Chapter XVI: Part 16

I have now reached, not indeed the end of my subject, which I have scarcely begun, but the limits inexorably set by the circumstances under which it is treated. Yet I am unwilling to conclude without meeting an objection to my method of dealing with it, which has I am sure been present to the minds of not a few who have been good enough to listen to me with patience. It will be said that I have ignored the higher functions of literature; that I have degraded it from its rightful place, by discussing only certain ways in which it may minister to the entertainment of an idle hour, leaving wholly out of sight its contributions to what Mr. Harrison calls our "spiritual sustenance." Now, this is partly because the first of these topics and not the second was the avowed subject of my address; but it is partly because I am deliberately of opinion that it is the pleasures and not the profits, spiritual or temporal, of literature which most require to be preached in the ear of the ordinary reader. I hold indeed the faith that all such pleasures minister to the development of much that is best in man--mental and moral; but the charm is broken and the object lost if the remote consequence is consciously pursued to the exclusion of the immediate end. It will not, I suppose, be denied that the beauties of nature are at least as well qualified to minister to our higher needs as are the beauties of literature. Yet we do not say we are going to walk to the top of such and such a hill in order to drink in "spiritual sustenance." We say we are going to look at the view. And I am convinced that this, which is the natural and simple way of considering literature as well as nature, is also the true way. The habit of always requiring some reward for knowledge beyond the knowledge itself, be that reward some material prize or be it what is vaguely called self-improvement, is one with which I confess I have little sympathy, fostered though it is by the whole scheme of our modern education. Do not suppose that I desire the impossible. I would not if I could destroy the examination system. But there are times, I confess, when I feel tempted somewhat to vary the prayer of the poet, and to ask whether Heaven has not reserved, in pity to this much-educating generation, some peaceful desert of literature as yet unclaimed by the crammer or the coach; where it might be possible for the student to wander, even perhaps to stray, at his own pleasure without finding every beauty labeled, every difficulty engineered, every nook surveyed, and a professional cicerone standing at every corner to guide each succeeding traveler along the same well-worn round. If such a wish were granted, I would further ask that the domain of knowledge thus "neutralized" should be the literature of our own country. I grant to the full that the systematic study of _some_ literature must be a principal element in the education of youth. But why should that literature be our own? Why should we brush off the bloom and freshness from the works to which Englishmen and Scotchmen most naturally turn for refreshment,--namely, those written in their own language? Why should we associate them with the memory of hours spent in weary study; in the effort to remember for purposes of examination what no human being would wish to remember for any other; in the struggle to learn something, not because the learner desires to know it, because he desires some one else to know that he knows it? This is the dark side of the examination system; a system necessary and therefore excellent, but one which does, through the very efficiency and thoroughness of the drill by which it imparts knowledge, to some extent impair the most delicate pleasures by which the acquisition of knowledge should be attended.

How great those pleasures may be, I trust there are many here who can testify. When I compare the position of the reader of to-day with that of his predecessor of the sixteenth century. I am amazed at the ingratitude of those who are tempted even for a moment to regret the invention of printing and the multiplication of books. There is now no mood of mind to which a man may not administer the appropriate nutriment or medicine at the cost of reaching down a volume from his bookshelf. In every department of knowledge infinitely more is known, and what is known is incomparably more accessible, than it was to our ancestors. The lighter forms of literature, good, bad, and indifferent, which have added so vastly to the happiness of mankind, have increased beyond powers of computation; nor do I believe that there is any reason to think that they have elbowed out their more serious and important brethren. It is perfectly possible for a man, not a professed student, and who only gives to reading the leisure hours of a business life, to acquire such a general knowledge of the laws of nature and the facts of history that every great advance made in either department shall be to him both intelligible and interesting; and he may besides have among his familiar friends many a departed worthy whose memory is embalmed in the pages of memoir or biography. All this is ours for the asking. All this we shall ask for, if only it be our happy fortune to love for its own sake the beauty and the knowledge to be gathered from books. And if this be our fortune, the world may be kind or unkind, it may seem to us to be hastening on the wings of enlightenment and progress to an imminent millennium, or it may weigh us down with the sense of insoluble difficulty and irremediable wrong; but whatever else it be, so long as we have good health and a good library, it can hardly be dull.

THE BALLAD

(Popular or Communal)

BY F.B. GUMMERE

The popular ballad, as it is understood for the purpose of these selections, is a narrative in lyric form, with no traces of individual authorship, and is preserved mainly by oral tradition. In its earliest stages it was meant to be sung by a crowd, and got its name from the dance to which it furnished the sole musical accompaniment. In these primitive communities the ballad was doubtless chanted by the entire folk, in festivals mainly of a religious character. Explorers still meet something of the sort in savage tribes: and children's games preserve among us some relics of this protoplasmic form of verse-making, in which the single poet or artist was practically unknown, and spontaneous, improvised verses arose out of the occasion itself; in which the whole community took part; and in which the beat of foot--along with the gesture which expressed narrative elements of the song--was inseparable from the words and the melody. This native growth of song, in which the chorus or refrain, the dance of a festal multitude, and the spontaneous nature of the words, were vital conditions, gradually faded away before the advance of cultivated verse and the vigor of production in what one may call poetry of the schools. Very early in the history of the ballad, a demand for more art must have called out or at least emphasized the artist, the poet, who chanted new verses while the throng kept up the refrain or burden. Moreover, as interest was concentrated upon the words or story, people began to feel that both dance and melody were separable if not alien features; and thus they demanded the composed and recited ballad, to the harm and ultimate ruin of that spontaneous song for the festal, dancing crowd. Still, even when artistry had found a footing in ballad verse, it long remained mere agent and mouthpiece for the folk; the communal character of the ballad was maintained in form and matter. Events of interest were sung in almost contemporary and entirely improvised verse; and the resulting ballads, carried over the borders of their community and passed down from generation to generation, served as newspaper to their own times and as chronicle to posterity. It is the kind of song to which Tacitus bears witness as the sole form of history among the early Germans; and it is evident that such a stock of ballads must have furnished considerable raw material to the epic. Ballads, in whatever original shape, went to the making of the English 'Béowulf,' of the German 'Nibelungenlied.' Moreover, a study of dramatic poetry leads one back to similar communal origins. What is loosely called a "chorus,"--originally, as the name implies, a dance--out of which older forms of the drama were developed, could be traced back to identity with primitive forms of the ballad. The purely lyrical ballad, even, the _chanson_ of the people, so rare in English but so abundant among other races, is evidently a growth from the same root.

