Chapter IX: Book II: I (2)

FOOTNOTES:

[323] [Ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 246.]

[324] [Ver. 15. her faire red cheekes changed color quite.]

[325] [V. 17. and soe with.]

[326] [V. 20. to be conceived.]

[327] [V. 24. none shold. MS.]

[328] [Ver. 29. a ladyes distress.]

[329] [V. 30. your bowe.]

[330] [V. 31. See how I goe with chyld with thee.]

[331] [V. 33. my litle.]

[332] [V. 35. O lett.]

[333] [V. 37-40. not in MS.]

[334] [V. 42. thy wordes.]

[335] [V. 48. lest further.]

[336] [V. 49. my derest.]

[337] [V. 50. my greatest joy on earthe.]

[338] [V. 51. shold I convay you.]

[339] [V. 52. to scape a sudden death.]

[340] [Ver. 53. your friends.]

[341] [V. 55. gett you.]

[342] [V. 56. your ffathers.]

[343] [V. 57. your liffe ... your fame.]

[344] [V. 58. you.]

[345] [V. 59. sword.]

[346] [V. 60. to take ... of thee.]

[347] [V. 61. soe may you.]

[348] [V. 62. if soe you.]

[349] [V. 64. ladyes paine.]

[350] [V. 67. I will safely ryd with thee.]

[351] [V. 76. Ile make the then.]

[352] [V. 77. and with.]

[353] [Ver. 81. wherin this lovely maid.]

[354] [V. 85. if any person shee had spyed.]

[355] [V. 86. came.]

[356] [V. 87. shee thought.]

[357] [V. 92. when succourles.]

[358] [V. 93. _and_ not in MS.]

[359] [V. 99. in heavinesse.]

[360] [V. 100. which well thou might.]

[361] [V. 101. I did beleeve.]

[362] [V. 105. soe that with many a grievous groane.]

[363] [V. 106. amaine.]

[364] [V. 108. shee found.]

[365] [Ver. 110. thraw.]

[366] [V. 111. shee felt that night.]

[367] [V. 113. mayd.]

[368] [V. 114. who lay.]

[369] [V. 115. and musing at her great woe.]

[370] [V. 117. shee sayth.]

[371] [V. 118. all about.]

[372] [V. 123. and to some.]

[373] [V. 124. the better.]

[374] [V. 130. being by.]

[375] [V. 132. gallant dame.]

[376] [V. 133. litle lovely.]

[377] [V. 134. the pretty smiling babe.]

[378] [Ver. 138. with this newes.]

[379] [V. 144. no joy that they.]

[380] [V. 148. have you a specyall care.]

[381] [V. 149-152. not in MS.]

XI.

WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

This is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from a modern copy. Some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed:

"Whan cockle shells turn siller bells,
And muscles grow on every tree,
When frost and snaw sall warm us aw',
Than sall my love prove true to me."

See the _Orpheus Caledonius, &c._

Arthur's-seat mentioned in ver. 17, is a hill near Edinborough; near the bottom of which is St. Anthony's well.

* * * * *

[There has been considerable difference of opinion among ballad
collectors relative to this beautiful song. Some suppose it to
be a portion of the ballad entitled _Lord Jamie Douglas_, which
relates to James Douglas, second Marquis of Douglas, who married
Lady Barbara Erskine, eldest daughter of John, ninth Earl of Mar,
on the seventh of September, 1670, and afterwards repudiated her
on account of a false accusation of adultery made against her by
Lowrie, laird of Blackwood. Prof. Aytoun, however, believes that
certain verses of _Waly Waly_ have wrongly been mixed up with
_Lord Jamie Douglas_. There is very little doubt that the song
was in existence long before 1670, and it also appears to be the
lamentation of a forsaken girl rather than of a wife. Mr. Stenhouse
and others considered it to belong to the age of Queen Mary and
to refer to some affair at Court. Aytoun writes, "there is also
evidence that it was composed before 1566, for there is extant
a MS. of that year in which some of the lines are transcribed,"
but Mr. Maidment gives the following opinion--"that the ballad is
of ancient date is undoubted, but we are not quite prepared to
admit that it goes back as far as 1566, the date of the manuscript
transcribed by Thomas Wode from an ancient church music book
compiled by Dean John Angus, Andrew Blackhall, and others, in which
it said the first [second] stanza is thus parodied:--

