute he twangèd straightway, And thereon began most sweetly to play, And after a lesson was played two or three, He strained out this song most delicately:—

‘A beggar’s daughter did dwell on a green, Who for her beauty may well be a queen, A blithe bonny lass, and dainty was she, And many one callèd her pretty Bessee.

‘Her father he had no goods nor no lands, But begged for a penny all day with his hands, And yet for her marriage gave thousands three, Yet still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.

‘And here if any one do her disdain, Her father is ready with might and with main To prove she is come of noble degree, Therefore let none flout at my pretty Bessee.’

With that the lords and the company round With a hearty laughter were ready to swound; At last said the lords, ‘Full well we may see, The bride and the bridegroom’s beholden to thee.’

With that the fair bride all blushing did rise, With crystal water all in her bright eyes, ‘Pardon my father, brave nobles,’ quoth she, ‘That through blind affection thus doats upon 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 with his fortune could never agree;

And therefore, blind beggar, we pray thee bewray, And look to us then the truth thou dost say, Thy birth and thy parentage what it may be, E’en for the love thou bearest pretty Bessee.’

‘Then give me leave, ye gentles each one, A song more to sing and then I’ll begone, And if that I do not win good report, Then do not give me one groat for my sport:—

‘When first our king his fame did advance, And sought his title in delicate France, In many places great perils passed he; But then was not born my pretty Bessee.

‘And at those wars went over to fight, Many a brave duke, a lord, and a knight, And with them young Monford of courage so free; But then was not born my pretty Bessee.

‘And there did young Monford with a blow on the face Lose both his eyes in a very short space; His life had been gone away with his sight, Had not a young woman gone forth in the night.

‘Among the said men, her fancy did move, To search and to seek for her own true love, Who seeing young Monford there gasping to die, She savèd his life through her charity.

‘And then all our victuals in beggar’s attire, At the hands of good people we then did require; At last into England, as now it is seen, We came, and remainèd in Bednall Green.

‘And thus we have livèd in Fortune’s despite, Though poor, yet contented with humble delight, And in my old years, a comfort to me, God sent me a daughter called pretty Bessee.

And thus, ye nobles, my song I do end, Hoping by the same no man to offend; Full forty long winters thus I have been, A silly blind beggar of Bednall Green.’

Now when the company every one, Did hear the strange tale he told in his song, They were amazèd, as well they might be, Both at the blind beggar and pretty Bessee.

With that the fair bride they all did embrace, Saying, ‘You are come of an honourable race, Thy father likewise is of high degree, And thou art right worthy a lady to be.’

Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, A happy bridegroom was made the young knight, Who lived in great joy and felicity, With his fair lady dear pretty Bessee.

THE BOLD PEDLAR AND ROBIN HOOD.

[THIS ballad is of considerable antiquity, and no doubt much older than some of those inserted in the common Garlands. It appears to have escaped the notice of Ritson, Percy, and other collectors of Robin Hood ballads. The tune is given in _Popular Music_. An aged woman in Bermondsey, Surrey, from whose oral recitation the present version was taken down, said that she had often heard her grandmother sing it, and that it was never in print; but we have since met with several common stall copies. The subject is the same as that of the old ballad called _Robin Hood newly revived_; _or_, _the Meeting and Fighting with his Cousin Scarlett_.]

THERE chanced to be a pedlar bold, A pedlar bold he chanced to be; He rolled his pack all on his back, And he came tripping o’er the lee. Down, a down, a down, a down, Down, a down, a down.

By chance he met two troublesome blades, Two troublesome blades they chanced to be; The one of them was bold Robin Hood, And the other was Little John, so free.

‘Oh! pedlar, pedlar, what is in thy pack, Come speedilie and tell to me?’ ‘I’ve several suits of the gay green silks, And silken bowstrings two or three.’

‘If you have several suits of the gay green silk, And silken bowstrings two or three, Then it’s by my body,’ cries _bittle_ John, ‘One half your pack shall belong to me.’

Oh! nay, oh! nay,’ says the pedlar bold, ‘Oh! nay, oh! nay, that never can be, For there’s never a man from fair Nottingham Can take one half my pack from me.’