If, now, we assume for this root the name of communal poem, and if we bear in mind the dominant importance of the individual, the artist, in advancing stages of poetry, it is easy to understand why for civilized and lettered communities the ballad has ceased to have any vitality whatever. Under modern conditions the making of ballads is a closed account. For our times poetry means something written by a poet, and not something sung more or less spontaneously by a dancing throng. Indeed, paper and ink, the agents of preservation in the case of ordinary verse, are for ballads the agents of destruction. The broadside press of three centuries ago, while it rescued here and there a genuine ballad, poured out a mass of vulgar imitations which not only displaced and destroyed the ballad of oral tradition, but brought contempt upon good and bad alike. Poetry of the people, to which our ballad belongs, is a thing of the past. Even rude and distant communities, like those of Afghanistan, cannot give us the primitive conditions. The communal ballad is rescued, when rescued at all, by the fragile chances of a written copy or of oral tradition; and we are obliged to study it under terms of artistic poetry,--that is, we are forced to take through the eye and the judgment what was meant for the ear and immediate sensation. Poetry _for_ the people, however, "popular poetry" in the modern phrase, is a very different affair. Street songs, vulgar rhymes, or even improvisations of the concert-halls, tawdry and sentimental stuff,--these things are sundered by the world's width from poetry _of_ the people, from the folk in verse, whether it echo in a great epos which chants the clash of empires or linger in a ballad of the countryside sung under the village linden. For this ballad is a part of the poetry which comes from the people as a whole, from a homogeneous folk, large or small; while the song of street or concert-hall is deliberately composed for a class, a section, of the community. It would therefore be better to use some other term than "popular" when we wish to specify the ballad of tradition, and so avoid all taint of vulgarity and the trivial. Nor must we go to the other extreme. Those high-born people who figure in traditional ballads--Childe Waters, Lady Maisry, and the rest--do not require us to assume composition in aristocratic circles; for the lower classes of the people in ballad days had no separate literature, and a ballad of the folk belonged to the community as a whole. The same habit of thought, the same standard of action, ruled alike the noble and his meanest retainer. Oral transmission, the test of the ballad, is of course nowhere possible save in such an unlettered community. Since all critics are at one in regard to this homogeneous character of the folk with whom and out of whom these songs had their birth, one is justified in removing all doubt from the phrase by speaking not of the popular ballad but of the communal ballad, the ballad of a community.

With regard to the making of a ballad, one must repeat a caution, hinted already, and made doubly important by a vicious tendency in the study of all phases of culture. It is a vital mistake to explain primitive conditions by exact analogy with conditions of modern savagery and barbarism. Certain conclusions, always guarded and cautious to a degree, may indeed be drawn; but it is folly to insist that what now goes on among shunted races, belated detachments in the great march of culture, must have gone on among the dominant and mounting peoples who had reached the same external conditions of life. The homogeneous and unlettered state of the ballad-makers is not to be put on a level with the ignorance of barbarism, nor explained by the analogy of songs among modern savage tribes. Fortunately we have better material. The making of a ballad by a community can be illustrated from a case recorded by Pastor Lyngbye in his invaluable account of life on the Faroe Islands a century ago. Not only had the islanders used from most ancient times their traditional and narrative songs as music for the dance, but they had also maintained the old fashion of making a ballad. In the winter, says Lyngbye, dancing is their chief amusement and is an affair of the entire community. At such a dance, one or more persons begin to sing; then all who are present join in the ballad, or at least in the refrain. As they dance, they show by their gestures and expression that they follow with eagerness the course of the story which they are singing. More than this, the ballad is often a spontaneous product of the occasion. A fisherman, who has had some recent mishap with his boat, is pushed by stalwart comrades into the middle of the throng, while the dancers sing verses about him and his lack of skill,--verses improvised on the spot and with a catching and clamorous refrain. If these verses win favor, says Lyngbye, they are repeated from year to year, with slight additions or corrections, and become a permanent ballad. Bearing in mind the extraordinary readiness to improvise shown even in these days by peasants in every part of Europe, we thus gain some definite notion about the spontaneous and communal elements which went to the making of the best type of primitive verse; for these Faroe islanders were no savages, but simply a homeogeneous and isolated folk which still held to the old ways of communal song.

Critics of the ballad, moreover, agree that it has little or no subjective traits,--an easy inference from the conditions just described. There is no individuality lurking behind the words of the ballad, and above all, no evidence of that individuality in the form of sentiment. Sentiment and individuality are the very essence of modern poetry, and the direct result of individualism in verse. Given a poet, sentiment--and it may be noble and precious enough--is sure to follow. But the ballad, an epic in little, forces one's attention to the object, the scene, the story, and away from the maker.

