Part 7
And which goes forward narrating the almost identically same story: which story, homely and simple as it appears, is of surprising antiquity. In 1580, the Stationers' Company licensed "a ballad of a most strange wedding of the frogge and the mouse;" and that same ballad Dr. Robert Chambers printed from a small quarto manuscript of poems formerly in the possession of Sir Walter Scott, dated 1630. This very old version begins:--
Itt was ye frog in ye wall, Humble doune, humble doune; And ye mirrie mouse in ye mill, Tweidle, tweidle, twino.
And the closing lines tell that
Quhen ye supper they war at, The frog, mouse, and evin ye ratt.
There com in Gib our cat, And chaught ye mouse evin by ye back.
Then did they all seperat, And ye frog lap on ye floor so flat.
Then in com Dick our drack, And drew ye frog evin to ye lack.
Ye rat ran up ye wall, A goodlie companie, ye devall goe with all.
Of meaner antiquity, perhaps, but no less a favourite with the young, is the amusing ditty of
THE CARRION CROW.
A Carrion Crow sat on an oak, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, Watching a tailor shape his coat; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!
Wife, bring me my old bent bow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, That I may shoot yon carrion crow; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!
The tailor shot, and missed his mark, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, But shot the pig right through the heart; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do.
The next, though it has engaged the attention of the adult population, is a prime old-time favourite with the children as well.
MY PRETTY MAID.
"Where are you going to, my pretty maid?" "I am going a-milking, sir," she said.
"May I go with you, my pretty maid?" "You're kindly welcome, sir," she said.
"What is your father, my pretty maid?" "My father's a farmer, sir," she said.
"What is your fortune, my pretty maid?" "My face is my fortune, sir," she said.
"Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid." "Nobody asked you, sir," she said.
The original of the following, which has delighted particularly the children of Scotland for many generations, appears with its pleasing air in Johnson's _Musical Museum_:--
CAN YOU SEW CUSHIONS?
O can ye sew cushions? Or can ye sew sheets? An' can ye sing ba-la-loo When the bairnie greets?
An' hee an' ba, birdie, An' hee an' ba, lamb, Ah' hee an' ba, birdie, My bonnie wee man.
Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye? Black is the life that I lead wi' ye; Owre mony o' ye, little to gie ye, Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye?
Now hush-a-ba, lammie, An' hush-a-ba, dear; Now hush-a-ba, lammie, Thy minnie is here, The wild wind is ravin', Thy minnie's heart's sair; The wild wind is ravin', An' ye dinna care.
Hee O, wee O, etc.
Sing ba-la-loo, lammie, Sing bo-la-loo, dear; Does wee lammie ken That his daddie's no here? Ye're rockin' fu' sweetly On mammie's warm knee, But daddie's a-rockin' Upon the saut sea.
Hee O, wee O, etc.
O I hung thy cradle On yon holly top, An' aye as the wind blew Thy cradle did rock. An' hush-a-ba, baby, O ba-lilly-loo; An' hee an' ba, birdie, My bonnie wee doo!
Hee O, wee O, etc.
We see continually how dear to the songs of childlife are the mention of birds and all things sweet in the round of everyday life. Here now--
HUSH-A-BA BIRDIE, CROON.
Hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon, Hush-a-ba birdie, croon; The sheep are gane to the silver wood, And the coos are gane to the broom, broom, And the coos are gane to the broom.
And it's braw milking the kye, kye, It's braw milking the kye; The birds are singing, the bells are ringing, The wild deer come galloping by, by, The wild deer come galloping by.
And hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon, Hush-a-ba birdie, croon; The gaits are gane to the mountain hie, And they'll no be hame till noon, And they'll no be hame till noon.
A prime favourite--none excelling it--has been
DANCE TO YOUR DADDIE.
Dance to your daddie, My bonnie laddie, Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb; And ye'll get a fishie, In a little dishie, Ye'll get a fishie when the boat comes hame!