Then the pedlar he pulled off his pack, And put it a little below his knee, Saying, ‘If you do move me one perch from this, My pack and all shall gang with thee.’

Then Little John he drew his sword; The pedlar by his pack did stand; They fought until they both did sweat, Till he cried, ‘Pedlar, pray hold your hand!’

Then Robin Hood he was standing by, And he did laugh most heartilie, Saying, ‘I could find a man of a smaller scale, Could thrash the pedlar, and also thee.’

‘Go, you try, master,’ says Little John, ‘Go, you try, master, most speedilie, Or by my body,’ says Little John, ‘I am sure this night you will not know me.’

Then Robin Hood he drew his sword, And the pedlar by his pack did stand, They fought till the blood in streams did flow, Till he cried, ‘Pedlar, pray hold your hand!’

‘Pedlar, pedlar! what is thy name? Come speedilie and tell to me.’ ‘My name! my name, I ne’er will tell, Till both your names you have told to me.’

‘The one of us is bold Robin Hood, And the other Little John, so free.’ ‘Now,’ says the pedlar, ‘it lays to my good will, Whether my name I chuse to tell to thee.

‘I am Gamble Gold {61} of the gay green woods, And travellèd far beyond the sea; For killing a man in my father’s land, From my country I was forced to flee.’

‘If you are Gamble Gold of the gay green woods, And travellèd far beyond the sea, You are my mother’s own sister’s son; What nearer cousins then can we be?’

They sheathèd their swords with friendly words, So merrily they did agree; They went to a tavern and there they dined, And bottles cracked most merrilie.

THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT.

[THIS is the common English stall copy of a ballad of which there are a variety of versions, for an account of which, and of the presumed origin of the story, the reader is referred to the notes on the _Water o’ Wearie’s Well_, in the _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, published by the Percy Society. By the term ‘outlandish’ is signified an inhabitant of that portion of the border which was formerly known by the name of ‘the Debateable Land,’ a district which, though claimed by both England and Scotland, could not be said to belong to either country. The people on each side of the border applied the term ‘outlandish’ to the Debateable residents. The tune to _The Outlandish Knight_ has never been printed; it is peculiar to the ballad, and, from its popularity, is well known.]

AN Outlandish knight came from the North lands, And he came a wooing to me; He told me he’d take me unto the North lands, And there he would marry me.

‘Come, fetch me some of your father’s gold, And some of your mother’s fee; And two of the best nags out of the stable, Where they stand thirty and three.’

She fetched him some of her father’s gold, And some of the mother’s fee; And two of the best nags out of the stable, Where they stood thirty and three.

She mounted her on her milk-white steed, He on the dapple grey; They rode till they came unto the sea side, Three hours before it was day.

‘Light off, light off thy milk-white steed, And deliver it unto me; Six pretty maids have I drownèd here, And thou the seventh shall be.

‘Pull off, pull off thy silken gown, And deliver it unto me, Methinks it looks too rich and too gay To rot in the salt sea.

‘Pull off, pull of thy silken stays, And deliver them unto me; Methinks they are too fine and gay To rot in the salt sea.

‘Pull off, pull off thy Holland smock, And deliver it unto me; Methinks it looks too rich and gay, To rot in the salt sea.’

‘If I must pull off my Holland smock, Pray turn thy back unto me, For it is not fitting that such a ruffian A naked woman should see.’

He turned his back towards her, And viewed the leaves so green; She catched him round the middle so small, And tumbled him into the stream.

He droppèd high, and he droppèd low, Until he came to the side,— ‘Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden, And I will make you my bride.’

‘Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man, Lie there instead of me; Six pretty maids have you drownèd here, And the seventh has drownèd thee.’

She mounted on her milk-white steed, And led the dapple grey, She rode till she came to her own father’s hall, Three hours before it was day.

The parrot being in the window so high, Hearing the lady, did say, ‘I’m afraid that some ruffian has led you astray, That you have tarried so long away.’

‘Don’t prittle nor prattle, my pretty parrot, Nor tell no tales of me; Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold, Although it is made of a tree.’

The king being in the chamber so high, And hearing the parrot, did say, ‘What ails you, what ails you, my pretty parrot, That you prattle so long before day?’

