Chapter VIII: Appendix: Kempy Kaye

From Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 81.

There is a resemblance in two points between this ballad and the Danish _Greve Genselin_ (Grundtvig, No. 16, translated by Jamieson, _Illustrations_, p. 310). The characters in both are giants: the smallest kemp that danced at Genselin's bridal was "fifteen ells to his knee." Secondly, the bridal in the one ballad and the wooing in the other are described in a style of extravagant parody; more gross in the English, however, than in the Danish, where it is confined to the bride's enormous appetite. This portion of _Greve Genselin_ occurs also in _Tord af Havsgaard_ (Grundtvig, No. 1), which ballad is founded upon the story of Thor's Hammer in the _Edda_.

Kempy Kaye's a wooing gane,
Far far ayont the sea,
An' he has met with an auld auld man,
His gudefather to be.

"Gae scrape yeersel, and gae scart yeersel, 5
And mak your bruchty face clean,[L7, 8]
For the wooers are to be here the nicht,
And yeer body's to be seen.

"What's the matter wi' you, my fair maiden,
You luk so pale and wan? 10
I'm sure you was once the fairest maiden
That ever the sun shined on."

Sae they scrapit her, and they scartit her,
Like the face of an assy pan,
And in cam Kempy Kaye himself, 15
A clever and tall young man.[L16-20]

His teeth they were like tether sticks,
His nose was three feet lang;
Between his shouthers was ells three,
Between his een a span. 20

"I'm coming to court your dochter dear,
An' some pairt of your gear:"
"An' by my sooth," quo' Bengoleer,
"She'll sair a man o' weir.

"My dochter she's a thrifty lass; 25
She span seven year to me;
An' if it war weil counted up,
Full ten wobs it would be."

He led his dochter by the han',
His dochter ben brought he; 30
"O is she not the fairest lass
That's in great Christendye?"

Ilka hair intil her head
Was like a heather cow,
And ilka louse aninder it 35
Was like a lintseed bow.[L36]

She had lauchty teeth, an' kaily lips,
An' wide lugs fu' o' hair;
Her pouches fu' o' pease-meal daigh,
War hinging down her spare. 40

Ilka ee intil her head
Was like a rotten ploom,
An' down down browit was the quean,
An' sairly did she gloom.

Ilka nail upon her hand 45
Was like an iron rake,
An' ilka teeth into her head
Was like a tether stake.

She gied to him a gay gravat
O' the auld horse's sheet, 50
And he gied her a gay gold ring
O' the auld couple reet.

7, 8. _Var_.

For Kempy Kaye's to be here the nicht,
Or else the morn at een.

16-20. See _King Henry_, v. 21,22, vol. i. p. 148, and _The Wee Wee Man_, vol. i. p. 126, note. Also _Carle of Carlile_, v. 177-188 in Madden's _Syr Gawayne_, p. 256.

36. _Var._ Was like a brucket yowe.

KEMPY KAYE.

From Kinloch's _Ballad Book_, p. 41.

Kempy Kaye is a wooing gane
Far far ayont the sea,
And there he met wi' auld Goling,
His gudefather to be, be,
His gudefather to be. 5

"Whar are ye gaun, O Kempy Kaye,
Whar are ye gaun sa sune?"
"O I am gaun to court a wife,
And think na ye that's weel dune, dune,
And think na ye that's weel dune?" 10

"And ye be gaun to court a wife,
As ye do tell to me,
'Tis ye sall hae my Fusome Fug,
Your ae wife for to be, be,
Your ae wife for to be." 15

"Rise up, rise up my Fusome Fug,
And mak your foul face clean,
For the brawest wooer that ere ye saw
Is come develling doun the green, green,
Is come develling doun the green." 20

Up then raise the Fusome Fug,
To mak her foul face clean;
And aye she curs'd her mither
She had na water in, in,
She had na water in. 25

She rampit out, and she rampit in,
She rampit but and ben;
The tittles and tattles that hang frae her tail
Wad muck an acre o' land, land,
Wad muck an acre o' land. 30