"The king sits in Dumferling town."

begins one of the noblest of all ballads; while one of the greatest of modern poems opens with something personal and pathetic, key-note to all that follows:--

"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense ..."

Even when a great poet essays the ballad, either he puts sentiment into it, or else he keeps sentiment out of it by a _tour de force_. Admirable and noble as one must call the conclusion of an artistic ballad such as Tennyson's 'Revenge,' it is altogether different from the conclusion of such a communal ballad as 'Sir Patrick Spens.' That subtle quality of the ballad which lies in solution with the story and which--as in 'Child Maurice' or 'Babylon' or 'Edward'--compels in us sensations akin to those called out by the sentiment of the poet, is a wholly impersonal if strangely effective quality, far removed from the corresponding elements of the poem of art. At first sight, one might say that Browning's dramatic lyrics had this impersonal quality. But compare the close of 'Give a Rouse,' chorus and all, with the close of 'Child Maurice,' that swift and relentless stroke of pure tragedy which called out the enthusiasm of so great a critic as Gray.

The narrative of the communal ballad is full of leaps and omissions; the style is simple to a fault; the diction is spontaneous and free. Assonance frequently takes the place of rhyme, and a word often rhymes with itself. There is a lack of poetic adornment in the style quite as conspicuous as the lack of reflection and moralizing in the matter. Metaphor and simile are rare and when found are for the most part standing phrases common to all the ballads; there is never poetry for poetry's sake. Iteration is the chief mark of ballad style; and the favorite form of this effective figure is what one may call incremental repetition. The question is repeated with the answer; each increment in a series of related facts has a stanza for itself, identical, save for the new fact, with the other stanzas. 'Babylon' furnishes good instances of this progressive iteration. Moreover, the ballad differs from earlier English epics in that it invariably has stanzas and rhyme; of the two forms of stanza, the two-line stanza with a refrain is probably older than the stanza with four or six lines.

This necessary quality of the stanza points to the origin of the ballad in song; but longer ballads, such as those that make up the 'Gest of Robin Hood,' an epic in little, were not sung as lyrics or to aid the dance, but were either chanted in a monotonous fashion or else recited outright. Chappell, in his admirable work on old English music ('Music of the Olden Time,' ii. 790), names a third class of "characteristic airs of England,"--the "historical and very long ballads, ... invariably of simple construction, usually plaintive.... They were rarely if ever used for dancing." Most of the longer ballads, however, were doubtless given by one person in a sort of recitative; this is the case with modern ballads of Russia and Servia, where the bystanders now and then join in a chorus. Precisely in the same way ballads were divorced from the dance, originally their vital condition; but in the refrain, which is attached to so many ballads, one finds an element which has survived from those earliest days of communal song.

Of oldest communal poetry no actual ballad has come down to us. Hints and even fragments, however, are pointed out in ancient records, mainly as the material of chronicle or legend. In the Bible (Numbers xxi. 17), where "Israel sang this song," we are not going too far when we regard the fragment as part of a communal ballad. "Spring up, O well: sing ye unto it: the princes digged the well, the nobles of the people digged it, by the direction of the lawgiver, with their staves." Deborah's song has something of the communal note; and when Miriam dances and sings with her maidens, one is reminded of the many ballads made by dancing and singing bands of women in mediæval Europe,--for instance, the song made in the seventh century to the honor of St. Faro, and "sung by the women as they danced and clapped their hands." The question of ancient Greek ballads, and their relation to the epic, is not to be discussed here; nor can we make more than an allusion to the theory of Niebuhr that the early part of Livy is founded on, old Roman ballads. A popular discussion of this matter may be found in Macaulay's preface to his own 'Lays of Ancient Rome.' The ballads of modern Europe are a survival of older communal poetry, more or less influenced by artistic and individual conditions of authorship, but wholly impersonal, and with an appeal to our interest which seems to come from a throng and not from the solitary poet. Attention was early called to the ballads of Spain; printed at first as broadsides, they were gathered into a volume as early as 1550. On the other hand, ballads were neglected in France until very recent times; for specimens of the French ballad, and for an account of it, the reader should consult Professor Crane's 'Chansons Populaires de France,' New York, 1891. It is with ballads of the Germanic race, however, that we are now concerned. Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Iceland, the Faroe Islands; Scotland and England; the Netherlands and Germany: all of these countries offer us admirable specimens of the ballad. Particularly, the great collections of Grundtvig ('Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser') for Denmark, and of Child ('The English and Scottish Popular Ballads') for our own tongue, show how common descent or borrowing connects the individual ballads of these groups. "Almost every Norwegian, Swedish, or Icelandic ballad," says Grundtvig, "is found in a Danish version of Scandinavian ballads; moreover, a larger number can be found in English and Scottish versions than in German or Dutch versions." Again, we find certain national preferences in the character of the ballads which have come down to us. Scandinavia kept the old heroic lays (Kaempeviser); Germany wove them into her epic, as witness the Nibelungen Lay; but England and Scotland have none of them in any shape. So, too, the mythic ballad, scantily represented in English, and practically unknown in Germany, abounds in Scandinavian collections. The Faroe Islands and Norway, as Grundtvig tells us, show the best record for ballads preserved by oral tradition; while noble ladies of Denmark, three or four centuries ago, did high service to ballad literature by making collections in manuscript of the songs current then in the castle as in the cottage.