Dance to your daddie, My bonnie laddie, Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb! And ye'll get a coatie, And a pair o' breekies-- Ye'll get a whippie and a supple Tam!
By the bye, as touching the lullaby order of these songs, it is interesting to note that, no matter of what age or nation they may be, they are all but regularly made up on precisely the same plan. There is first the appeal to the child to slumber, or to rest and be happy; then comes the statement that the father is away following some toilsome occupation; and the promise succeeds that he will soon return laden with the fruits of his labour, and all will be well. We have been seeing, and will see again, how the Scottish go. The Norwegian mother sings:--
Row, row to Baltnarock, How many fish caught in the net? One for father and one for mother. One for sister and one for brother.
Even the Hottentot mother promises her child that its "dusky sire" shall bring it "shells from yonder shore," where he has probably been occupied in turning turtles over on their broad backs. The Breton song goes:--
Fais dado, pauvre, p'tit Pierrot. Papa est sur l'eau Qui fait des bateaux Pour le p'tit Pierrot.
The Swedish cradle song follows the almost universal custom. It runs (in English):--
Hush, hush; baby mine! Pussy climbs the big green pine, Ma turns the mill stone, Pa to kill the pig has gone.
The Danish does not prove an exception:--
Lullaby, sweet baby mine! Mother spins the thread so fine; Father o'er the bridge has gone, Shoes he'll buy for little John.
The North German cradle song is:--
Schlaf Kindchen, schlaf! Dein Vater hut't die schaf; Dein Mutter schuttelts Baumelien, Da fallt herab ein Tramelein, Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf!
Which, being done into English, runs:--
Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father guards the sheep; The mother shakes the dreamland tree, And from it falls sweet dreams for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep.
The simplest and crudest of these, we may be sure, has lulled millions to sleep, and by virtue of that association is worth more than many quartos of recent verse deliberately composed with the view of engaging the attention of the nursery circle. How many volumes of the newer wares, for instance, might be accepted in exchange for
KATIE BEARDIE.
Katie Beardie had a coo, Black and white about the mou'; Wasna that a dentie coo? Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a hen, Cackled but an' cackled ben; Wasna that a dentie hen? Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a cock That could spin a gude tow rock; Wasna that a dentie cock? Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a grice, It could skate upon the ice; Wasna that a dentie grice? Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a wean, That was a' her lovin' ain; Wasna that a dentie wean? Dance, Katie Beardie!
Yet, there is tolerable proof extant that the above dates from at least the beginning of the seventeenth century. "Katherine Beardie," anyway, is the name affixed to an air in a manuscript musical collection which belonged to the Scottish poet, Sir William Mure, of Rowallan, written, presumably, between the years 1612 and 1628. The same tune, under the name of "Kette Bairdie," also appears in a similar collection which belonged to Sir John Skene of Hallyards, supposed to have been written about 1629. Further, so well did Sir Walter Scott know that this was a popular dance during the reign of King James VI., as Mr. Dawney points out, that he introduces it in the _Fortunes of Nigel_, with this difference, that it is there called "Chrichty Bairdie," a name not precisely identical with that here given; but as Kit is a diminutive of Christopher, it is not difficult to perceive how the two came to be confounded. Old as it certainly is--and older by a deal it may be than these presents indicate--it maintains yet the charm of youth--delighting all with its lightly tripping numbers. No less does--
THE MILLER'S DOCHTER.
There was a miller's dochter, She wadna want a baby, O; She took her father's grey hound An' row'd it in a plaidie, O.
Singing, Hush-a-ba! hush-a-ba! Hush-a-ba, my baby, O! An 'twere na for you lang beard, I wad kiss your gabbie, O!
While bedding operations have been in progress no song, surely, has been more welcome and effective than
HAP AND ROW.
Hap and row, hap and row, Hap and row the feetie o't; I never kent I had a bairn Until I heard the greetie o't.