She had a neis upon her face
Was like an auld pat-fit;
Atween her neis bot and her mou
Was inch thick deep o' dirt, dirt,
Was inch thick deep o' dirt. 35

She had twa een intil her head
War like twa rotten plooms;
The heavy brows hung down her face,
And O I vow she glooms, glooms!
And O I vow she glooms! 40

Ilka hair that was on her head
Was like a heather cow,
And ilka louse that lookit out
Was like a lintseed bow, bow,
Was like a lintseed bow. 45

When Kempy Kaye cam to the house,
He lookit thro' a hole,
And there he saw the dirty drab
Just whisking oure the coal, coal,
Just whisking oure the coal. 50

He gied to her a braw silk napkin,
Was made o' an auld horse brat;
"I ne'er wore a silk napkin a' my life,
But weel I wat Is'e wear that, that,
But weel I wat Is'e wear that. 55

"He gied to her a braw gowd ring,
Was made frae an auld brass pan,
"I ne'er wore a gowd ring in a' my life,
But now I wat I'se wear ane, ane,
But now I wat Is'e wear ane." 60

Whan thir twa loves had met thegither,
O kissing to tak their fill,
The slaver that hang atween their twa gabs
Wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill, bill,
Wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill. 65

THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE.

From _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, edited by Robert Bell, p. 124. This ballad, says the editor, "has long been popular in Worcestershire and some of the adjoining counties. It was printed for the first time by Mr. Allies of Worcester, under the title of _The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove_; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the adjoining county of Warwick, it has always been called _The Old Man and his Three Sons_--the name given to a fragment of the ballad still used as a nursery song in the north of England, the chorus of which slightly varies from that of the ballad: (see p. 250 of the same publication.)" Mr. Bell imagines that there is an allusion to this ballad in _As You Like It_, i. 2, where Le Beau says

"There comes an old man and his three sons,"

and Celia replies,

"I could match this beginning with an old tale."

* * * * *

Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
And one of them was Sir Ryalas,
_For he was a jovial hunter_.

He ranged all round down by the wood side, 5
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_,
Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied,
_For he was a jovial hunter_.

"O, what dost thee mean, fair lady?" said he,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; 10
"The wild boar's killed my lord, and has thirty men gored,
_And thou beest a jovial hunter_.

"O what shall I do this wild boar for to see?"
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
"O, thee blow a blast, and he'll come unto thee, 15
_As thou beest a jovial hunter_.

Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west and south,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
And the wild boar then heard him full in his den,
_As he was a jovial hunter_. 20

Then he made the best of his speed unto him,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
[Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with gore,][L23]
_To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_.

Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong, 25
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along,
_To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_.

"O what dost thee want of me?" wild boar, said he,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; 30
"O I think in my heart I can do enough for thee,
_For I am the jovial hunter_."

Then they fought four hours in a long summer day,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
Till the wild boar fain would have got him away 35
_From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite,
_For he was a jovial hunter_. 40

Then out of the wood the wild woman flew,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
"O my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew,
_For thou beest a jovial hunter_.

"There are three things, I demand them of thee, 45
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
"It's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady,
_As thou beest a jovial hunter_."

"If these three things thou dost ask of me,"
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; 50
It's just as my sword and thy neck can agree,
_For I am a jovial hunter_."

Then into his long locks the wild woman flew,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
Till she thought in her heart to tear him through, 55
_Though he was a jovial hunter_.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
And he fairly split her head into twain,
_For he was a jovial hunter_. 60

In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie,
_Wind well thy horn, good hunter_;
And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby,
_Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_.

23. Inserted by Bell.

THE BLUDY SERK.

_The Bludy Serk_, both story and morality, is taken from the _Gesta Romanorum_; see two forms of the tale in Madden's _Old English Versions_, &c. p. 22, p. 404.