For England, one is compelled to begin the list of known ballads with the thirteenth century. 'The Battle of Maldon,' composed in the last decade of the tenth century, though spirited enough and full of communal vigor, has no stanzaic structure, follows in metre and style the rules of the Old English epic, and is only a ballad by courtesy; about the ballads used a century or two later by historians of England, we can do nothing but guess; and there is no firm ground under the critic's foot until he comes to the Robin Hood ballads, which Professor Child assigns to the thirteenth century. 'The Battle of Otterburn' (1388) opens a series of ballads based on actual events and stretching into the eighteenth century. Barring the Robin Hood cycle,--an epic constructed from this attractive material lies before us in the famous 'Gest of Robin Hood,' printed as early as 1489,--the chief sources of the collector are the Percy Manuscript, "written just before 1650,"--on which, not without omissions and additions, the bishop based his 'Reliques,' first published in 1765,--and the oral traditions of Scotland, which Professor Child refers to "the last one hundred and thirty years." Information about the individual ballads, their sources, history, literary connections, and above all, their varying texts, must be sought in the noble work of Professor F.J. Child. For present purposes, a word or two of general information must suffice. As to origins, there is a wide range. The church furnished its legend, as in 'St. Stephen'; romance contributed the story of 'Thomas Rymer'; and the light, even cynical _fabliau_ is responsible for 'The Boy and the Mantle.' Ballads which occur in many tongues either may have a common origin or else may owe their manifold versions, as in the case of popular tales, to a love of borrowing; and here, of course, we get the hint of wider issues. For the most part, however, a ballad tells some moving story, preferably of fighting and of love. Tragedy is the dominant note; and English ballads of the best type deal with those elements of domestic disaster so familiar in the great dramas of literature, in the story of Orestes, or of Hamlet, or of the Cid. Such are 'Edward,' 'Lord Randal,' 'The Two Brothers,' 'The Two Sisters,' 'Child Maurice,' 'Bewick and Graham,' 'Clerk Colven,' 'Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard,' 'Glasgerion,' and many others. Another group of ballads, represented by the 'Baron of Brackley' and 'Captain Car,' give a faithful picture of the feuds and ceaseless warfare in Scotland and on the border. A few fine ballads--'Sweet William's Ghost,' 'The Wife of Usher's Well'--touch upon the supernatural. Of the romantic ballads, 'Childe Waters' shows us the higher, and 'Young Beichan' the lower, but still sound and communal type. Incipient dramatic tendencies mark 'Edward' and 'Lord Randal'; while, on the other hand, a lyric note almost carries 'Bonnie George Campbell' out of balladry. Finally, it is to be noted that in the 'Nut-Brown Maid,' which many would unhesitatingly refer to this class of poetry, we have no ballad at all, but a dramatic lyric, probably written by a woman, and with a special plea in the background.

ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE[8]

1. When shawes[9] beene sheene[10], and shradds[11] full fayre,
And leeves both large and longe,
It is merry, walking in the fayre forrest,
To heare the small birds' songe.

2. The woodweele[12] sang, and wold not cease,
Amongst the leaves a lyne[13];
And it is by two wight[14] yeomen,
By deare God, that I meane.

* * * * *

3. "Me thought they[15] did me beate and binde,
And tooke my bow me fro;
If I bee Robin alive in this lande,
I'll be wrocken[16] on both them two."

4. "Sweavens[17] are swift, master," quoth John,
"As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
For if it be never soe lowde this night,
To-morrow it may be still."

5. "Buske ye, bowne ye[18], my merry men all,
For John shall go with me;
For I'll goe seeke yond wight yeomen
In greenwood where they bee."

6. They cast on their gowne of greene,
A shooting gone are they,
Until they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee;
There were they ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.

7. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Had beene many a man's bane[19],
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde[20],
Topp, and tayle, and mayne.

8. "Stand you still, master," quoth Litle John,
"Under this trusty tree,
And I will goe to yond wight yeoman,
To know his meaning trulye."

9. "A, John, by me thou setts noe store,
And that's a farley[21] thinge;
How offt send I my men before,
And tarry myselfe behinde?"

10. "It is noe cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I wold thy head breake."

11. But often words they breeden bale,
That parted Robin and John;
John is gone to Barnesdale,
The gates[22] he knowes eche one.

12. And when hee came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there hee hadd;
He found two of his fellowes
Were slaine both in a slade[23],

13. And Scarlett a foote flyinge was,
Over stockes and stone,
For the sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.

14. "Yet one shoote I'll shoote," sayes Litle John,
"With Crist his might and mayne;
I'll make yond fellow that flyes soe fast
To be both glad and faine."

15. John bent up a good veiwe bow[24],
And fetteled[25] him to shoote;
The bow was made of a tender boughe,
And fell downe to his foote.

16. "Woe worth[26] thee, wicked wood," sayd Litle John,
"That ere thou grew on a tree!
For this day thou art my bale,
My boote[27] when thou shold bee!"

17. This shoote it was but looselye shott,
The arrowe flew in vaine,
And it mett one of the sheriffe's men;
Good William a Trent was slaine.

18. It had beene better for William a Trent
To hange upon a gallowe
Then for to lye in the greenwoode,
There slaine with an arrowe.

19. And it is sayed, when men be mett,
Six can doe more than three:
And they have tane Litle John,
And bound him fast to a tree.

20. "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe," quoth the sheriffe[28],
"And hanged hye on a hill:"
"But thou may fayle," quoth Litle John
"If it be Christ's owne will."

21. Let us leave talking of Litle John,
For hee is bound fast to a tree,
And talke of Guy and Robin Hood
In the green woode where they bee.

22. How these two yeomen together they mett,
Under the leaves of lyne,
To see what marchandise they made
Even at that same time.