‘It’s no laughing matter,’ the parrot did say, ‘But so loudly I call unto thee; For the cats have got into the window so high, And I’m afraid they will have me.’

‘Well turned, well turned, my pretty parrot, Well turned, well turned for me; Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold, And the door of the best ivory.’ {64}

LORD DELAWARE.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[THIS interesting traditional ballad was first published by Mr. Thomas Lyle in his _Ancient Ballads and Songs_, London, 1827. ‘We have not as yet,’ says Mr. Lyle, ‘been able to trace out the historical incident upon which this ballad appears to have been founded; yet those curious in such matters may consult, if they list, _Proceedings and Debates in the House of Commons_, for 1621 and 1662, where they will find that some stormy debating in these several years had been agitated in parliament regarding the corn laws, which bear pretty close upon the leading features of the ballad.’ Does not the ballad, however, belong to a much earlier period? The description of the combat, the presence of heralds, the wearing of armour, &c., justify the conjecture. For De la Ware, ought we not to read De la Mare? and is not Sir Thomas De la Mare the hero? the De la Mare who in the reign of Edward III., A.D. 1377, was Speaker of the House of Commons. All historians are agreed in representing him as a person using ‘great freedom of speach,’ and which, indeed, he carried to such an extent as to endanger his personal liberty. As bearing somewhat upon the subject of the ballad, it may he observed that De la Mare was a great advocate of popular rights, and particularly protested against the inhabitants of England being subject to ‘purveyance,’ asserting that ‘if the royal revenue was faithfully administered, there could be no necessity for laying burdens on the people.’ In the subsequent reign of Richard II, De In Mare was a prominent character, and though history is silent on the subject, it is not improbable that such a man might, even in the royal presence, have defended the rights of the poor, and spoken in extenuation of the agrarian insurrectionary movements which were then so prevalent and so alarming. On the hypothesis of De la Mare being the hero, there are other incidents in the tale which cannot be reconciled with history, such as the title given to De la Mare, who certainly was never ennobled; nor can we ascertain that he was ever mixed up in any duel; nor does it appear clear who can be meant by the ‘Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of Devonshire,’ that dukedom not having been created till 1694 and no nobleman having derived any title whatever from Devonshire previously to 1618, when Baron Cavendish, of Hardwick, was created the first _Earl_ of Devonshire. We may therefore presume that for ‘Devonshire’ ought to be inserted the name of some other county or place. Strict historical accuracy is, however, hardly to be expected in any ballad, particularly in one which, like the present, has evidently been corrupted in floating down the stream of time. There is only one quarrel recorded at the supposed period of our tale as having taken place betwixt two noblemen, and which resulted in a hostile meeting, viz., that wherein the belligerent parties were the Duke of Hereford (who might by a ‘ballad-monger’ be deemed a _Welsh_ lord) and the Duke of Norfolk. This was in the reign of Richard II. No fight, however, took place, owing to the interference of the king. Our minstrel author may have had rather confused historical ideas, and so mixed up certain passages in De la Mare’s history with this squabble; and we are strongly inclined to suspect that such is the case, and that it will be found the real clue to the story. Vide Hume’s _History of England_, chap. XVII. A.D. 1398. Lyle acknowledges that he has taken some liberties with the oral version, but does not state what they were, beyond that they consisted merely in ‘smoothing down.’ Would that he had left it ‘in the _rough_!’ The last verse has every appearance of being apocryphal; it looks like one of those benedictory verses with which minstrels were, and still are, in the habit of concluding their songs. Lyle says the tune ‘is pleasing, and peculiar to the ballad.’ A homely version, presenting only trivial variations from that of Mr. Lyle, is still printed and sung.]

IN the Parliament House, a great rout has been there, Betwixt our good King and the Lord Delaware: Says Lord Delaware to his Majesty full soon, ‘Will it please you, my liege, to grant me a boon?’

‘What’s your boon,’ says the King, ‘now let me understand?’ ‘It’s, give me all the poor men we’ve starving in this land; And without delay, I’ll hie me to Lincolnshire, To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang them all there.