Hey trollie lollie, love is jollie,
A quhile, quhil itt is new
Quhen it is old, it grows full cold,
Wae worth the love untrue.

Never having had access to the MS., we may be permitted to remark
that the phraseology of the burlesque is not exactly that of the
reign of Queen Mary" (_Scottish Ballads and Songs_, 1868, vol. ii.
p. 49.)

Allan Ramsay was the first to publish the song, and he marked it as
ancient.

"When cockle shells turn silver bells,
When wine drieps red frae ilka tree,
When frost and snaw will warm us a'
Then I'll cum down and dine wi' thee,"

is the fourth stanza of _Jamie Douglas_, printed by John Finlay, in
his _Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads_ (vol. ii.)]

* * * * *

O waly[382] waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love wer wont to gae.
I leant my back unto an aik, 5
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly, waly, gin love be bonny,
A little time while it is new; 10
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherfore shuld I busk my head?
Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook, 15
And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed,
The sheets shall neir be fyl'd[383] by me:
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me. 20
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum?
For of my life I am wearìe.

Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, 25
Nor blawing snaws inclemencìe;
'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,
But my loves heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgowe town,
We were a comely sight to see, 30
My love was cled in black velvet,
And I my-sell in cramasie.[384]

But had I wist, before I kisst,
That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 35
And pinnd it with a siller pin.
And, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurses knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane!
For a maid again Ise never be. 40

FOOTNOTES:

[382] [interjection of lamentation.]

[383] [defiled.]

[384] [crimson.]

XII.

THE BRIDE'S BURIAL.

From two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the Pepys Collection; the other in the British Museum.

To the tune of _The Lady's Fall_.

* * * * *

Come mourne, come mourne with mee,
You loyall lovers all;
Lament my loss in weeds of woe,
Whom griping grief doth thrall.

Like to the drooping vine, 5
Cut by the gardener's knife,
Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine,
Doth bleed for my sweet wife.

By death, that grislye ghost,
My turtle dove is slaine, 10
And I am left, unhappy man,
To spend my dayes in paine.

Her beauty late so bright,
Like roses in their prime,
Is wasted like the mountain snowe, 15
Before warme Phebus' shine.

Her faire red colour'd cheeks
Now pale and wan; her eyes,
That late did shine like crystal stars;
Alas, their light it dies: 20

Her prettye lilly hands,
With fingers long and small,
In colour like the earthly claye,
Yea, cold and stiff withall.

When as the morning star 25
Her golden gates had spred,
And that the glittering sun arose
Forth from fair Thetis' bed;

Then did my love awake,
Most like a lilly-flower, 30
And as the lovely queene of heaven,
So shone shee in her bower.

Attired was shee then,
Like Flora in her pride,
Like one of bright Diana's nymphs, 35
So look'd my loving bride.

And as fair Helen's face,
Did Grecian dames besmirche,
So did my dear exceed in sight,
All virgins in the church. 40

When we had knitt the knott
Of holy wedlock-band,
Like alabaster joyn'd to jett,
So stood we hand in hand;

Then lo! a chilling cold 45
Strucke every vital part,
And griping grief, like pangs of death,
Seiz'd on my true love's heart.

Down in a swoon she fell,
As cold as any stone; 50
Like Venus picture lacking life,
So was my love brought home.

At length her rosye red,
Throughout her comely face,
As Ph[oe]bus beames with watry cloudes 55
Was cover'd for a space.