23. "Good morrow, good fellow," quoth Sir Guy;
"Good morrow, good fellow," quoth hee;
"Methinkes by this bow thou beares in thy hand,
A good archer thou seems to bee."

24. "I am wilfull of my way[29]," quoth Sir Guy,
"And of my morning tyde:"
"I'll lead thee through the wood," quoth Robin,
"Good fellow, I'll be thy guide."

25. "I seeke an outlaw," quoth Sir Guy,
"Men call him Robin Hood;
I had rather meet with him upon a day
Then forty pound of golde."

26. "If you tow mett, it wold be seene whether were better
Afore yee did part awaye;
Let us some other pastime find,
Good fellow, I thee pray."

27. "Let us some other masteryes make,
And we will walke in the woods even;
Wee may chance meet with Robin Hood
At some unsett steven[30]."

28. They cutt them downe the summer shroggs[31]
Which grew both under a bryar,
And sett them three score rood in twinn[32],
To shoote the prickes[33] full neare.

29. "Leade on, good fellow," sayd Sir Guye,
"Leade on, I doe bidd thee:"
"Nay, by my faith," quoth Robin Hood,
"The leader thou shalt bee."

30. The first good shoot that Robin ledd,
Did not shoote an inch the pricke froe,
Guy was an archer good enoughe,
But he could neere shoote soe.

31. The second shoote Sir Guy shott,
He shott within the garlande[34],
But Robin Hoode shott it better than hee,
For he clove the good pricke-wande.

32. "God's blessing on thy heart!" sayes Guye,
"Goode fellow, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hands,
Thou were better than Robin Hood."

33. "Tell me thy name, good fellow," quoth Guye,
"Under the leaves of lyne:"
"Nay, by my faith," quoth good Robin,
"Till thou have told me thine."

34. "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth Guye,
"And I have done many a curst turne;
And he that calles me by my right name,
Calles me Guye of good Gysborne."

35. "My dwelling is in the wood," sayes Robin;
"By thee I set right nought;
My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
A fellow thou hast long sought."

36. He that had neither beene a kithe nor kin
Might have seene a full fayre sight.
To see how together these yeomen went,
With blades both browne and bright.

37. To have seene how these yeomen together fought
Two howers of a summer's day;
It was neither Guy nor Robin Hood
That fettled them to flye away.

38. Robin was reacheles[35] on a roote,
And stumbled at that tyde,
And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,
And hitt him ore the left side.

39. "Ah, deere Lady!" sayd Robin Hoode,
"Thou art both mother and may[36]!
I thinke it was never man's destinye
To dye before his day."

40. Robin thought on Our Lady deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And thus he came with an awkwarde[37] stroke;
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne.

41. He tooke Sir Guy's head by the hayre,
And sticked it on his bowe's end:
"Thou has beene traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an ende."

42. Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on[38] a woman borne
Could tell who Sir Guye was.

43. Saies, Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guye,
And with me not wrothe;
If thou have had the worse stroakes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better cloathe.

44. Robin did off his gowne of greene,
Sir Guye he did it throwe;
And he put on that capull-hyde
That clad him topp to toe.

45. "Tis bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne,
And with me now I'll beare;
For now I will goe to Barnesdale,
To see how my men doe fare."

46. Robin sett Guye's horne to his mouth,
A lowd blast in it he did blow;
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe[39].

47. "Hearken! hearken!" sayd the sheriffe,
"I heard noe tydings but good;
For yonder I heare Sir Guye's horne blowe,
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode."

48. "For yonder I heare Sir Guye's horne blowe,
It blowes soe well in tyde,
For yonder conies that wighty yeoman
Cladd in his capull-hyde."

49. "Come hither, thou good Sir Guy,
Aske of mee what thou wilt have:"
"I'll none of thy gold," sayes Robin Hood,
"Nor I'll none of it have."

50. "But now I have slaine the master," he sayd,
"Let me goe strike the knave;
This is all the reward I aske,
Nor noe other will I have."

51. "Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe,
"Thou sholdest have had a knight's fee;
Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd,
Well granted it shall be."

52. But Litle John heard his master speake,
Well he knew that was his steven[40];
"Now shall I be loset," quoth Litle John,
"With Christ's might in heaven."

53. But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle John,
Hee thought hee wold loose him belive;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him did drive.

54. "Stand abacke! stand abacke!" sayd Robin;
"Why draw you mee soe neere?
It was never the use in our countrye
One's shrift another should heere."

55. But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him Sir Guye's bow in his hand,
And bade it be his boote.

56. But John tooke Guye's bow in his hand
(His arrowes were rawstye[41] by the roote);
The sherriffe saw Litle John draw a bow
And fettle him to shoote.

57. Towards his house in Nottingham
He fled full fast away,
And so did all his companye,
Not one behind did stay.

58. But he cold neither soe fast goe,
Nor away soe fast runn,
But Litle John, with an arrow broade,
Did cleave his heart in twinn.

[Footnote 8: This ballad is a good specimen of the Robin Hood
Cycle, and is remarkable for its many proverbial and
alliterative phrases. A few lines have been lost between
stanzas 2 and 3. Gisborne is a "market-town in the West
Riding of the County of York, on the borders of Lancashire."
For the probable tune of the ballad, see Chappell's 'Popular
Music of the Olden Time,' ii. 397.]

[Footnote 9: Woods, groves.--This touch of description at the
outset is common in our old ballads, as well as in the
mediæval German popular lyric, and may perhaps spring from
the old "summer-lays" and chorus of pagan times.]

[Footnote 10: Beautiful; German, _schön_.]

[Footnote 11: Coppices or openings in a wood.]