‘For with hempen cord it’s better to stop each poor man’s breath, Than with famine you should see your subjects starve to death.’ Up starts a Dutch Lord, who to Delaware did say, ‘Thou deserves to be stabbed!’ then he turned himself away;

‘Thou deserves to be stabbed, and the dogs have thine ears, For insulting our King in this Parliament of peers.’ Up sprang a Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of Devonshire, ‘In young Delaware’s defence, I’ll fight this Dutch Lord, my sire;

‘For he is in the right, and I’ll make it so appear: Him I dare to single combat, for insulting Delaware.’ A stage was soon erected, and to combat they went, For to kill, or to be killed, it was either’s full intent.

But the very first flourish, when the heralds gave command, The sword of brave Devonshire bent backward on his hand; In suspense he paused awhile, scanned his foe before he strake, Then against the King’s armour, his bent sword he brake.

Then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in the ring, Saying, ‘Lend your sword, that to an end this tragedy we bring: Though he’s fighting me in armour, while I am fighting bare, Even more than this I’d venture for young Lord Delaware.’

Leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler now resounds, Till he left the Dutch Lord a bleeding in his wounds: This seeing, cries the King to his guards without delay, ‘Call Devonshire down,—take the dead man away!’

‘No,’ says brave Devonshire, ‘I’ve fought him as a man, Since he’s dead, I will keep the trophies I have won; For he fought me in your armour, while I fought him bare, And the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them wear.’

God bless the Church of England, may it prosper on each hand, And also every poor man now starving in this land; And while I pray success may crown our King upon his throne, I’ll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own.

LORD BATEMAN.

[THIS is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of _Lord Beichan_, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the _Early Ballads_, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of _The loving Ballad of Lord Bateman_. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray’s Catalogue, see _ante_, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt’s edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

LORD BATEMAN he was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; He shipped himself on board a ship, Some foreign country he would go see.

He sailèd east, and he sailèd west, Until he came to proud Turkèy; Where he was taken, and put to prison, Until his life was almost weary.

And in this prison there grew a tree, It grew so stout, and grew so strong; Where he was chainèd by the middle, Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter, The fairest creature my eyes did see; She stole the keys of her father’s prison, And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.

‘Have you got houses? have you got lands? Or does Northumberland belong to thee? What would you give to the fair young lady That out of prison would set you free?’

‘I have got houses, I have got lands, And half Northumberland belongs to me I’ll give it all to the fair young lady That out of prison would set me free.’

O! then she took him to her father’s hall, And gave to him the best of wine; And every health she drank unto him, ‘I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine!

‘Now in seven years I’ll make a vow, And seven years I’ll keep it strong, If you’ll wed with no other woman, I will wed with no other man.’

O! then she took him to her father’s harbour, And gave to him a ship of fame; ‘Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman, I’m afraid I ne’er shall see you again.’

Now seven long years are gone and past, And fourteen days, well known to thee; She packed up all her gay clothing, And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.

But when she came to Lord Bateman’s castle, So boldly she rang the bell; ‘Who’s there? who’s there?’ cried the proud portèr, ‘Who’s there? unto me come tell.’

‘O! is this Lord Bateman’s castle? Or is his Lordship here within?’ ‘O, yes! O, yes!’ cried the young portèr, ‘He’s just now taken his new bride in.’

‘O! tell him to send me a slice of bread, And a bottle of the best wine; And not forgetting the fair young lady Who did release him when close confine.’

Away, away went this proud young porter, Away, away, and away went he, Until he came to Lord Bateman’s chamber, Down on his bended knees fell he.

‘What news, what news, my proud young porter? What news hast thou brought unto me?’ ‘There is the fairest of all young creatures That ever my two eyes did see!

‘She has got rings on every finger, And round one of them she has got three, And as much gay clothing round her middle As would buy all Northumberlea.

‘She bids you send her a slice of bread, And a bottle of the best wine; And not forgetting the fair young lady Who did release you when close confine.’

Lord Bateman he then in a passion flew, And broke his sword in splinters three; Saying, ‘I will give all my father’s riches If Sophia has crossed the sea.’

Then up spoke the young bride’s mother, Who never was heard to speak so free, ‘You’ll not forget my only daughter, If Sophia has crossed the sea.’

‘I own I made a bride of your daughter, She’s neither the better nor worse for me; She came to me with her horse and saddle, She may go back in her coach and three.’