When with a grievous groane,
And voice both hoarse and drye,
Farewell, quoth she, my loving friend,
For I this daye must dye; 60

The messenger of God,
With golden trumpe I see,
With manye other angels more,
Which sound and call for mee.

Instead of musicke sweet, 65
Go toll my passing-bell;
And with sweet flowers strow my grave,
That in my chamber smell.

Strip off my bride's arraye,
My cork shoes from my feet; 70
And, gentle mother, be not coye
To bring my winding-sheet.

My wedding dinner drest,
Bestowe upon the poor,
And on the hungry, needy, maimde, 75
Now craving at the door.

Instead of virgins yong,
My bride-bed for to see,
Go cause some cunning carpenter,
To make a chest for mee. 80

My bride laces of silk
Bestowd, for maidens meet,
May fitly serve, when I am dead,
To tye my hands and feet.

And thou, my lover true, 85
My husband and my friend,
Let me intreat thee here to staye,
Until my life doth end.

Now leave to talk of love,
And humblye on your knee, 90
Direct your prayers unto God:
But mourn no more for mee.

In love as we have livde,
In love let us depart;
And I, in token of my love, 95
Do kiss thee with my heart.

O staunch those bootless teares,
Thy weeping tis in vaine;
I am not lost, for wee in heaven
Shall one daye meet againe. 100

With that shee turn'd aside,
As one dispos'd to sleep,
And like a lamb departed life;
Whose friends did sorely weep.

Her true love seeing this, 105
Did fetch a grievous groane,
As tho' his heart would burst in twaine,
And thus he made his moane.

O darke and dismal daye,
A daye of grief and care, 110
That hath bereft the sun so bright,
Whose beams refresht the air.

Now woe unto the world,
And all that therein dwell,
O that I were with thee in heaven, 115
For here I live in hell.

And now this lover lives
A discontented life,
Whose bride was brought unto the grave
A maiden and a wife. 120

A garland fresh and faire
Of lillies there was made,
In sign of her virginitye,
And on her coffin laid.[385]

Six maidens, all in white, 125
Did beare her to the ground:
The bells did ring in solemn sort,
And made a dolefull sound.

In earth they laid her then,
For hungry wormes a preye; 130
So shall the fairest face alive
At length be brought to claye.

FOOTNOTES:

[385] ["It was an ancient and pleasing custom to place a garland made of white flowers and white riband upon the coffin of a maiden; it was afterwards hung up over her customary seat in church. Sometimes a pair of white gloves, or paper cut to the shape of gloves, was hung beneath the garland. Chaplets of the kind still hang in some of the Derbyshire churches, and at Hathersage in that county the custom is still retained."--(_Transactions of the Essex Archælogical Society_, vol. i. 1858, p. 118.) See _Corydon's Doleful Knell_, vol. ii. book ii. No. 27, p. 275. Ophelia is "allowed her virgin crants" (or garland)--_Hamlet_, act v. sc. 1. See also an interesting article on _Funeral Garlands_ by Llewellyn Jewitt in the _Reliquary_, vol. i. (1860), p. 5.]

XIII.

DULCINA.

Given from two ancient copies, one in black-print, in the Pepys Collection: the other in the Editor's folio MS. Each of these contained a stanza not found in the other. What seemed the best readings were selected from both.

This song is quoted as very popular in Walton's _Compleat Angler_, chap. ii. It is more ancient than the ballad of _Robin Good-Fellow_ printed below, which yet is supposed to have been written by Ben. Jonson.

* * * * *

[The Milk-woman in Walton's _Angler_ says, "What song was it, I
pray you? Was it _Come shepherds deck your heads_, or _As at noon
Dulcina rested_?"

In the Registers of the Stationers' Company, under date of May 22,
1615, there is an entry transferring the right of publication from
one printer to another of _A Ballett of Dulcina to the tune of_
_Forgoe me nowe, come to me sone_. Mr. Chappell also tells us that
_Dulcina_ was one of the tunes to the "Psalms and Songs of Sion,
turned into the language and set to the tunes of a strange land,"
1642.