[Footnote 12: In some glossaries the woodpecker, but here of
course a song-bird,--perhaps, as Chappell suggests, the
woodlark.]

[Footnote 13: _A_, on; _lyne_, lime or linden.]

[Footnote 14: Sturdy, brave.]

[Footnote 15: Robin now tells of a dream in which "they"
(=the two "wight yeomen," who are Guy and, as Professor Child
suggests, the Sheriff of Nottingham) maltreat him; and he
thus foresees trouble "from two quarters."]

[Footnote 16: Revenged.]

[Footnote 17: Dreams.]

[Footnote 18: Tautological phrase,--"prepare and make
ready."]

[Footnote 19: Murder, destruction.]

[Footnote 20: Horse's hide.]

[Footnote 21: Strange.]

[Footnote 22: Paths.]

[Footnote 23: Green valley between woods.]

[Footnote 24: Perhaps the yew-bow.]

[Footnote 25: Made ready.]

[Footnote 26: "Woe be to thee." _Worth_ is the old
subjunctive present of an exact English equivalent to the
modern German _werden_.]

[Footnote 27: Note these alliterative phrases. _Boote_,
remedy.]

[Footnote 28: As Percy noted, this "quoth the sheriffe," was
probably added by some explainer. The reader, however, must
remember the license of slurring or contracting the syllables
of a word, as well as the opposite freedom of expansion. Thus
in the second line of stanza 7, _man's_ is to be pronounced
_man-ës._]

[Footnote 29: I have lost my way.]

[Footnote 30: At some unappointed time,--by chance.]

[Footnote 31: Stunted shrubs.]

[Footnote 32: Apart.]

[Footnote 33: "_Prickes_ seem to have been the long-range
targets, _butts_ the near."--Furnivall.]

[Footnote 34: _Garlande_, perhaps "the ring within which the
prick was set"; and the _pricke-wande_ perhaps a pole or
stick. The terms are not easy to understand clearly.]

[Footnote 35: Reckless, careless.]

[Footnote 36: Maiden.]

[Footnote 37: Dangerous, or perhaps simply backward,
backhanded.]

[Footnote 38: _On_ is frequently used for _of_.]

[Footnote 39: Hillock.]

[Footnote 40: Voice.]

[Footnote 41: Rusty]

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT

[This is the older and better version of the famous ballad.
The younger version was the subject of Addison's papers in
the Spectator.]

1. The Percy out of Northumberlande,
and a vowe to God mayd he
That he would hunte in the mountayns
of Cheviot within days thre,
In the magger[42] of doughty Douglas,
and all that ever with him be.

2. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviot
he sayd he would kyll, and cary them away:
"Be my feth," sayd the doughty Douglas agayn,
"I will let[43] that hontyng if that I may."

3. Then the Percy out of Banborowe cam,
with him a myghtee meany[44],
With fifteen hondred archares bold of blood and bone;
they were chosen out of shyars thre.

4. This began on a Monday at morn,
in Cheviot the hillys so he;
The chyld may rue that ys unborn,
it was the more pittë.

5. The dryvars thorowe the woodës went,
for to reas the deer;
Bowmen byckarte uppone the bent[45]
with their browd arrows cleare.

6. Then the wyld thorowe the woodës went,
on every sydë shear;
Greahondës thorowe the grevis glent[46],
for to kyll their deer.

7. This begane in Cheviot the hyls abone,
yerly on a Monnyn-day;
Be that it drewe to the hour of noon,
a hondred fat hartës ded ther lay.

8. They blewe a mort[47] uppone the bent,
they semblyde on sydis shear;
To the quyrry then the Percy went,
to see the bryttlynge[48] of the deere.

9. He sayd, "It was the Douglas promys
this day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;"
a great oth the Percy swear.

10. At the laste a squyar of Northumberlande
lokyde at his hand full ny;
He was war a the doughtie Douglas commynge,
with him a myghtë meany.

11. Both with spear, bylle, and brande,
yt was a myghtë sight to se;
Hardyar men, both of hart nor hande,
were not in Cristiantë.

12. They were twenty hondred spear-men good,
withoute any fail;
They were borne along be the water a Twyde,
yth bowndës of Tividale.

13. "Leave of the brytlyng of the deer," he said,
"and to your bows look ye tayk good hede;
For never sithe ye were on your mothers borne
had ye never so mickle nede."

14. The doughty Douglas on a stede,
he rode alle his men beforne;
His armor glytteyrde as dyd a glede[49];
a boldar barne was never born.

15. "Tell me whose men ye are," he says,
"or whose men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Cheviot chays,
in the spyt of myn and of me."

16. The first man that ever him an answer mayd,
yt was the good lord Percy:
"We wyll not tell the whose men we are," he says,
"nor whose men that we be;
But we wyll hounte here in this chays,
in spyt of thyne and of the."

17. "The fattiste hartës in all Cheviot
we have kyld, and cast to carry them away:"
"Be my troth," sayd the doughty Douglas agayn,
"therefor the tone of us shall die this day."

18. Then sayd the doughtë Douglas
unto the lord Percy,
"To kyll alle thes giltles men,
alas, it wear great pittë!"

19. "But, Percy, thowe art a lord of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contrë;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande,
and do the battell of the and of me."

20. "Nowe Cristes curse on his crowne," sayd the lord Percy,
"whosoever thereto says nay;
Be my troth, doughty Douglas," he says,
"thow shalt never se that day."

21. "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nor France,
nor for no man of a woman born,
But, and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him, one man for one."