This poem is preserved in the Bannatyne Manuscript, and has been several times printed. The present copy is from Laing's _Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland_. The author is Robert Henryson, whose ballad of _Robene and Makyne_ has been given in the fourth volume of this collection.

This hindir yeir I hard be tald,
Thair was a worthy king;
Dukis, erlis, and barronis bald,
He had at his bidding.
The lord was anceane and ald, 5
And sexty yeiris cowth ring;
He had a dochter, fair to fald,
A lusty lady ying.

Off all fairheid scho bur the flour,
And eik hir faderis air; 10
Off lusty laitis and he honour;
Meik, bot and debonair.
Scho wynnit in a bigly bour;
On fold wes none so fair;
Princes luvit hir, paramour, 15
In cuntries our all quhair.

Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the king
A fowll gyane of ane;
Stollin he hes the lady ying,
Away with hir is gane; 20
And kest hir in his dungering,
Quhair licht scho micht se nane;
Hungir and cauld and grit thristing
Scho fand in to hir wame.

He wes the laithliest on to luk 25
That on the grund mycht gang;
His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk,
Thairwith fyve quarteris lang.
Thair wes nane that he ourtuk,
In rycht or yit in wrang, 30
But all in schondir he thame schuke,
The gyane wes so strang.

He held the lady day and nycht
Within his deip dungeoun;
He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht 35
For gold nor yit ransoun,
Bot gife the king mycht get a knycht
To fecht with his persoun,
To fecht with him, both day and nycht,
Quhill ane wer dungin doun. 40

The king gart seik baith fer and neir,
Beth be se and land,
Off any knycht gife he micht heir,
Wald fecht with that gyand.
A worthy prince, that had no peir, 45
Hes tane the deid on hand,
For the luve of the lady cleir,
And held full trewe cunnand.

That prince come prowdly to the toun,
Of that gyane to heir, 50
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presonier,
And kest him in his awin dungeoun,
Allane withouttin feir,
With hungir, cawld, and confusioun, 55
As full weill worthy weir;

Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht,
Vnto hir fadir he;[L58]
Sa evil wondit was the knycht,
That he behuvit to de. 60
Unlusum was his likame dicht,
His sark was all bludy;
In all the warld was thair a wicht
So petyouse for to se!

The lady murnyt, and maid grit mone, 65
With all her mekle micht:
"I lufit nevir lufe, bot one,
That dulfully now is dicht!
God sen my lyfe wer fra me tone,
Or I had sene yone sicht; 70
Or ellis in begging evir to gone,
Furth with yone curtass knycht!"

He said, "Fair lady, now mone I
De, trestly ye me trow:
Tak ye my sark that is bludy, 75
And hing it forrow yow:
First think on it, and syne on me,
Quhen men cumis yow to wow."
The lady said, "Be Mary fre,
Thairto I mak a wow." 80

Quhen that scho lukit to the serk,
Scho thocht on the persoun,
And prayit for him with all hir harte,
That lowsd hir of bandoun,
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk, 85
In that deip dungéoun;
And ever quhill scho wes in quert,
That wass hir a lessoun.

Sa weill the lady luvit the knycht,
That no man wald scho tak: 90
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak;
Quhilk fullély to deid was dicht,
For sinfull manis saik;
Sa suld we do both day and nycht, 95
With prayaris to him mak.

MORALITAS.

This king is lyk the trinitie,
Baith in hevin and heir:
The manis saule to the lady,
The gyane to Lucefeir: 100
The knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre,
And coft our synnis deir:
The pit to hell, with panis fell,
The syn to the woweir.

The lady was wowd, but scho said nay, 105
With men that wald hir wed;
Sa suld we wryth all syn away,
That in our breistis bred.
I pray to Jesu Chryst verrey
For us his blud that bled, 110
To be our help on domysday,
Quhair lawis ar straitly led.

The saule is Godis dochtir deir,
And eik his handewerk,
That was betrasit with Lucifeir, 115
Quha sittis in hell full merk.
Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,
Hend men, will ye nocht herk?
For his lufe that bocht us deir,
Think on the Bludy Serk! 120

58. MS. deir.

THE WANTON WIFE OF BATH.