The editors of the Folio MS., more scrupulous than the bishop, have
not printed this song in its proper place, but have turned it into
the Supplement of _Loose and Humourous Songs_ (p. 32). The third
stanza of the MS. beginning

"Words whose hopes might have enjoyned"

is not printed in the present copy. The third stanza here is the
fourth of the MS., and the fourth stanza is not in the MS. at all.

Cayley and Ellis attribute this song to Raleigh, but without
sufficient authority.]

* * * * *

As at noone Dulcina rested
In her sweete and shady bower;
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lapp to sleepe an hour.
But from her looke 5
A wounde he tooke

Soe deepe, that for a further boone
The nymph he prayes.
Wherto shee sayes,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 10

But in vayne shee did conjure him
To depart her presence soe;
Having a thousand tongues to allure him,
And but one to bid him goe:
Where lipps invite, 15
And eyes delight,
And cheekes, as fresh as rose in june,
Persuade delay;
What boots, she say,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone? 20

He demands what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now:
She sayes, night gives love that leysure,
Which the day can not allow.
He sayes, the sight 25
'Improves delight.
'Which she denies: Nights mirkie noone
In Venus' playes
Makes bold, shee sayes;
Forgoe me now, come to mee soone. 30

But what promise or profession
From his hands could purchase scope?
Who would sell the sweet possession
Of suche beautye for a hope?
Or for the sight 35
Of lingering night
Foregoe the present joyes of noone?
Though ne'er soe faire
Her speeches were,
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 40

How, at last, agreed these lovers?
Shee was fayre, and he was young:
The tongue may tell what th'eye discovers;
Joyes unseene are never sung.
Did shee consent, 45
Or he relent;
Accepts he night, or grants shee noone;
Left he her a mayd,
Or not; she sayd
Forgoe me now, come to me soone. 50

XIV.

THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.

This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263, folio. It is there intitled, "_The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty_: being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble duke, &c. To the tune of, _The Lady's Fall_." To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, _The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation_.

* * * * *

There was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.

And while he did in chase remaine, 5
To see both sport and playe;
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.

This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright, 10
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.

Fair Isabella was she call'd,
A creature faire was shee;
She was her father's only joye; 15
As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel step-mothèr
Did envye her so much;
That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such. 20

She bargain'd with the master-cook,
To take her life awaye:
And taking of her daughters book,
She thus to her did saye.

Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25
Go hasten presentlie;
And tell unto the master-cook
These wordes that I tell thee.

And bid him dresse to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe, 30
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe.

This ladye fearing of no harme,
Obey'd her mothers will;
And presentlye she hasted home, 35
Her pleasure to fulfill.

She streight into the kitchen went,
Her message for to tell;
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell. 40

Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,
Do that which I thee tell:
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you do knowe full well.

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45
He on the ladye layd;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:

Thou art the doe, that I must dresse;
See here, behold my knife; 50
For it is pointed presently
To rid thee of thy life.

O then, cried out the scullion-boye,
As loud as loud might bee;
O save her life, good master-cook, 55
And make your pyes of mee!

For pityes sake do not destroye
My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye,
For Christes sake save her life. 60

I will not save her life, he sayd,
Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.

Now when this lord he did come home 65
For to sit downe and eat;
He called for his daughter deare,
To come and carve his meat.

Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd,
O sit you downe to meat: 70
Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget.

Then solemnlye he made a vowe,
Before the companìe:
That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75
Until he did her see.

O then bespake the scullion-boye,
With a loud voice so hye:
If now you will your daughter see,
My lord, cut up that pye: 80

Wherein her fleshe is minced small,
And parched with the fire:
All caused by her step-mothèr,
Who did her death desire.