22. Then bespayke a squyar of Northumberlande,
Richard Wytharyngton was his name:
"It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says,
"To Kyng Kerry the Fourth for shame."

23. "I wat youe byn great lordës twa,
I am a poor squyar of lande:
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
and stande my selffe and looke on,
But whylle I may my weppone welde,
I wylle not fayle both hart and hande."

24. That day, that day, that dredfull day!
the first fit here I fynde[50];
And you wyll hear any more a the hountyng a the Cheviot
yet ys ther mor behynde.

25. The Yngglyshe men had their bowys ybent,
ther hartes were good yenoughe;
The first of arrows that they shote off,
seven skore spear-men they sloughe.

26. Yet bides the yerle Douglas upon the bent,
a captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
for he wrought hem both wo and wouche.

27. The Douglas partyd his host in thre,
like a chief chieftain of pryde;
With sure spears of myghtty tre,
they cum in on every syde:

28. Throughe our Yngglyshe archery
gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
Many a doughty they garde to dy,
which ganyde them no pryde.

29. The Ynglyshe men let ther bowës be,
and pulde out brandes that were brighte;
It was a heavy syght to se
bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

30. Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple[51],
many sterne they strocke down straight;
Many a freyke[52] that was fulle fre,
there under foot dyd lyght.

31. At last the Douglas and the Percy met,
lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The swapte together tylle they both swat,
with swordes that were of fine milan.

32. These worthy freckys for to fyght,
ther-to they were fulle fayne,
Tylle the bloode out off their basnetes sprente,
as ever dyd hail or rayn.

33. "Yield thee, Percy," sayd the Douglas,
"and i faith I shalle thee brynge
Where thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
of Jamy our Scottish kynge."

34. "Thou shalte have thy ransom fre,
I hight[53] the here this thinge;
For the manfullyste man yet art thow
that ever I conqueryd in fielde fighttynge."

35. "Nay," sayd the lord Percy,
"I tolde it thee beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
to no man of a woman born."

36. With that ther came an arrow hastely,
forthe off a myghtty wane[54];
It hath strekene the yerle Douglas
in at the brest-bane.

37. Thorowe lyvar and lungës bothe
the sharpe arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyfe-days
he spayke mo wordës but ane:
That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,
for my lyfe-days ben gane."

38. The Percy leanyde on his brande,
and sawe the Douglas de;
He tooke the dead man by the hande,
and said, "Wo ys me for thee!"

39. "To have savyde thy lyfe, I would have partyde with
my landes for years three,
For a better man, of hart nor of hande,
was not in all the north contrë."

40. Of all that see a Scottish knyght,
was callyd Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry;
He saw the Douglas to the death was dyght,
he spendyd a spear, a trusti tree.

41. He rode upon a corsiare
throughe a hondred archery;
He never stynttyde nor never blane[55],
till he came to the good lord Percy.

42. He set upon the lorde Percy
a dynte that was full sore;
With a sure spear of a myghttë tree
clean thorow the body he the Percy ber[56],

43. A the tother syde that a man might see
a large cloth-yard and mare;
Two better captayns were not in Cristiantë
than that day slain were there.

44. An archer off Northumberlande
saw slain was the lord Percy;
He bore a bende bowe in his hand,
was made of trusti tree;

45. An arrow, that a cloth-yarde was long,
to the harde stele halyde he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar
he set on Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry.

46. The dynt yt was both sad and sore,
that he of Monggombyrry set;
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
with his hart-blood they were wet.

47. There was never a freak one foot wolde flee,
but still in stour[57] dyd stand,
Hewyng on eache other, whyle they myghte dree,
with many a balefull brande.

48. This battell begane in Cheviot
an hour before the none,
And when even-songe bell was rang,
the battell was not half done.

49. They took ... on either hande
by the lyght of the mone;
Many hade no strength for to stande,
in Cheviot the hillys abon.

50. Of fifteen hundred archers of Ynglonde
went away but seventy and three;
Of twenty hundred spear-men of Scotlonde,
but even five and fifty.

51. But all were slayne Cheviot within;
they had no strength to stand on by;
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
it was the more pittë.

52. There was slayne, withe the lord Percy,
Sir John of Agerstone,
Sir Rogar, the hinde Hartly,
Sir Wyllyam, the bold Hearone.

53. Sir George, the worthy Loumle,
a knyghte of great renown,
Sir Raff, the ryche Rugbe,
with dyntes were beaten downe.

54. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo,
that ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis were hewyn in to,
yet he kneeled and fought on hys knee.

55. There was slayne, with the doughty Douglas,
Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry,
Sir Davy Lwdale, that worthy was,
his sister's son was he.

56. Sir Charles a Murrë in that place,
that never a foot wolde fie;
Sir Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
with the Douglas dyd he die.

57. So on the morrowe they mayde them biers
off birch and hasell so gray;
Many widows, with weepyng tears,
came to fetch ther makys[58] away.

58. Tivydale may carpe of care,
Northumberland may mayk great moan,
For two such captayns as slayne were there,
on the March-parti shall never be none.

59. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
to Jamy the Scottische kynge,
That doughty Douglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches,
he lay slean Cheviot within.

60. His handdës dyd he weal and wryng,
he sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me!
Such an othar captayn Skotland within,"
he sayd, "i-faith should never be."

61. Worde ys commyn to lovely Londone,
till the fourth Harry our kynge.
That lord Percy, leyff-tenante of the Marchis
he lay slayne Cheviot within.

62. "God have merci on his soule," sayde Kyng Harry,
"good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondred captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd,
"as good as ever was he:
But Percy, and I brook my lyfe,
thy deth well quyte shall be."

