Chapter 2

Of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, That late was betrothed 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, Adorned with all the cost they could have, This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, 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 troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen, As went with sweet Bessy of Bednall-green.

This marriage being solemnized then, With musick performed by the skilfullest men, The nobles and gentles sat 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 touched the strings, which made such a charm, Says, Please you to hear any musick of me, I'll sing you a song of pretty Bessee.

With that his lute he twanged straightway, And thereon began most sweetly to play; And after that lessons were played two or three, He strain'd out this song most delicatelie.

'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 called 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 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 pray 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 ofttimes he made their 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 moved with pity, and brought him away.

'In secret she nurst him, and swaged 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 clothed ourselves in beggars' array; Her jewels she sold, and hither came we: All our comfort and care was our pretty Bessee.

'And here have we lived in fortune's despite, Though poor, yet contented with humble delight: Full forty winters thus have I been A silly blind beggar of Bednall-green.

'And here, noble lords, is ended the song Of one, that once to your own rank did belong: And thus have you learned 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 amazed, 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 knight, In joy and felicitie long lived he, All with his fair lady, the pretty Bessee.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD

Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words, which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die, No help his life could save; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind, In love they liv'd, in love they died, And left two babes behind:

The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three yeares old; The other a girl more young than he, And fram'd in beauty's mould. The father left his little son, As plainly doth appeare, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a yeare.

And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controll'd: But if the children came to die, Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possesse their wealth; For so the will did run.

Now, brother, said the dying man, Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here: To God and you I recommend My children dear this daye; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay.

You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knows what will become of them, When I am dead and gone. With that bespake their mother dear, O brother kind, quoth she, You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or miserie:

And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deeds regard. With lips as cold as any stone, They kist their children small: God bless you both, my children dear; With that the tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there, The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not feare; God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear, Wheli you are laid in grave.

The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straite unto his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away.

He bargain'd with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale, He would the children send To be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoycing at that tide, Rejoycing with a merry mind, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay:

So that the pretty speech they had, Made Murder's heart relent; And they that undertook the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch, that hired him, Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight, About the children's life: And he that was of mildest mood, Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for fear!

He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry: And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain: Stay here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread, When I come back again.

The pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down; But never more could see the man Approaching from the town; Their pretty lips with black-berries, Were all besmear'd and dyed, And when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cryed.

Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till death did end their grief, In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair Of any man receives, Till Robin-redbreast piously Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell: His barns were fir'd, his goods consum'd, His lands were barren made; His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stayd.

And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sons did die; And to conclude, himself was brought To want and misery: He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about. And now at length this wicked act Did by this means come out:

The fellow, that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judg'd to die, Such was God's blessed will: Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been display'd: Their uncle having died in gaol, Where he for debt was laid.

You that executors be made, And overseers eke, Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like misery Your wicked minds requite.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE PINDER OF WAKEFIELD

IN Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder, In Wakefield, all on a green;

'There is neither knight nor squire,' said the pinder, 'Nor baron that is so bold, Dare make a trespasse to the town of Wakefield, But his pledge goes to the pinfold.'

All this beheard three witty young men, 'Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John; With that they spied the jolly pinder, As he sate under a thorn.

'Now turn again, turn again,' said the pinder, 'For a wrong way have you gone; For you have forsaken the king his highway, And made a path over the corn.'

'Oh, that were great shame,' said jolly Robin, `We being three, and thou but one': The pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, 'Twas thirty good foot and one.

He leaned his back fast unto a thorn, And his foot unto a stone, And there he fought a long summer's day, A summer's day so long, Till that their swords, on their broad bucklers, Were broken fast unto their hands.

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'Hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said Robin Hood, 'And my merry men every one; For this is one of the best pinders That ever I try'd with sword.

'And wilt thou forsake thy pinder his craft, And live in the green wood with me?'

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'At Michaelmas next my covenant comes out, When every man gathers his fee; I'le take my blew blade all in my hand, And plod to the green wood with thee.'

'Hast thou either meat or drink,' said Robin Hood, 'For my merry men and me?'