Lord Bateman prepared another marriage, And sang, with heart so full of glee, I’ll range no more in foreign countries, Now since Sophia has crossed the sea.’

THE GOLDEN GLOVE;

OR, THE SQUIRE OF TAMWORTH.

[THIS is a very popular ballad, and sung in every part of England. It is traditionally reported to be founded on an incident which occurred in the reign of Elizabeth. It has been published in the broadside form from the commencement of the eighteenth century, but is no doubt much older. It does not appear to have been previously inserted in any collection.]

A WEALTHY young squire of Tamworth, we hear, He courted a nobleman’s daughter so fair; And for to marry her it was his intent, All friends and relations gave their consent.

The time was appointed for the wedding-day, A young farmer chosen to give her away; As soon as the farmer the young lady did spy, He inflamèd her heart; ‘O, my heart!’ she did cry.

She turned from the squire, but nothing she said, Instead of being married she took to her bed; The thought of the farmer soon run in her mind, A way for to have him she quickly did find.

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on, And a hunting she went with her dog and her gun; She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell, Because in her heart she did love him full well:

She oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed, At length the young farmer came into the field; And to discourse with him it was her intent, With her dog and her gun to meet him she went.

‘I thought you had been at the wedding,’ she cried, ‘To wait on the squire, and give him his bride.’ ‘No, sir,’ said the farmer, ‘if the truth I may tell, I’ll not give her away, for I love her too well’

‘Suppose that the lady should grant you her love, You know that the squire your rival will prove.’ ‘Why, then,’ says the farmer, ‘I’ll take sword in hand, By honour I’ll gain her when she shall command.’

It pleasèd the lady to find him so bold; She gave him a glove that was flowered with gold, And told him she found it when coming along, As she was a hunting with her dog and gun.

The lady went home with a heart full of love, And gave out a notice that she’d lost a glove; And said, ‘Who has found it, and brings it to me, Whoever he is, he my husband shall be.’

The farmer was pleased when he heard of the news, With heart full of joy to the lady he goes: ‘Dear, honoured lady, I’ve picked up your glove, And hope you’ll be pleased to grant me your love.’

‘It’s already granted, I will be your bride; I love the sweet breath of a farmer,’ she cried. ‘I’ll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow, While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough.’

And when she was married she told of her fun, How she went a hunting with her dog and gun: ‘And now I’ve got him so fast in my snare, I’ll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare!’

KING JAMES I. AND THE TINKLER. {72a}

(TRADITIONAL.)

[THIS ballad of _King James I. and the Tinkler_ was probably written either in, or shortly after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero. The incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is doubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood, in Surrey; by others in some part of the English border. The ballad is alluded to by Percy, but is not inserted either in the _Reliques_, or in any other popular collection. It is to be found only in a few broadsides and chap-books of modern date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, as here given, from the recital of the late Francis King. {72b} It is much superior to the common broadside edition with which it has been collated, and from which the thirteenth and fifteenth verses were obtained. The ballad is very popular on the Border, and in the dales of Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Craven. The late Robert Anderson, the Cumbrian bard, represents Deavie, in his song of the _Clay Daubin_, as singing _The King and the Tinkler_.]

AND now, to be brief, let’s pass over the rest, Who seldom or never were given to jest, And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne, A pleasanter monarch sure never was known.

As he was a hunting the swift fallow-deer, He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear, In hope of some pastime away he did ride, Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.

And there with a tinkler he happened to meet, And him in kind sort he so freely did greet: ‘Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug, Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?’

‘By the mass!’ quoth the tinkler, ‘it’s nappy brown ale, And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail; For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine, I think that my twopence as good is as thine.’

‘By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,’ And straight he sat down with the tinkler to joke; They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other; Who’d seen ’em had thought they were brother and brother.

As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say, ‘What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?’ ‘There’s nothing of news, beyond that I hear The King’s on the border a-chasing the deer.

‘And truly I wish I so happy may be Whilst he is a hunting the King I might see; For although I’ve travelled the land many ways I never have yet seen a King in my days.’

The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied, ‘I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride, Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.’

‘But he’ll be surrounded with nobles so gay, And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?’ ‘Thou’lt easily ken him when once thou art there; The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.’