And cursed bee the master-cook, 85
O cursed may he bee!
I proffered him my own hearts blood,
From death to set her free.

Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;
And for his daughters sake, 90
He judged her cruell step-mothèr
To be burnt at a stake.

Likewise he judg'd the master-cook
In boiling lead to stand;
And made the simple scullion-boye 95
The heire of all his land.

XV.

A HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.

This song is a kind of translation of a pretty poem of Tasso's, called _Amore fuggitivo_, generally printed with his _Aminta_, and originally imitated from the first Idyllium of Moschus.

It is extracted from Ben Jonson's Masque at the marriage of lord viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday, 1608. One stanza full of dry mythology is here omitted, as it had been dropped in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called _Le Prince d'Amour_. Lond. 1660, 8vo.

* * * * *

[The stanza of the first Grace which Percy left out is as follows:--

"At his sight the sun hath turn'd,
Neptune in the waters burn'd;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies reared high."]

* * * * *

[_1 Grace._] Beauties have yee seen a toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blinde;
Cruel now; and then as kinde?
If he be amongst yee, say; 5
He is Venus' run away.

[_2 Grace._] Shee, that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kisse,
How and where herselfe would wish: 10
But who brings him to his mother
Shall have that kisse, and another.

[_3 Grace._] Markes he hath about him plentie;
You may know him among twentie:
All his body is a fire, 15
And his breath a flame entire:
Which, being shot, like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

* * * * *

[_2 Grace._] Wings he hath, which though yee clip,
He will leape from lip to lip, 20
Over liver, lights, and heart;
Yet not stay in any part.
And, if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himselfe in kisses.

[_3 Grace._] He doth beare a golden bow, 25
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrowes, which outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharpe than other,
With that first he strikes his mother. 30

[_1 Grace._] Still the fairest are his fuell,
When his daies are to be cruell;
Lovers hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest bloud:
Nought but wounds his hand doth season, 35
And he hates none like to Reason.

[_2 Grace._] Trust him not: his words, though sweet,
Seldome with his heart doe meet:
All his practice is deceit;
Everie gift is but a bait; 40
Not a kisse but poyson beares;
And most treason's in his teares.

[_3 Grace._] Idle minutes are his raigne;
Then the straggler makes his gaine,
By presenting maids with toyes 45
And would have yee thinke hem joyes;
'Tis the ambition of the elfe
To have all childish as himselfe.

[_1 Grace._] If by these yee please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 50
[_2 Grace._] Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him.
[_3 Grace._] Since yee heare this falser's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.

XVI.

THE KING OF FRANCE'S DAUGHTER.

The story of this ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of Charles the Bald, king of France. His daughter Judith was betrothed to Ethelwulph king of England: but before the marriage was consummated, Ethelwulph died, and she returned to France: whence she was carried off by Baldwyn, Forester of Flanders; who, after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king's consent to their marriage, and was made Earl of Flanders. This happened about A.D. 863.--See Rapin, Henault, and the French historians.

The following copy is given from the Editor's ancient folio MS. collated with another in black-letter in the Pepys Collection, intitled, _An excellent Ballad of a prince of England's courtship to the king of France's daughter, &c._ To the tune of _Crimson Velvet_.

Many breaches having been made in this old song by the hand of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhime; an attempt is here made to repair them.

* * * * *

[This ballad was written by Thomas Deloney, who included it in his
_Garland of Goodwill_ (Percy Society, vol. xxx. p. 52). It is,
as Percy points out, founded on history, but Deloney paid little
attention to facts. All the first part of the poem, which tells
of the miserable end of the English prince of suitable age to the
young French princess, is fiction. Judith was Ethelwulf's wife for
about two years, and on the death of her husband she married his
son Ethelbert. The only historical fact that is followed in the
ballad is the marriage of Judith with Baldwin, Great Forester of
France, from which union descended Matilda, the wife of William the
Conqueror.