Evans's _Old Ballads_, i. 277; Collection of 1723, ii. 173.

This excellent ballad, to adopt the encomium of Addison, (_Spectator_, No. 247,) was admitted by Percy into the earlier editions of the _Reliques_, (iii. 146, 1st ed.) though excluded from the revised edition of 1794. The same story circulates among the peasantry of England and Scotland in the form of a penny tract or chap-book; _Notices of Popular Histories_, p. 16, Percy Soc. vol. xxiii., _Notes and Queries_, New Series, vol. iii. p. 49. The jest is an old one. Mr. Halliwell refers to a _fabliau_ in Barbazan's collection, which contains the groundwork of this piece; _Du Vilain qui conquist Paradis par Plait_, Meon's ed. iv. 114.

In Bath a wanton wife did dwell,
As Chaucer he doth write,
Who did in pleasure spend her days,
In many a fond delight.

Upon a time love sick she was, 5
And at the length did die;
Her soul at last at Heaven's gate
Did knock most mightily.

Then Adam came unto the gate:
"Who knocketh there?" quoth he: 10
"I am the Wife of Bath," she said,
"And fain would come to thee."

"Thou art a sinner," Adam said,
"And here no place shall have;"
"And so art thou, I trow," quoth she, 15
"And gip, a doting knave!

"I will come in in spite," she said,
"Of all such churls as thee;
Thou wert the causer of our woe,
Our pain and misery; 20

"And first broke God's commandments,
In pleasure of thy wife:"
When Adam heard her tell this tale,
He run away for life.

Then down came Jacob at the gate, 25
And bids her pack to hell:
"Thou false deceiver, why?" said she;--
"Thou mayst be there as well.

"For thou deceiv'dst thy father dear,
And thine own brother too:" 30
Away slunk Jacob presently,
And made no more ado.

She knocks again with might and main,
And Lot he chides her straight:
"Why then," quoth she, "thou drunken ass, 35
Who bid thee here to prate?

"With thy two daughters thou didst lie,
On them two bastards got:"
And thus most tauntingly she chaft
Against poor silly Lot. 40

"Who calleth there," quoth Judith then,
"With such shrill sounding notes?"
"This fine minks surely came not here,"
Quoth she, "for cutting throats!"

Good Lord, how Judith blush'd for shame, 45
When she heard her say so!
King David hearing of the same,
He to the gate did go.

Quoth David, "Who knocks there so loud,
And maketh all this strife?" 50
"You were more kind good sir," she said,
"Unto Uriah's wife.

"And when thy servant thou didst cause
In battle to be slain,
Thou causedst then more strife than I, 55
Who would come here so fain."

"The woman's mad," said Solomon,
"That thus doth taunt a king;"
"Not half so mad as you," she said,
"I trow, in many a thing. 60

"Thou hadst seven hundred wives at once,
For whom thou didst provide,
And yet three hundred wh...., God wot,
Thou didst maintain beside.

"And those made thee forsake thy God, 65
And worship stocks and stones;
Besides the charge they put thee to
In breeding of young bones.

"Hadst thou not been besides thy wits,
Thou wouldst not thus have ventur'd; 70
And therefor I do marvel much
How thou this place hast entered."

"I never heard," quoth Jonas then,
"So vile a scold as this;"
"Thou wh...son runaway," quoth she, 75
"Thou diddest more amiss."

"They say," quoth Thomas, "women's tongues
Of aspen leaves are made;"
"Thou unbelieving wretch," quoth she,
"All is not true that's said." 80

When Mary Magdalen heard her then,
She came unto the gate;
Quoth she, "Good woman, you must think
Upon your former state."

"No sinner enters in this place," 85
Quoth Mary Magdalen then;
"'Twere ill for you, fair mistress mild,"
She answered her again.

"You for your honesty," quoth she,
"Had once been ston'd to death, 90
Had not our Saviour Christ come by,
And written on the earth.