The wife put on the wee pan To boil the bairn's meatie, O, When down fell a cinder And burn't a' its feetie, O.
Hap and row, hap and row, Hap and row the feetie o't; I never kent I had a bairn Until I heard the greetie o't.
Sandy's mither she came in As sune's she heard the greetie o't, She took the mutch frae aff her head And rowed it round the feetie o't.
Hap and row, hap and row, etc.
In about equal favour stands
HOW DAN, DILLY DOW.
How dan, dilly dow, Hey dow, dan, Weel were ye're minnie. An' ye were a man.
Ye wad hunt an' hawk, An' hand her o' game, An' water your daddie's horse When he cam' hame.
How dan, dilly dow, Hey dan, floors, Ye'se lie i' your bed Till eleven hours.
If at eleven hours You list to rise, Ye'se hae your dinner dight In a new guise.
Laverocks' legs, And titlins' taes, And a' sic dainties My mannie shall hae.
A cheery and comforting lilt, indeed, with its promise of plenty. Much superior to the next, which bears in its bosom the hollow and unwelcome ring of a "toom girnal"--a sound no child should ever know. It is yet a lilt familiar to the nursery:--
CROWDIE.
Oh, that I had ne'er been married, I wad never had nae care; Now I've gotten wife and bairns, They cry Crowdie! ever mair.
Crowdie ance, crowdie twice, Three times crowdie in a day; Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.
Quoting the stanzas as an old ballad in a letter to his friend, Mrs. Dunlop, in December, 1795, the poet Burns wrote:--"There had much need to be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of Fate, even in all the vigour of manhood, as I am--such things happen every day--Gracious God! what would become of my little flock? 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on his death-bed, taking an ever-lasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I--but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!" So might we all. Then, away with it, and let us have a more lightsome spring.
WHISTLE, WHISTLE, AULD WIFE.
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife. An' ye'se get a hen." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye wad gi'e me ten."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a cock." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye'd gi'e me a flock."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, And ye'se get a goun." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "For the best ane i' the toun."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a coo." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye wad gi'e me two."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a man." "_Wheeple-whauple_" quo' the wife, "I'll whistle as I can."
Sung with vocal mimicry, the above makes a strikingly effective entertainment.
The song of "The Three Little Pigs" embraces a palpable moral, which not children alone would be the better for taking to heart. I wish I could sing it for you, my reader, as I have heard Mr. Tom Hunt, the well-known animal painter, sing it in social circles in Glasgow:--
THE THREE LITTLE PIGS.
A jolly old sow once lived in a sty, And three little piggies had she; And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!" While the little ones said "wee! wee!"
And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!" While the little ones said "wee! wee!"
"My dear little piggies," said one of the brats, "My dear little brothers," said he, "Let us all for the future say, 'grumph! grumph! grumph!' 'Tis so childish to say, 'wee! wee!'"
Let us all, etc.
These three little piggies grew skinny and lean, And lean they might very well be, For somehow they couldn't say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" And they wouldn't say "wee! wee!"
For somehow, etc.
So after a time these little pigs died, They all died of fe-lo-de-see, From trying too hard to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When they only could say "wee! wee!"
From trying, etc.
A moral there is to this little song, A moral that's easy to see: Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When you only can say "wee! wee!" Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When you only can say "wee! wee!"
Another delectable song for children--also of a subtly didactic character--is
COWE THE NETTLE EARLY.
Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle: Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle early.
Cowe it laich, cowe it sune, Cowe it in the month o' June; Stoo it ere it's in the bloom, Cowe the nettle early.
Cowe it by the old wa's, Cowe it where the sun ne'er fa's, Stoo it when the day daws, Cowe the nettle early.
Auld heuk wi' no ae tooth, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle; Auld gluive wi' leather loof, Cowe the nettle early.