The copy in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii.
p. 441) is entitled "In the Dayes of Olde." Percy altered it
considerably, sometimes following the printed copy and sometimes
the MS.

Mr. Hales suggests that the name of the tune is derived from the
dress of the princess, described in vv. 185-6,--

"Their mothers riche array
Was of crimson velvet,"

and Mr. Chappell agrees with him.]

* * * * *

In the dayes of old,
When faire France did flourish,
Storyes plaine have told,
Lovers felt annoye.
The queene a daughter bare, 5
Whom beautye's queene did nourish:
She was lovelye faire
She was her father's joye.
A prince of England came,
Whose deeds did merit fame, 10
But he was exil'd, and outcast:
Love his soul did fire,
Shee granted his desire,
Their hearts in one were linked fast.
Which when her father proved, 15
Sorelye he was moved,
And tormented in his minde.
He sought for to prevent them;
And, to discontent them,
Fortune cross'd these lovers kinde. 20

When these princes twaine
Were thus barr'd of pleasure,
Through the kinges disdaine,
Which their joyes withstoode:
The lady soone prepar'd 25
Her jewells and her treasure;
Having no regard
For state and royall bloode;
In homelye poore array
She went from court away, 30
To meet her joye and hearts delight;
Who in a forest great
Had taken up his seat,
To wayt her coming in the night.
But, lo! what sudden danger 35
To this princely stranger
Chanced, as he sate alone!
By outlawes he was robbed,
And with ponyards stabbed,
Uttering many a dying grone. 40

The princesse, arm'd by love,
And by chaste desire,
All the night did rove
Without dread at all:
Still unknowne she past 45
In her strange attire;
Coming at the last
Within echoes call,--
You faire woods, quoth shee,
Honoured may you bee, 50
Harbouring my heart's delight;
Which encompass here
My joye and only deare,
My trustye friend, and comelye knight.
Sweete, I come unto thee, 55
Sweete, I come to woo thee;
That thou mayst not angry bee
For my long delaying;
For thy curteous staying
Soone amendes Ile make to thee. 60

Passing thus alone
Through the silent forest,
Many a grievous grone
Sounded in her eares:
She heard one complayne 65
And lament the sorest,
Seeming all in payne,
Shedding deadly teares.
Farewell, my deare, quoth hee,
Whom I must never see; 70
For why my life is att an end,
Through villaines crueltye:
For thy sweet sake I dye,
To show I am a faithfull friend.
Here I lye a bleeding, 75
While my thoughts are feeding
On the rarest beautye found.
O hard happ, that may be!
Little knows my ladye
My heartes blood lyes on the ground. 80

With that a grone he sends
Which did burst in sunder
All the tender bands
Of his gentle heart.
She, who knewe his voice, 85
At his wordes did wonder;
All her former joyes
Did to griefe convert.
Strait she ran to see,
Who this man shold bee, 90
That soe like her love did seeme:

Her lovely lord she found
Lye slaine upon the ground,
Smear'd with gore a ghastlye streame.
Which his lady spying, 95
Shrieking, fainting, crying,
Her sorrows could not uttered bee:
Fate, she cryed, too cruell:
For thee--my dearest jewell,
Would God! that I had dyed for thee. 100

His pale lippes, alas!
Twentye times she kissed,
And his face did wash
With her trickling teares:
Every gaping wound 105
Tenderlye she pressed,
And did wipe it round
With her golden haires.
Speake, faire love, quoth shee,
Speake, fair prince, to mee, 110
One sweete word of comfort give:
Lift up thy deare eyes,
Listen to my cryes,
Thinke in what sad griefe I live.
All in vain she sued, 115
All in vain she wooed,
The prince's life was fled and gone.
There stood she still mourning,
Till the suns retourning,
And bright day was coming on. 120