He got up behind him and likewise his sack, His budget of leather, and tools at his back; They rode till they came to the merry greenwood, His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.

The tinkler then seeing so many appear, He slily did whisper the King in his ear: Saying, ‘They’re all clothed so gloriously gay, But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?’

The King did with hearty good laughter, reply, ‘By my soul! my good fellow, it’s thou or it’s I! The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round.’— With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,

Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits, Then on his knees he instantly gets, Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said, ‘Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.

‘Come, tell thy name?’ ‘I am John of the Dale, A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.’ ‘Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here,— I make thee a knight of three thousand a year!’

This was a good thing for the tinkler indeed; Then unto the court he was sent for with speed, Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen, In the royal presence of King and of Queen.

Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee, At the court of the king who so happy as he? Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler’s old sack, And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.

THE KEACH I’ THE CREEL.

[THIS old and very humorous ballad has long been a favourite on both sides of the Border, but had never appeared in print till about 1845, when a Northumbrian gentleman printed a few copies for private circulation, from one of which the following is taken. In the present impression some trifling typographical mistakes are corrected, and the phraseology has been rendered uniform throughout. _Keach i’ the Creel_ means the catch in the basket.]

A FAIR young May went up the street, Some white fish for to buy; And a bonny clerk’s fa’n i’ luve wi’ her, And he’s followed her by and by, by, And he’s followed her by and by.

‘O! where live ye my bonny lass, I pray thee tell to me; For gin the nicht were ever sae mirk, I wad come and visit thee, thee; I wad come and visit thee.’

‘O! my father he aye locks the door, My mither keeps the key; And gin ye were ever sic a wily wicht, Ye canna win in to me, me; Ye canna win in to me.’

But the clerk he had ae true brother, And a wily wicht was he; And he has made a lang ladder, Was thirty steps and three, three; Was thirty steps and three.

He has made a cleek but and a creel— A creel but and a pin; And he’s away to the chimley-top, And he’s letten the bonny clerk in, in; And he’s letten the bonny clerk in.

The auld wife, being not asleep, Tho’ late, late was the hour; I’ll lay my life,’ quo’ the silly auld wife, ‘There’s a man i’ our dochter’s bower, bower; There’s a man i’ our dochter’s bower.’

The auld man he gat owre the bed, To see if the thing was true; But she’s ta’en the bonny clerk in her arms, And covered him owre wi’ blue, blue; And covered him owre wi’ blue.

‘O! where are ye gaun now, father?’ she says, ‘And where are ye gaun sae late? Ye’ve disturbed me in my evening prayers, And O! but they were sweit, sweit; And O! but they were sweit.’

‘O! ill betide ye, silly auld wife, And an ill death may ye dee; She has the muckle buik in her arms, And she’s prayin’ for you and me, me; And she’s prayin’ for you and me.’

The auld wife being not asleep, Then something mair was said; ‘I’ll lay my life,’ quo’ the silly auld wife, ‘There’s a man by our dochter’s bed, bed; There’s a man by our dochter’s bed.’

The auld wife she gat owre the bed, To see if the thing was true; But what the wrack took the auld wife’s fit? For into the creel she flew, flew; For into the creel she flew.

The man that was at the chimley-top, Finding the creel was fu’, He wrappit the rape round his left shouther, And fast to him he drew, drew: And fast to him he drew.

‘O, help! O, help! O, hinny, noo, help! O, help! O, hinny, do! For _him_ that ye aye wished me at, He’s carryin’ me off just noo, noo; He’s carryin’ me off just noo.’

‘O! if the foul thief’s gotten ye, I wish he may keep his haud; For a’ the lee lang winter nicht, Ye’ll never lie in your bed, bed; Ye’ll never lie in your bed.’

He’s towed her up, he’s towed her down, He’s towed her through an’ through; ‘O, Gude! assist,’ quo’ the silly auld wife, ‘For I’m just departin’ noo, noo; For I’m just departin’ noo.’

He’s towed her up, he’s towed her down, He’s gien her a richt down fa’, Till every rib i’ the auld wife’s side, Played nick nack on the wa’, wa’; Played nick nack on the wa’.