The following curious song, which Mrs. Burns, the wife of the poet, was fond of crooning to her children, is not yet without some vogue outwith the printed page--though mainly in this verse, the place of which, by the bye, would be difficult to fix in the song as printed by Herd:--
The robin cam' to the wren's door, And keekit in, and keekit in: O, blessings on your bonnie pow, Wad ye be in, wad ye be in? I wadna let you lie thereout, And I within, and I within, As lang's I hae a warm clout, To row ye in, to row ye in.
To students of Burns it will ever be of prime interest from the fact that its air, as played by Miss Jessie Lewars to the poet only a few days before his death, supplied the hint for his most tender and touching lyric, "O Wert them in the Cauld Blast." Herd prints it thus:--
THE WREN'S NEST.
The wren scho lyes in care's bed, In care's bed, in care's bed; The wren scho lyes in care's bed, Wi' meikle dule and pyne, O.
When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Redbreist, Redbreist; When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Wi' succar-saps and wine, O.
Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, Taste o' this, taste o' this; Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, It's succar saps and wine, O?
Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Robin, Robin: Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Though it were ne'er sae fine, O.
And where's the ring that I gied ye, That I gied ye, that I gied ye: And where's the ring that I gied ye, Ye little cutty-quean, O?
I gied it till an ox-ee, An ox-ee, an ox-ee; I gied it till an ox-ee, A true sweetheart o' mine, O.
We began with the robin in this, I hope, not wearisome but entertaining _Melange_ of child-songs. We have never, indeed, got at any time far away from the lively and interesting little fellow; and, that being so, perhaps no item could more fittingly close the series than the very old song of
ROBIN REDBREAST'S TESTAMENT.
Gude-day now, bonnie Robin, How long have you been here? I've been bird about this bush This mair than twenty year!
But now I am the sickest bird That ever sat on brier; And I wad mak' my testament, Gudeman, if ye wad hear.
Gae tak' this bonnie neb o' mine, That picks upon the corn; And gie't to the Duke o' Hamilton To be a hunting-horn.
Gae tak' these bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my neb; And gi'e to the Lady o' Hamilton To fill a feather-bed.
Gae tak' this gude richt leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Tay; It will be a post and pillar gude-- Will neither bow nor gae.
And tak' this other leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Weir; It will be a post and pillar gude-- Will neither bow nor steer.
Gae tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my tail: And gie to the lads o' Hamilton To be a barn-flail.
And tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my breast: And gie to ony bonnie lad Will bring to me a priest.
Now in there came my Lady Wren Wi' mony a sigh and groan: O what care I for a' the lads If my ain lad be gone!
Then Robin turned him roundabout, E'en like a little king; Go; pack ye out o' my chamber-door, Ye little cutty quean!
Robin made his testament Upon a coll of hay; And by cam' a greedy gled And snapt him a' away.
CHILDREN'S HUMOUR AND QUAINT SAYINGS.