In this great distresse
Weeping, wayling ever,
Oft shee cryed, alas!
What will become of mee?
To my fathers court 125
I returne will never:
But in lowlye sort
I will a servant bee.
While thus she made her mone,
Weeping all alone, 130
In this deepe and deadlye feare:
A for'ster all in greene,
Most comelye to be seene,
Ranging the woods did find her there.
Moved with her sorrowe, 135
Maid, quoth hee, good morrowe,
What hard happ has brought thee here?
Harder happ did never
Two kinde hearts dissever:
Here lyes slaine my brother deare. 140

Where may I remaine,
Gentle for'ster, shew me,
'Till I can obtaine
A service in my neede?
Paines I will not spare: 145
This kinde favour doe me,
It will ease my care;
Heaven shall be thy meede.
The for'ster all amazed,
On her beautye gazed, 150
Till his heart was set on fire.
If, faire maid, quoth hee,
You will goe with mee,
You shall have your hearts desire.
He brought her to his mother, 155
And above all other
He sett forth this maidens praise.
Long was his heart inflamed,
At length her love he gained,
And fortune crown'd his future dayes. 160

Thus unknowne he wedde
With a kings faire daughter;
Children seven they had,
'Ere she told her birth.
Which when once he knew, 165
Humblye he besought her,
He to the world might shew
Her rank and princelye worth.
He cloath'd his children then,
(Not like other men) 170
In partye-colours strange to see;
The right side cloth of gold,
The left side to behold,
Of woollen cloth still framed hee[386].
Men thereat did wonder; 175
Golden fame did thunder
This strange deede in every place:
The king of France came thither,
It being pleasant weather,
In those woods the hart to chase. 180

The children then they bring,
So their mother will'd it,
Where the royall king
Must of force come bye:
Their mothers riche array, 185
Was of crimson velvet:
Their fathers all of gray,
Seemelye to the eye.
Then this famous king,
Noting every thing, 190
Askt how he durst be so bold
To let his wife soe weare,
And decke his children there
In costly robes of pearl and gold.
The forrester replying, 195
And the cause descrying[387],
To the king these words did say,
Well may they, by their mother,
Weare rich clothes with other,
Being by birth a princesse gay. 200

The king aroused thus,
More heedfullye beheld them,
Till a crimson blush
His remembrance crost.
The more I fix my mind 205
On thy wife and children,
The more methinks I find
The daughter which I lost.
Falling on her knee,
I am that child, quoth shee; 210
Pardon mee, my soveraine liege.
The king perceiving this,
His daughter deare did kiss,
While joyfull teares did stopp his speeche.
With his traine he tourned, 215
And with them sojourned.
Strait he dubb'd her husband knight;
Then made him erle of Flanders,
And chiefe of his commanders:
Thus were their sorrowes put to flight. 220

[***]

FOOTNOTES:

[386] This will remind the reader of the livery and device of Charles Brandon, a private gentleman, who married the Queen Dowager of France, sister of Henry VIII. At a tournament which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half Cloth of gold, and half Frieze, with the following Motto:--

"Cloth of Gold, do not despise,
Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Frize,
Cloth of Frize, be not too bold,
Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Gold."

See Sir W. Temple's _Misc._ vol. iii. p. 356.

[387] _i.e._ describing.

XVII.

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

This little madrigal (extracted from Ben. Jonson's _Silent Woman_, act i. sc. 1, first acted in 1609) is in imitation of a Latin Poem printed at the end of the Variorum Edit. of Petronius, beginning, _Semper munditias, semper Basilissa, decoras_, &c. See Whalley's _Ben Jonson_, vol. ii. p. 420.

* * * * *

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast:
Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found, 5
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 10
Than all th' adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

XVIII.