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'I have both bread and beef,' said the pinder, 'And good ale of the best'; 'And that is meat good enough,' said Robin Hood, For such unbidden guest.

O wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft And go to the green wood with me? 'Thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, The one green, the other brown shall be.'

'If Michaelmas day were once come and gone, And my master had paid me my fee, Then would I set as little by him As my master doth set by me.'

THE NUT-BROWN MAID

_He_. BE it right or wrong, these men among On women do complain; Affirming this, how that it is A labour spent in vain, To love them well; for never a deal They love a man again: For let a man do what he can, Their favour to attain, Yet, if a new do them pursue, Their first true lover then Laboureth for nought; for from their thought He is a banished man.

_She_. I say not nay, but that all day It is both written and said, That woman's faith is, as who saith, All utterly decayed; But, nevertheless, right good witness In this case might be laid, That they love true, and continue: Record the Nut-brown Maid: Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his moan, Would not depart; for in her heart She loved but him alone.

_He_. Then between us let us discuss What was all the manner Between them two: we will also Tell all the pain, and fear, That she was in. Now I begin, So that ye me answer; Wherefore, all ye, that present be, I pray you give an ear. 'I am the knight; I come by night, As secret as I can; Saying, alas! thus standeth the case, I am a banished man.'

She. And I your will for to fulfil In this will not refuse; Trustying to show, in words few, That men have an ill use (To their own shame) women to blame, And causeless them accuse; Therefore to you I answer now, All women to excuse, Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer I pray you, tell anon; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. It standeth so; a deed is done Whereof great harm shall grow: My destiny is for to die A shameful death, I trow; Or else to flee. The one must be; None other way I know, But to withdraw as an outlaw, And take me to my bow. Wherefore adieu, my own heart true! None other rede I can: For I must to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. O Lord, what is this worldis bliss, That changeth as the moon! My summer's day in lusty May Is derked before the noon. I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, We depart not so soon, Why say ye so? whither will ye go? Alas! what have you done? All my welfare to sorrow and care Should change, if you were gone; For in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. I can believe, it shall you grieve, And somewhat you distrain; But, afterward, your paines hard Within a day or twain Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take Comfort to you again. Why should ye ought? for to make thought, Your labour were in vain. And thus I do; and pray you to, As hartely, as I can; For I must to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. Now, sith that ye have showed to me The secret of your mind, I shall be plain to you again, Like as ye shall me find. Sith it is so, that ye will go, I will not live behind; Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid Was to her love unkind: Make you ready, for so am I, Although it were anone; For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone.

_He_. Yet I you rede to take good heed What men will think, and say: Of young and old it shall be told, That ye be gone away, Your wanton will for to fulfil, In green-wood you to play; And that ye might for your delight No longer make delay. Rather than ye should thus for me Be called an ill woman, Yet would I to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. Though it be sung of old and young, That I should be to blame, Theirs be the charge, that speak so large In hurting of my name: For I will prove that faithful love It is devoid of shame; In your distress, and heaviness, To part with you, the same: And sure all those, that do not so, True lovers are they none; For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone.