"It was not by your occupation
You are become divine;
I hope my soul, by Christ's passion, 95
Shall be as safe as thine."

Then rose the good apostle Paul;
Unto this wife he cried,
"Except thou shake thy sins away,
Thou here shalt be denied." 100

"Remember, Paul, what thou hast done
All thro' a lewd desire,
How thou didst persecute God's church
With wrath as hot as fire."

Then up starts Peter at the last, 105
And to the gate he hies;
"Fond fool," quoth he, "knock not so fast;
Thou weariest Christ with cries."

"Peter," said she, "content thyself,
For mercy may be won; 110
I never did deny my Christ
As thou thyself hast done."

When as our Saviour Christ heard this,
With heavenly angels bright,
He comes unto this sinful soul, 115
Who trembled at his sight.

Of him for mercy she did crave;
Quoth he, "Thou hast refused
My proffer'd grace and mercy both,
And much my name abused." 120

"Sore have I sinn'd, O Lord," she said,
"And spent my time in vain;
But bring me, like a wand'ring sheep,
Into thy fold again.

"O Lord my God, I will amend 125
My former wicked vice;
The thief for one poor silly word
Past into Paradise."

"My laws and my commandments,"
Saith Christ, "were known to thee; 130
But of the same, in any wise,
Not yet one word did ye."

"I grant the same, O Lord," quoth she;
"Most lewdly did I live;
But yet the loving father did 135
His prodigal son forgive."

"So I forgive thy soul," he said,
"Through thy repenting cry;
Come you therefore into my joy,
I will not thee deny." 140

THE GENTLEMAN IN THRACIA.

From Collier's _Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 17.

This ballad is founded on a tale in the _Gesta Romanorum_, (_Old English Versions_, &c. p. 140.) Nearly the same story occurs in Barbazan's _Fabliaux_, ii. 440, and also, says Madden, in the _Contes Tartares_ of Gueulette, iii. 157, and many other places. The model for all these is of course the Judgment of Solomon, in _1 Kings_, iii. 16-27. See Douce, ii. 385.

Mr. Collier remarks that this ballad is without date, but was undoubtedly written late in the sixteenth, or early in the seventeenth, century.

In searching ancient chronicles,
It was my chance to finde
A story worth the writing out,
In my conceit and mind.
It is an admonition good 5
That children ought to have,
With reverence for to thinke upon
Their parents laid in grave.

In Thracia liv'd a gentleman,
Of noble progeny, 10
Who rul'd his household with great fame,
And true integrity.
This gentleman did take to wife
A neat and gallant dame,
Whose outward shew and beauty bright 15
Did many hearts inflame.

The luster that came from her lookes,
Her carriage and her grace,
Like beauteous Cynthia did outshine
Each lady in that place. 20
And being puffed up in pride,
With ease and jollity,
Her husband could not her content;
She other men must try.

Lasciviously long time she liv'd, 25
Yet bore it cunningly;
For she had those that watch'd so well,
That he could nought espy.
With bribes and gifts she so bewitch'd
The hearts of some were neere, 30
That they conceal'd her wickednesse,
And kept it from her deare.

Thus spending of her time away
In extreme wantonesse,
Her private friends, when she did please, 35
Unto her had accesse.
But the all-seeing eye of heaven
Such sinnes will not conceale,
And by some meanes at last will he
The truth of all reveale. 40

Upon a time sore sicke she fell,
Yea to the very death,
And her physician told her plaine
She must resigne her breath.
Divines did likewise visit her, 45
And holy counsell gave,
And bade her call upon the Lord,
That he her soule might save.

Amongst the rest, she did desire
They would her husband bring; 50
"I have a secret to reveale,"
She said, "my heart doth sting."
Then he came posting presently
Unto her where she lay,
And weeping then he did desire, 55
What she to him would say.

She did intreat that all might voyd
The roome, and he would stay;
"Your pardon, husband, I beseech,"
Unto him she did say: 60
"For I have wrong'd your marriage-bed,
And plaid the wanton wife;
To you the truth I will reveale,
Ere I depart this life.

