Chapter 4

Away then hied the heir of Linne O'er hill and holt and moor and fen, Untill he came to the lonesome lodge, That stud so lowe in a lonely glenne.

He looked up, he looked down, In hope some comfort for to win: But bare and lothly were the walls. Here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of Linne.

The little window dim and dark Was hung with ivy, brere, and yew; No shimmering sun here ever shone; No wholesome breeze here ever blew.

Nor chair, nor table he mote spy, No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed, Nought save a rope with a running noose, That dangling hung up o'er his head.

And over it in broad letters, These words were written so plain to see: 'Ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all, And brought thyself to penurie?

'And this my boding mind misgave I therefore left this trusty friend Let it now shield thy foule disgrace, And all thy shame and sorrows end.'

Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, Sorely shent was the heir of Lime; His heart, I wis, was near to burst With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin.

Never a word spake the heir of Lime, Never a word he spake but three: 'This is a trusty friend indeed, And is right welcome unto me'

Then round his neck the cord he drew, And sprang aloft with his bodie: When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, And to the ground came tumbing he.

Astonished lay the heir of Linne Nor knewe if he were live or dead: At length he looked, and saw a bill, And in it a key of gold so redd.

He took the bill, and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there: It told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere.

Two were full of the beaten gold, The third was full of white money; And over them in broad letters These words were written so plain to see:

'Once more, my son, I set thee clear; Amend thy life and follies past; For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last.'

And let it be,' said the heir of Linne; 'And let it be, but if I amend: For here I will make mine avow, This read shall guide me to the end.'

Away then went with a merry cheer, Away then went the heir of Linne; I wis, he neither ceas'd nor stayed, Till John o' the Scales' house he did win.

And when he came to John o' the Scales, Up at the window then looked he: There sate three lords upon a row, Were drinking of the wine so free.

And John himself sate at the bord-head, Because now lord of Linne was he. 'I pray thee,' he said, 'good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend me.'

'Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Away, away, this may not be: For a curse upon my head he said, If ever I trust thee one pennie.'

Then bespake the heir of Linne, To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he: 'Madame, some alms on me bestow, I pray for sweet saint Charitie.'

'Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I swear thou gettest no alms of me; For if we shold hang any losel here, The first we would begin with thee.'

Then bespake a good fellowe, Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord; Sayd, 'Turn again, thou heir of Linne; Some time thou wast a well good Lord:

'Some time a good fellow thou hast been, And sparedst not thy gold and fee: Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need be.

'And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie: For well I wot thou hadst his land, And a good bargain it was to thee.'

Up then spake him John o' the Scales, All hot he answered him againe: 'Now a curse upon my head, he said, But I did lose by that bargaine.

'And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne, Before these lords so fair and free, Thou shalt have it back again better cheap, By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.

'I draw you to record, lords, he said. With that he cast him a god's pennie: Now by my fay, sayd the heir of Linne, And here, good John, is thy money.'

And he pull'd forth three bags of gold, And layd them down upon the board: All woebegone was John o' the Scales, Soe sheet he could say never a word.

He told him forth the good red gold, He told it forth with mickle dinne, The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now I'm again the lord of Linne.

Sayes, 'Have thou here, thou good fellowe, Forty pence thou didst lend me: Now I am again the lord of Linne, And forty pounds I will give thee.

'I'll make thee keeper of my forest, Both of the wild deere and the tame; For unless I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.'

'Now well-aday!' sayth John o' the Scales: 'Now well-aday! and woe is my life!' 'Yesterday I was lady of Linne, Now I'm but John o' the Scales his wife.'

'Now fare thee well, said the heir of Linne; Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said he. A curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy.'

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER

AN old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greats estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like an old courtier of the queen's And the queen's old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier...

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: Like an old courtier...

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, And an old frize coat to cover his worship's trunk hose, And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier...

With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good chear enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, Like an old courtier...

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier...

But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd; Like a young courtier of the king's And the king's young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; Like a young courtier...

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping, or care, Who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair; Like a young courtier...

With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; Like a young courtier...

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; Like a young courtier...

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier...

With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier...

With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, Among the young courtiers of the king, Among the king's young courtiers.

THE WINNING OF CALES

LONG the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, Threatning our country with fyer and sword; Often preparing their navy most sumptuous With as great plenty as Spain could afford. Dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums; Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.

To the seas presentlye went our lord admiral, With knights couragious and captains full good; The brave Earl of Essex, a prosperous general, With him prepared to pass the salt flood.

At Plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye, Braver ships never were seen under sayle, With their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head. Now bragging Spaniards, take heed of your tayle.

Unto Cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, Where the kinges navy securelye did ryde; Being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, Ere any Spaniards our coming descryde.

Great was the crying, the running and ryding, Which at that season was made in that place; The beacons were fyred, as need then required; To hyde their great treasure they had little space.

There you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast, And how their men drowned themselves in the sea; There you might hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously, When they saw no shift to 'scape thence away.

The great St. Philip, the pryde of the Spaniards, Was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; But the St. Andrew, and eke the St. Matthew, Wee took in fight manfullye and brought away.

The Earl of Essex, most valiant and hardye, With horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town; The Spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, Did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down.

Now, quoth the noble Earl, courage my soldiers all, Fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have; And be well rewarded all from the great to the small; But look that the women and children you save.

The Spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight, Hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne; Wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye, With English colours which purchas'd renowne.

Entering the houses then, of the most richest men, For gold and treasure we searched eche day; In some places we did find, pyes baking left behind, Meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away.

Full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes, Damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre: Which soldiers measur'd out by the length of their swords; Of all commodities eche had a share.

Thus Cales was taken, and our brave general March'd to the market-place, where he did stand: There many prisoners fell to our several shares, Many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd.

When our brave general saw they delayed all, And would not ransome their towne as they said, With their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, Their joint-stools and tables a fire we made; And when the town burned all in a flame, With tara, tantara, away we all came.

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON

THERE was a youth, a well-beloved youth, And he was a squire's son; He loved the bayliffe's daughter dear, That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coy and would not believe That he did love her so, No nor at any time would she Any countenance to him show.

But when his friends did understand His fond and foolish mind, They sent him up to faire London An apprentice for to bind.

And when he had been seven long years, And never his love could see: Many a tear have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of me.

Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and play, All but the bayliffe's daughter dear; She secretly stole away.

She pulled off her gown of green, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour so redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; One penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, Will ease me of much pain.

Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Pray tell me where you were born. At Islington, kind sir, said she, Where I have had many a scorn.

I prythe, sweet-heart, then tell to me, O tell me, whether you know, The bayliffe's daughter of Islington. She is dead, sir, long ago.

If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will unto some far country, Where no man shall me know.

O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth, She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And ready to be thy bride.

O farewell grief, and welcome joy, Ten thousand times therefore; For now I have found mine own true love. Whom I thought I should never see more.

CHEVY CHASE