The humours of little folks, fresh and original, and invariably of the unconscious variety, and their quaint sayings, unrehearsed and uttered regularly without regard to effect--though with merciless honesty often--form a never-palling treat; and every man and woman who has reared a family, or has had joy in the society of other people's children, has his and her own budget, comprising tit-bits at once interesting, startling, and amusing. When occasion has saved us from the foolishly doting parent who is everlastingly prosing about the very clever things his own little Johnnie has said or done, I have seldom found greater enjoyment of a mixed company than when the queer sayings of children went round the board, and we had "recollections," by suggestion, of things which perhaps had been better left unsaid, as also of things which had been more agreeably expressed if differently worded; yet all so honestly set forth that even the "victims" could not help but enjoy them in some measure. Children accept all statements so implicitly, and, with their quick-working wits, they reason so straight-forwardly, that the application when voiced comes at times with a bang sufficient to take one's breath away. Given this and that, however, an application is unavoidable. As lief set fire behind powder in a gun and expect there will be no report. A mite of five, thus, will on occasion utter a syllogism that would not discredit a professor of logic, or will put a question to which a whole college of theologians might not venture an answer. A little lady of my acquaintance who had not yet seen her fourth birthday, was one morning told by her mother that she could not get out to play--the frost was too severe. "Who makes the frost, ma?" was asked. "God, dear." "What does He make frost for?" "To kill the worms." "And why does He make worms, and has to make frost to kill them?" This was a sufficient poser, but the mother continued, "The worms have to be killed, else they would eat the roots of all the plants and flowers." The little lady reflected, then gravely asked, "But does God kill the wee chicky worms that never eated any roots?" The mother did not answer, but looked now even more grave than the child. The same little miss was listening one evening to a newspaper report being read, which told how a man in a storm of wind had been blown with a ladder from a house-top in Glasgow, and was killed. "Who makes the wind?" she asked sharply. She was told. "And does God make the bad winds that kills the mans?" was demanded. There was no reply; but she read the silence as meaning "yes," and turning to leave the room she muttered more to herself than otherwise, "When I die and go to Heaven I'll not sit beside God." When repeating the _Pater-noster_ one evening she stuck at the first sentence, and wanted to know "If God is our Father in Heaven who is our Mother in Heaven?" But the mother was saved this time by the interposition of the little one's elder brother, who, with stern emphasis, exclaimed, "Stupid! God's wife, of course." A little boy-relative of that girl returned from school one day, while he was but a pupil in the infant department, and stepping proudly up to where his father was seated, "Pa," he exclaimed, "I am the cleverest boy in the class." "Indeed," returned the parent, "I am proud to hear that; but who said it?" "The teacher." "If the teacher said so, it surely must be true. What did she say, though?" "She said, 'Stand up the cleverest boy in the class,' and I stood up." The same little fellow was on the way to school with a friend one morning, towards the end of December, when the two were attracted by the appearance of a sweep on the chimney of a neighbouring building. "I ken what that man's doin' up there," he asserted; "he's sweepin' the lums for Santa Claus to get doon." And that recalls the story I once heard of a little man in the Carse of Gowrie. It happened on an evening towards the close of the year, as he was preparing for bed, and was sitting by the fire with his first liberated stocking in his hand, that he looked over to his mother, and "Mither," he asked, "will I get a pair o' new stockin's before Christmas?" "Maybe, laddie; but what gars ye speir?" "Because"--and he spoke mournfully, as he stuck his fingers through a large hole in the toe--"if Santa Claus puts onything intil thir anes, it'll fa' oot." How cleverly they reason, you see! "Bring me a drink o' water, Johnnie," was the order delivered by a Perthshire farmer to his little son one day a good many years ago. The boy went to do as he was asked, but the water-stoup had been nearly empty, and, as he was approaching his parent with the liquid, he paused and peered doubtfully into the hand-vessel, then, as if suddenly inspired by a happy thought, "Will I put meal in't, father?" he asked. "No." "Oh, weel, then"--and he turned to go back--"ye'll need to wait till somebody gangs to the well." But to return to children I have known for yet one or two more illustrations. I was at a tea-table one afternoon where the company was mostly composed of the smaller fry, and an incident, important to all, was mentioned, which had happened some seven or eight years before. Several of the older children declared, truthfully, that they remembered it quite well. "So do I mind o' it," asserted a little fellow about five. "How could you mind o' it?" questioned scornfully an older brother; "you wasna born at the time." "I ken," as scornfully returned the younger theologian; "I was dust at the time; but I mind o' it weel enough." Here is the verbatim copy of a letter written since by the hand of that same boy--in a country village in Perthshire--where he has been staying continuously for several years, and addressed to his father in Glasgow:--"Dear Pa, The Rabbits is all dead. Worried with dogs. The gold fishes is dead. Died with the cold. The cat has had kittens, four of them, and the rest of us is all well." The remark of a prominent Scottish novelist who recently passed the epistle through his hands was--"That's style, the most crisp and picturesque. And then--'the rest of us'--how beautifully innocent!"