"Foure hopefull sonnes you think you have; 65
To me it best is knowne,
And three of them are none of yours;
Of foure but one's your owne,
And by your selfe on me begot,
Which hath a wanton beene; 70
These dying teares forgivenesse beg;
Let mercy then be seene."

This strooke her husband in a dump,
His heart was almost dead;
But rouzing of his spirits up, 75
These words to her he said.
"I doe forgive thee with my heart,
So thou the truth wilt tell,
Which of the foure is my owne sonne,
And all things shall be well." 80

"O pardon me, my husband deare,"
Unto him she did say;
"They are my children every one,"
And so she went away.
Away he goes with heavy heart; 85
His griefes he did conceale,
And like a wise and prudent man,
To none did it reveale.

Not knowing which to be his owne,
Each of his love did share, 90
And to be train'd in vertues paths
Of them he had a care.
In learning great and gentle grace
They were brought up and taught,
Such deare affection in the hearts 95
Of parents God hath wrought.

They now were growne to mens estates,
And liv'd most gallantly;
Each had his horse, his hawke, his hound,
And did their manhood try. 100
The ancient man did joy thereat,
But yet he did not know
Which was his sonne amongst the foure;
That bred in him much woe.

At length his glasse of life was run, 105
The fates doe so decree;
For poore and rich they all must dye,
And death will take no fee.
Unto some judges he did send,
And counsell that were grave, 110
Who presently to him did come
To know what he would have.

They coming then to his beds side,
Unto them he did say:
"I know you all to be my friends, 115
Most faithfull every way;
And now, before I leave the world,
I beg this at your hands,
To have a care which of my sonnes
Shall have my goods and lands." 120

And to them all he did relate
What things his wife had done.
"There is but one amongst the foure
That is my native sonne;
And to your judgement I commit, 125
When I am laid in grave,
Which is my sonne, and which is fit
My lands and goods to have."

He dying, they in councill sate
What best were to be done; 130
For 'twas a taske of great import
To judge which was his sonne.
The brothers likewise were at strife,
Which should the living have,
When as the ancient man was dead, 135
And buried in his grave.

The judges must decide the cause,
And thus they did decree:
The dead man's body up to take,
And tye it to a tree; 140
A bow each brother he must have,
And eke an arrow take,
To shoot at their dead fathers corps,
As if he were a stake.

And he whose arrow nearest hit 145
His heart, as he did stand,
They'd judge him for to be right heire,
And fit to have the land.
On this they all did straight agree,
And to the field they went; 150
Each had a man his shaft to beare,
And bow already bent.

"Now," quoth the judges, "try your skill
Upon your father there,
That we may quickly know who shall 155
Unto the land be heire."
The oldest took his bow in hand,
And shaft, where as he stood,
Which pierc'd so deep the dead mans brest,
That it did run with blood. 160

The second brother then must shoot,
Who straight did take his aime,
And with his arrow made a wound,
That blood came from the same.
The third likewise must try his skill 165
The matter to decide;
Whose shaft did make a wound most deep
Into the dead man's side.

Unto the fourth and youngest, then,
A bow and shaft were brought; 170
Who said, "D'ee thinke that ere my heart
Could harbour such a thought,
To shoot at my dear father's heart,
Although that he be dead,
For all the kingdomes in the world 175
That farre and wide are spread?"

And turning of him round about,
The teares ran downe amaine:
He flung his bow upon the ground,
And broke his shaft in twaine. 180
The judges seeing his remorse,
They then concluded all
He was the right, the other three
They were unnaturall.

And so he straight possest the lands, 185
Being made the heire of all,
And heaven by nature in this kind
Unto his heart did call.
His brothers they did envy him,
But yet he need not care, 190
And of his wealth, in portions large,
Unto them he did share.

SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON'S ADVANCEMENT.