O! the blue, the bonny, bonny blue, And I wish the blue may do weel; And every auld wife that’s sae jealous o’ her dochter, May she get a good keach i’ the creel, creel; May she get a good keach i’ the creel!

THE MERRY BROOMFIELD; OR, THE WEST COUNTRY WAGER.

[THIS old West-country ballad was one of the broadsides printed at the Aldermary press. We have not met with any older impression, though we have been assured that there are black-letter copies. In Scott’s _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_ is a ballad called the _Broomfield Hill_; it is a mere fragment, but is evidently taken from the present ballad, and can be considered only as one of the many modern antiques to be found in that work.]

A NOBLE young squire that lived in the West, He courted a young lady gay; And as he was merry he put forth a jest, A wager with her he would lay.

‘A wager with me,’ the young lady replied, ‘I pray about what must it be? If I like the humour you shan’t be denied, I love to be merry and free.’

Quoth he, ‘I will lay you a hundred pounds, A hundred pounds, aye, and ten, That a maid if you go to the merry Broomfield, That a maid you return not again.’

‘I’ll lay you that wager,’ the lady she said, Then the money she flung down amain; ‘To the merry Broomfield I’ll go a pure maid, The same I’ll return home again.’

He covered her bet in the midst of the hall, With a hundred and ten jolly pounds; And then to his servant he straightway did call, For to bring forth his hawk and his hounds.

A ready obedience the servant did yield, And all was made ready o’er night; Next morning he went to the merry Broomfield, To meet with his love and delight.

Now when he came there, having waited a while, Among the green broom down he lies; The lady came to him, and could not but smile, For sleep then had closèd his eyes.

Upon his right hand a gold ring she secured, Drawn from her own fingers so fair; That when he awakèd he might be assured His lady and love had been there.

She left him a posie of pleasant perfume, Then stepped from the place where he lay, Then hid herself close in the besom of broom, To hear what her true love did say.

He wakened and found the gold ring on his hand, Then sorrow of heart he was in; ‘My love has been here, I do well understand, And this wager I now shall not win.

‘Oh! where was you, my goodly goshawk, The which I have purchased so dear, Why did you not waken me out of my sleep, When the lady, my love, was here?’

‘O! with my bells did I ring, master, And eke with my feet did I run; And still did I cry, pray awake! master, She’s here now, and soon will be gone.’

‘O! where was you, my gallant greyhound, Whose collar is flourished with gold; Why hadst thou not wakened me out of my sleep, When thou didst my lady behold?’

‘Dear master, I barked with my mouth when she came, And likewise my collar I shook; And told you that here was the beautiful dame, But no notice of me then you took.’

‘O! where wast thou, my servingman, Whom I have clothèd so fine? If you had waked me when she was here, The wager then had been mine.’

In the night you should have slept, master, And kept awake in the day; Had you not been sleeping when hither she came, Then a maid she had not gone away.’

Then home he returned when the wager was lost, With sorrow of heart, I may say; The lady she laughed to find her love crost,— This was upon midsummer-day.

‘O, squire! I laid in the bushes concealed, And heard you, when you did complain; And thus I have been to the merry Broomfield, And a maid returned back again.

‘Be cheerful! be cheerful! and do not repine, For now ’tis as clear as the sun, The money, the money, the money is mine, The wager I fairly have won.’

SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.

[THE West-country ballad of _Sir John Barleycorn_ is very ancient, and being the only version that has ever been sung at English merry-makings and country feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than any of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in Evans’s _Old Ballads_; viz., _John Barleycorn_, _The Little Barleycorn_, and _Mas Mault_. Our west-country version bears the greatest resemblance to _The Little Barleycorn_, but it is very dissimilar to any of the three. Burns altered the old ditty, but on referring to his version it will be seen that his corrections and additions want the simplicity of the original, and certainly cannot be considered improvements. The common ballad does not appear to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. _Sir John Barleycorn_ is very appropriately sung to the tune of _Stingo_. See _Popular Music_, p. 305.]

THERE came three men out of the West, Their victory to try; And they have taken a solemn oath, Poor Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him in, And harrowed clods on his head; And then they took a solemn oath, Poor Barleycorn was dead.

There he lay sleeping in the ground, Till rain from the sky did fall: Then Barleycorn sprung up his head, And so amazed them all.