63. As our noble kynge mayd his avowe,
lyke a noble prince of renown,
For the deth of the lord Percy
he dyd the battle of Hombyll-down:

64. Where syx and thirty Skottishe knyghtes
on a day were beaten down:
Glendale glytteryde on their armor bryght,
over castille, towar, and town.

65. This was the hontynge of the Cheviot,
that tear[59] begane this spurn;
Old men that knowen the grownde well enoughe
call it the battell of Otterburn.

66. At Otterburn begane this spume
upon a Monnynday;
There was the doughty Douglas slean,
the Percy never went away.

67. There was never a tyme on the Marche-partës
sen the Douglas and the Percy met,
But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not,
as the rain does in the stret.

68. Jesus Christ our bales[60] bete,
and to the bliss us bring!
Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot;
God send us alle good ending!

[Footnote 42: 'Maugre,' in spite of.]

[Footnote 43: Hinder.]

[Footnote 44: Company.]

[Footnote 45: Skirmished on the field.]

[Footnote 46: Ran through the groves.]

[Footnote 47: Blast blown when game is killed.]

[Footnote 48: Quartering, cutting.]

[Footnote 49: Flame.]

[Footnote 50: Perhaps "finish."]

[Footnote 51: "A gauntlet covering hand and forearm."]

[Footnote 52: Man.]

[Footnote 53: Promise.]

[Footnote 54: Meaning uncertain.]

[Footnote 55: Stopped.]

[Footnote 56: Pierced.]

[Footnote 57: Stress of battle.]

[Footnote 58: Mates.]

[Footnote 59: That there (?).]

[Footnote 60: Evils.]

JOHNIE COCK

1. Up Johnie raise[61] in a May morning,
Calld for water to wash his hands,
And he has called for his gude gray hounds
That lay bound in iron bands, bands,
That lay bound in iron bands.

2. "Ye'll busk[62], ye'll busk my noble dogs,
Ye'll busk and make them boun[63],
For I'm going to the Braidscaur hill
To ding the dun deer doun."

3. Johnie's mother has gotten word o' that,
And care-bed she has ta'en[64]:
"O Johnie, for my benison,
I beg you'l stay at hame;
For the wine so red, and the well-baken bread,
My Johnie shall want nane."

4. "There are seven forsters at Pickeram Side,
At Pickeram where they dwell,
And for a drop of thy heart's bluid
They wad ride the fords of hell."

5. But Johnie has cast off the black velvet,
And put on the Lincoln twine,
And he is on the goode greenwood
As fast as he could gang.

6. Johnie lookit east, and Johnie lookit west,
And he lookit aneath the sun,
And there he spied the dun deer sleeping
Aneath a buss o' whun[65].

7. Johnie shot, and the dun deer lap[66],
And she lap wondrous wide,
Until they came to the wan water,
And he stem'd her of her pride.

8. He has ta'en out the little pen-knife,
'Twas full three quarters[67] long,
And he has ta'en out of that dun deer
The liver but and[68] the tongue.

9. They eat of the flesh, and they drank of the blood,
And the blood it was so sweet,
Which caused Johnie and his bloody hounds
To fall in a deep sleep.

10. By then came an old palmer,
And an ill death may he die!
For he's away to Pickeram Side
As fast as he can drie[69].

11. "What news, what news?" says the Seven Forsters,
"What news have ye brought to me?"
"I have no news," the palmer said,
"But what I saw with my eye."

12. "As I came in by Braidisbanks,
And down among the whuns,
The bonniest youngster e'er I saw
Lay sleepin amang his hunds."

13. "The shirt that was upon his back
Was o' the holland fine;
The doublet which was over that
Was o' the Lincoln twine."

14. Up bespake the Seven Forsters,
Up bespake they ane and a':
"O that is Johnie o' Cockleys Well,
And near him we will draw."

15. O the first stroke that they gae him,
They struck him off by the knee,
Then up bespake his sister's son:
"O the next'll gar[70] him die!"

16. "O some they count ye well wight men,
But I do count ye nane;
For you might well ha' waken'd me,
And ask'd gin I wad be ta'en."

17. "The wildest wolf as in a' this wood
Wad not ha' done so by me;
She'd ha' wet her foot i' the wan water,
And sprinkled it o'er my brae,
And if that wad not ha' waken'd me,
She wad ha' gone and let me be."

18. "O bows of yew, if ye be true,
In London, where ye were bought,
Fingers five, get up belive[71],
Manhuid shall fail me nought."

19. He has kill'd the Seven Forsters,
He has kill'd them all but ane,
And that wan scarce to Pickeram Side,
To carry the bode-words hame.

20. "Is there never a [bird] in a' this wood
That will tell what I can say;
That will go to Cockleys Well,
Tell my mither to fetch me away?"

21. There was a [bird] into that wood,
That carried the tidings away,
And many ae[72] was the well-wight man
At the fetching o' Johnie away.

[Footnote 61: Rose.]

[Footnote 62: Prepare.]

[Footnote 63: Ready.]

[Footnote 64: Has fallen ill with anxiety.]

[Footnote 65: Bush of whin, furze.]

[Footnote 66: Leaped.]

[Footnote 67: Quarter--the fourth part of a yard.]

[Footnote 68: "But and"--as well as.]

[Footnote 69: Bear, endure.]

[Footnote 70: Make, cause.]

[Footnote 71: Quickly.]

[Footnote 72: One.]

SIR PATRICK SPENS

1. The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this ship of mine?"

2. Up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the kings right kne:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
That sails upon the sea."

3. The king has written a braid letter[73],
And sign'd it wi' his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.