This ballad is taken from _The Crowne-Garland of Golden Roses_, p. 20, Percy Society, vol. vi. Another copy is in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 130. A play called _The History of Whittington_ was entered on the Stationers' books in Feb. 1604, and the "famous fable of Whittington and his puss" is mentioned in _Eastward Hoe_, 1605. (Weber and Halliwell.)

"There is something so fabulous," (says the editor of _Old Ballads_, following Grafton and Stow,) "or at least, that has such a romantic appearance, in the history of Whittington, that I shall not choose to relate it; but refer my credulous readers to common tradition, or to the penny histories. Certain it is that there was such a man; a citizen of London, by trade a mercer, and one who has left public edifices and charitable works enow behind him, to transmit his name to posterity. Amongst others, he founded a house of prayer; with an allowance for a master, fellows, choristers, clerks, &c., and an almshouse for thirteen poor men, called Whittington College. He entirely rebuilt the loathsome prison, which then was standing at the west gate of the city, and called it Newgate. He built the better half of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, in West-Smithfield, and the fine library in Grey-Fryars, now called Christ's Hospital: as also great part of the east end of Guildhall, with a chapel, and a library in which the records of the city might be kept.... 'Tis said of him, that he advanced a very considerable sum of money towards carrying on the war in France, under this last monarch. He married Alice, the daughter of Hugh and Molde Fitzwarren: at whose house, traditions say, Whittington lived a servant, when he got his immense riches by venturing his cat in one of his master's ships. However, if we may give credit to his own will, he was a knight's son; and more obliged to an English king and prince, than to any African monarch, for his riches. For when he founded Whittington College, and left a maintenance for so many people, as above related, they were, as Stow records it, for this maintenance bound to pray for the good estate of Richard Whittington, and Alice his wife, their founders; and for Sir William Whittington, and Dame Joan his wife; and for Hugh Fitzwarren, and Dame Molde his wife; the fathers and mothers of the said Richard Whittington and Alice his wife; for King Richard the Second, and Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, special lords and promoters of the said Richard Whittington, &c."

Richard Whittington was Sheriff of London in the 18th year of Richard the Second, 1394, was then knighted, and chosen Mayor in the 22d year of the same reign, 1398. He was again Mayor in the 9th year of Henry the Fourth, 1407, and the 8th of Henry the Fifth, 1420.

Keightley has devoted a chapter of his _Tales and Popular Fictions_ (the seventh) to the legend of Whittington and his Cat. He cites two similar stories from Thiele's _Danish Popular Traditions_, another from the letters of Count Magalotti, a Florentine of the latter half of the 17th century, another from the _Facezie_ of Arlotto, a Tuscan humorist of the 15th century, another, of Venetian origin, from a German chronicle of the 13th century, and finally one from the Persian _Tarikh al Wasaf_, a work said to have been composed at the end of the 13th or the beginning of the 14th century. Mr. Halliwell adds one more of a Portuguese wrecked on the coast of Guinea, from the _Description of Guinea_, 1665.

Here must I tell the praise
Of worthy Whittington,
Known to be in his dayes
Thrice Maior of London.
But of poor parentage, 5
Borne was he, as we heare,
And in his tender age
Bred up in Lancashire.

Poorely to London than
Came up this simple lad, 10
Where, with a marchant-man,
Soone he a dwelling had;
And in a kitchen plast,
A scullion for to be,
Whereas long time he past 15
In labour drudgingly.

His daily service was
Turning spitts at the fire;
And to scour pots of brasse,
For a poore scullions hire. 20
Meat and drinke all his pay,
Of coyne he had no store;
Therefore to run away,
In secret thought he bore.

So from this marchant-man, 25
Whittington secretly
Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty.
But as he went along,
In a fair summer's morne, 30
Londons bells sweetly rung,
"Whittington, back return!"