There he remained till Midsummer, And looked both pale and wan; Then Barleycorn he got a beard, And so became a man.

Then they sent men with scythes so sharp, To cut him off at knee; And then poor little Barleycorn, They served him barbarously.

Then they sent men with pitchforks strong To pierce him through the heart; And like a dreadful tragedy, They bound him to a cart.

And then they brought him to a barn, A prisoner to endure; And so they fetched him out again, And laid him on the floor.

Then they set men with holly clubs, To beat the flesh from his bones; But the miller he served him worse than that, For he ground him betwixt two stones.

O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain That ever was sown on land; It will do more than any grain, By the turning of your hand.

It will make a boy into a man, And a man into an ass; It will change your gold into silver, And your silver into brass.

It will make the huntsman hunt the fox, That never wound his horn; It will bring the tinker to the stocks, That people may him scorn.

It will put sack into a glass, And claret in the can; And it will cause a man to drink Till he neither can go nor stand.

BLOW THE WINDS, I-HO!

[THIS Northumbrian ballad is of great antiquity, and bears considerable resemblance to _The Baffled Knight_; _or_, _Lady’s Policy_, inserted in Percy’s _Reliques_. It is not in any popular collection. In the broadside from which it is here printed, the title and chorus are given, _Blow the Winds_, _I-O_, a form common to many ballads and songs, but only to those of great antiquity. Chappell, in his _Popular Music_, has an example in a song as old as 1698:—

‘Here’s a health to jolly Bacchus, I-ho! I-ho! I-ho!’

and in another well-known old catch the same form appears:—

‘A pye sat on a pear-tree, I-ho, I-ho, I-ho.’

‘Io!’ or, as we find it given in these lyrics, ‘I-ho!’ was an ancient form of acclamation or triumph on joyful occasions and anniversaries. It is common, with slight variations, to different languages. In the Gothic, for example, Iola signifies to make merry. It has been supposed by some etymologists that the word ‘yule’ is a corruption of ‘Io!’]

THERE was a shepherd’s son, He kept sheep on yonder hill; He laid his pipe and his crook aside, And there he slept his fill.

And blow the winds, I-ho! Sing, blow the winds, I-ho! Clear away the morning dew, And blow the winds, I-ho!

He lookèd east, and he lookèd west, He took another look, And there he spied a lady gay, Was dipping in a brook.

She said, ‘Sir, don’t touch my mantle, Come, let my clothes alone; I will give you as much monèy As you can carry home.’

‘I will not touch your mantle, I’ll let your clothes alone; I’ll take you out of the water clear, My dear, to be my own.’

He did not touch her mantle, He let her clothes alone; But he took her from the clear water, And all to be his own.

He set her on a milk-white steed, Himself upon another; And there they rode along the road, Like sister, and like brother.

And as they rode along the road, He spied some cocks of hay; ‘Yonder,’ he says, ‘is a lovely place For men and maids to play!’

And when they came to her father’s gate, She pullèd at a ring; And ready was the proud portèr For to let the lady in.

And when the gates were open, This lady jumpèd in; She says, ‘You are a fool without, And I’m a maid within.

‘Good morrow to you, modest boy, I thank you for your care; If you had been what you should have been, I would not have left you there.

‘There is a horse in my father’s stable, He stands beyond the thorn; He shakes his head above the trough, But dares not prie the corn.

‘There is a bird in my father’s flock, A double comb he wears; He flaps his wings, and crows full loud, But a capon’s crest he bears.

‘There is a flower in my father’s garden, They call it marygold; The fool that will not when he may, He shall not when he wold.’

Said the shepherd’s son, as he doft his shoon, ‘My feet they shall run bare, And if ever I meet another maid, I rede that maid beware.’

THE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF KENT;

OR, THE SEAMAN OF DOVER.

[WE have met with two copies of this genuine English ballad; the older one is without printer’s name, but from the appearance of the type and the paper, it must have been published about the middle of the last century. It is certainly not one of the original impressions, for the other copy, though of recent date, has evidently been taken from some still older and better edition. In the modern broadside the ballad is in four parts, whereas, in our older one, there is no such expressed division, but a word at the commencement of each part is printed in capital letters.]