_He_. I counsel you, Remember how, It is no maiden's law, Nothing to doubt, but to run out To wood with an outlaw: For ye must there in your hand bear A bow, ready to draw, And, as a thief, thus must you live, Ever in dread and awe; Whereby to you great harm might grow: Yet had I liever than, That I did to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. I think not nay, but as ye say, It is no maiden's lore: But love may make me for your sake, As I have said before, To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot To get us meat in store; For so that I your company May have, I ask no more: From which to part, it maketh my heart As cold as any stone; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. For an outlaw this is the law, That men him take and bind; Without pitie, hanged to be, And waver with the wind. If I had need (as God forbid!) What socours could ye find? Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow For fear would draw behind: And no marvel; for little avail Were in your counsel then: Wherefore I will to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. Right well know ye that woman be But feeble for to fight; No womanhede it is indeed To be bold as a knight: Yet, in such fear if that ye were With enemies day or night, I would withstand, with bow in hand, To grieve them as I might, And you to save; as women have From death men many one; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. Yet take good heed; for ever I dread That ye could not sustain The thorny ways, the deep valleys, The snow, the frost, the rain, The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, We must lodge on the plain; And, us above, no other roof But a brake bush, or twain: Which soon should grieve you, I believe, And ye would gladly than That I had to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. Sith I have here been partynere With you of joy and bliss, I must also part of your woe Endure, as reason is: Yet am I sure of one pleasure; And shortly, it is this: That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, I could not fare amiss. Without more speech, I you beseech That we were soon agone; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. If you go thyder, ye must consider, When ye have lust to dine, There shall no meat be for you gete, Neither beer, ale, nor wine; No slakes clean, to lie between, Made of thread and twine; None other house but leaves and boughs, To cover your head and mine, Lo, mine heart sweet, this evil diete Should make you pale and wan; Wherefore I will to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. Among the wild deer, such an archere As men say that ye be, Ne may not fail of good vitayle, Where is so great plente: And water clear of the rivere Shall be full sweet to me; With which in hele I shall right wele Endure, as ye shall see; And, or we go, a bed or two I can provide anone; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. Lo yet, before, ye must do more, If ye will go with me: As cut your hair up by your ear, Your kirtle by the knee; With bow in hand, for to withstand Your enemies, if need be: And this same night before daylight. To woodward will I flee. If that ye will all this fulfil, Do it shortly as ye can: Else will I to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. I shall as now do more for you Than 'longeth to womanhede; To shote my hair, a bow to bear, To shoot in time of need. O my sweet mother, before all other For you I have most dread! But now, adieu! I must ensue, Where fortune doth me lead. All this make ye: Now let us flee; The day cometh fast upon; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, And I shall tell you why, Your appetite is to be light Of love, I well espy: For, like as ye have said to me, In likewise hardily Ye would answere whosoever it were, In way of company. It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold; And so is a woman. Wherefore I to the wood will go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. If ye take heed, it is no need Such words to say by me; For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, Or I loved you, parde And though that I of ancestry A baron's daughter be, Yet have you proved how I you loved, A squire of low degree; And ever shall, whatso befall; To die therefore anone; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. A baron's child to be beguil'd! It were a cursed deed; To be felawe with an outlaw! Almighty God forbid! Yet better were the poor squyere Alone to forest yede, Than ye shall say another day, That, by my cursed rede, Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid, The best rede that I can, Is, that I to the green-wood go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thing be upbraid: But if ye go, and leave me so, Then have ye me betrayed. Remember you well, how that ye deal; For, if ye, as ye said, Be so unkind, to leave behind, Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, Trust me truly, that I shall die Soon after ye be gone; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. If that ye went, ye should repent; For in the forest now I have purvayed me of a maid, Whom I love more than you; Another more fair than ever ye were, I dare it well avow; And of you both each should be wroth With other, as I trow: It were mine ease to live in peace; So will I, if I can; Wherefore I to the wood will go, Alone, a banished man.

_She_. Though in the wood I understood Ye had a paramour, All this may nought remove my thought, But that I will be yours: And she shall find me soft and kind, And courteous every hour; Glad to fulfil all that she will Command me to my power: For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, Yet would I be that one, For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. Mine own dear love, I see the prove That ye be kind and true; Of maid, and wife, in all my life, The best that ever I knew. Be merry and glad, be no more sad, The case is changed new; For it were ruth, that, for your truth, Ye should have cause to rue. Be not dismayed; whatsoever I said To you when I began; I will not to the green-wood go; I am no banished man.

_She_. These tidings be more glad to me, Than to be made a queen, If I were sure they should endure; But it is often seen, When men will break promise, they speak The wordis on the spleen. Ye shape some wile me to beguile, And steal from me, I ween: Then were the case worse than it was, And I more wobegone; For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.

_He_. Ye shall not need further to dread; I will not disparage You (God defend), sith ye descend Of so great lineage. Now understand; to Westmoreland, Which is my heritage, I will you bring; and with a ring, By way of marriage I will you take, and lady make, As shortly as I can. Thus have you won an Erle's son, And not a banished man.