Evermore sounding so,
"Turn againe, Whittington;
For thou in time shall grow 35
Lord-Maior of London."
Whereupon back againe
Whittington came with speed,
A prentise to remaine,
As the Lord had decreed. 40

"Still blessed be the bells;
(This was his daily song)
They my good fortune tells,
Most sweetly have they rung.
If God so favour me, 45
I will not proove unkind;
London my love shall see,
And my great bounties find."

But see his happy chance!
This scullion had a cat, 50
Which did his state advance,
And by it wealth he gat.
His maister ventred forth,
To a land far unknowne,
With marchandize of worth, 55
As is in stories showne.

Whittington had no more
But this poor cat as than,
Which to the ship he bore,
Like a brave marchant-man. 60
"Vent'ring the same," quoth he,
"I may get store of golde,
And Maior of London be,
As the bells have me told."

Whittington's marchandise, 65
Carried was to a land
Troubled with rats and mice,
As they did understand.
The king of that country there,
As he at dinner sat, 70
Daily remain'd in fear
Of many a mouse and rat.

Meat that in trenchers lay,
No way they could keepe safe;
But by rats borne away, 75
Fearing no wand or staff.
Whereupon, soone they brought
Whittingtons nimble cat;
Which by the king was bought;
Heapes of gold giv'n for that. 80

Home againe came these men
With their ships loaden so,
Whittingtons wealth began
By this cat thus to grow.
Scullions life he forsooke 85
To be a marchant good,
And soon began to looke
How well his credit stood.

After that he was chose
Shriefe of the citty heere, 90
And then full quickly rose
Higher, as did appeare.
For to this cities praise,
Sir Richard Whittington
Came to be in his dayes 95
Thrise Maior of London.

More his fame to advance,
Thousands he lent his king,
To maintaine warres in France,
Glory from thence to bring. 100
And after, at a feast
Which he the king did make,
He burnt the bonds all in jeast,
And would no money take.

Ten thousand pound he gave 105
To his prince willingly,
And would not one penny have;
This in kind curtesie.
God did thus make him great,[L109]
So would he daily see 110
Poor people fed with meat,
To shew his charity.

Prisoners poore cherish'd were,
Widdowes sweet comfort found;
Good deeds, both far and neere, 115
Of him do still resound.
Whittington Colledge is
One of his charities;
Records reporteth this
To lasting memories. 120

Newgate he builded faire,
For prisoners to live in;
Christs-Church he did repaire,
Christian love for to win.
Many more such like deedes 125
Were done by Whittington;
Which joy and comfort breedes,
To such as looke thereon.

Lancashire, thou hast bred
This flower of charity: 130
Though he be gon and dead
Yet lives he lastingly.
Those bells that call'd him so,
"Turne again, Whittington,"
Call you back many moe 135
To live so in London.

109. made.

CATSKIN'S GARLAND, OR, THE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN.

Moore's _Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry_, p. 596.

Only in a very debased form is this enchanting tale preserved by English tradition. The following ballad is given, in the collection cited above, from a modern broadside, but has here received a few improvements from two other copies cited by the editor. Mr. Halliwell has printed another version of Catskin in _The Nursery Rhymes of England_, p. 48, Percy Society, vol. iv. The story is possessed by almost every nation in Europe. It is found not only among the Northern races, but among the Hungarians, Servians, Wallachians, Welsh, Italians, and French. In Germany it is current in a great variety of forms, the two most noteworthy of which are _Aschenputtel_, to which correspond _Cennerentola_ in the _Pentamerone_ (i. 6), the _Cendrillon_ of Perrault, and the _Finette Cendron_ of Madame d'Aulnoy; and _Allerlei-Rauh_, which is the same as the _Peau d'Ane_ of Perrault, the _She-Bear_ of the _Pentamerone_ (ii. 6), and the _Doralice_ of Straparola (i. 4).--See the Grimms' _Kinder-und-Haus-Märchen_, No. 21, 65, and notes in vol. iii.; also the Swedish story of _The Little Gold Shoe_, and _The Girl clad in Mouse-skin_, from the Danish, in Thorpe's _Yule Tide Stories_, pp. vii. 112, 375.