_Here may ye see, that woman be In love, meek, kind, and stable: Let never man reprove them than, Or call them variable; But rather pray God that we may To them be comfortable; Which sometimes proveth such, as He loveth, If they be charitable. For sith men would that women should Be meek to them each one; Much more ought they to God obey, And serve but Him alone._

SIR HUGH OF LINCOLN

FOUR and twenty bonny boys Were playing at the ba'; Then up and started sweet Sir Hugh, The flower amang them a'.

He hit the ba' a kick wi's fit, And kept it wi' his knee, That up into the Jew's window He gart the bonny ba' flee.

'Cast doun the ba' to me, fair maid, Cast doun the ba' to me '; 'O ne'er a bit o' the ba' ye get Till ye cum up to me.

'Cum up, sweet Hugh, cum up, dear Hugh, Cum up and get the ba''; 'I canna cum, I darna cum, Without my playferes twa.'

'Cum up, sweet Hugh, cum up, dear Hugh, Cum up and play wi' me'; I canna cum, I darna cum, Without my playferes three.'

She's gane into the Jew's garden, Where the grass grew lang and green; She pow'd an apple red and white, To wyle the young thing in.

She wyl'd him into ae chamber, She wyl'd him into twa; She wyl'd him to her ain chamber, The fairest o' them a'.

She laid him on a dressing-board Where she did sometimes dine; She put a penknife in his heart And dressed him like a swine.

Then out and cam the thick, thick blude, Then out and cam the thin; Then out and cam the bonny heart's blude, Where a' the life lay in.

She row'd him in a cake of lead, Bad him lie still and sleep; She cast him into the Jew's draw-well, Was fifty fadom deep.

She's tane her mantle about her head, Her pike-staff in her hand; And prayed Heaven to be her guide Unto some uncouth land.

His mither she cam to the Jew's castle, And there ran thryse about: 'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here, I pray ye to me speak.'

She cam into the Jew's garden, And there ran thryse about: 'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here, I pray ye to me speak.'

She cam unto the Jew's draw-well, And there ran thryse about: 'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here, I pray ye to me speak.'

'How can I speak, how dare I speak, How can I speak to thee? The Jew's penknife sticks in my heart, I canna speak to thee.

'Gang hame, gang hame, O mither dear, And shape my winding-sheet, And at the birks of Mirryland town There you and I shall meet.'

When bells were rung and Mass was sung, And a' men bound for bed, Every mither had her son, But sweet Sir Hugh was dead.

THE GYPSY COUNTESS

THERE come seven gypsies on a day, Oh, but they sang bonny, O! And they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear, Down cam the earl's ladie, O.

They gave to her the nutmeg, And they gave to her the ginger; But she gave to them a far better thing, The seven gold rings off her fingers.

When the earl he did come home, Enquiring for his ladie, One of the servants made this reply, 'She's awa with the gypsie laddie.'

'Come saddle for me the brown,' he said, 'For the black was ne'er so speedy, And I will travel night and day Till I find out my ladie.'

'Will you come home, my dear?' he said, Oh will you come home, my honey? And by the point of my broad sword, A hand I'll ne'er lay on you.'

'Last night I lay on a good feather-bed, And my own wedded lord beside me, And to-night I'll lie in the ash-corner, With the gypsies all around me.

'They took off my high-heeled shoes, That were made of Spanish leather, And I have put on coarse Lowland brogues, To trip it o'er the heather.'

'The Earl of Cashan is lying sick; Not one hair I'm sorry; I'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips Than all his gold and his money.'

THERE WERE THREE LADIES

THERE were three ladies play'd at the ba', With a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay.

Bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a', Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly.

The first o' them was clad in yellow: 'O fair May, will ye be my marrow?' Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly.

The niest o' them was clad i' ried: O fair May, will ye be my bride?'

The thrid o' them was clad i' green: He said, 'O fair May, will ye be my queen?'

THE HEIR OF LINNE