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

The subject of this very popular ballad (which has been set in so favourable a light by the _Spectator_, No. 85.) seems to be taken from an old play, intitled, _Two lamentable Tragedies; The one of the murder of Maister Beech, a chandler in Thames streete, &c. The other of a young child murthered in a wood by two ruffins, with the_ _consent of his unkle._ By Rob. Yarrington, 1601, 4to. Our ballad-maker has strictly followed the play in the description of the father and mother's dying charge: in the uncle's promise to take care of their issue: his hiring two ruffians to destroy his ward, under pretence of sending him to school: their chusing a wood to perpetrate the murder in: one of the ruffians relenting, and a battle ensuing, &c. In other respects he has departed from the play. In the latter the scene is laid in Padua: there is but one child: which is murdered by a sudden stab of the unrelenting ruffian: he is slain himself by his less bloody companion; but ere he dies gives the other a mortal wound: the latter living just long enough to impeach the uncle; who, in consequence of this impeachment, is arraigned and executed by the hand of justice, &c. Whoever compares the play with the ballad, will have no doubt but the former is the original: the language is far more obsolete, and such a vein of simplicity runs through the whole performance, that, had the ballad been written first, there is no doubt but every circumstance of it would have been received into the drama: whereas this was probably built on some Italian novel.

Printed from two ancient copies, one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection. Its title at large is, _The Children in the Wood; or, The Norfolk Gentleman's Last Will and Testament: To the tune of Rogero, &c._

* * * * *

[Ritson thought he had refuted Percy's statement that the play was
older than the ballad by pointing out that the latter was entered
in the Stationers' books in 1595, but I find in Baker's _Biographia
Dramatica_ an assertion that Yarrington's play was not printed
"till many years after it was written." The following is the form
of the entry at Stationers' Hall, "15 Oct. 1595. Thomas Millington
entred for his copie under th[e h]andes of bothe the Wardens
a ballad intituled _The Norfolk Gent, his Will and Testament_
_and howe he commytted the keepinge of his children to his owne_
_brother whoe delte most wickedly with them and howe God plagued_
_him for it._" Sharon Turner and Miss Halsted favoured the rather
untenable opinion that the wicked uncle was intended to represent
Richard III., and therefore that the date of the ballad was much
earlier than that usually claimed for it. Turner writes in his
_History of England_, "I have sometimes fancied that the popular
ballad may have been written at this time on Richard and his
nephews before it was quite safe to stigmatize him more openly."

Wailing, or Wayland Wood, a large cover near Walton in Norfolk is
the place which tradition assigns to the tragedy, but the people of
Wood Dalling also claim the honour for their village.

Addison speaks of the ballad as "one of the darling songs of the
common people, [which] has been the delight of most Englishmen in
some part of their age," and points out that the circumstance

... robin-red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves,

has a parallel in Horace, who tells us that when he was a child,
fallen asleep in a desert wood, the turtle doves took pity on him
and covered him with leaves.

The popular belief that the robin covers dead bodies with leaves
(probably founded on the habits of the bird) is of considerable
antiquity. The passage in Cymbeline (act iv. sc. 2) naturally
occurs as the chief illustration:--

... "the ruddock would,
With charitable bill....
... bring thee all this,
Yea and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse."

In Webster's _White Devil_, act v., we read:--

"Call for the robin red breast and the wren
Since o'er shady groves they hover
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men."

The critics suppose Webster to have imitated Shakespere here, but
there is no ground for any such supposition. The industry of Reed,
Steevens, and Douce has supplied us with several passages from old
literature in which this characteristic of the robin is referred to.

In "_Cornucopiæ, or, divers Secrets_; wherein is contained the rare
secrets of man, beasts, fowles, fishes, trees, plants, stones, and
such like, most pleasant and profitable, and not before committed
to bee printed in English. Newlie drawen out of divers Latine
Authors into English by Thomas Johnson," 4to. London, 1596, occurs
the following passage:--"The robin red-breast if he find a man or
woman dead will cover all his face with mosse, and some thinke that
if the body should remaine unburied that hee woulde cover the whole
body also."

This little secret of Johnson is copied by Thomas Lupton into his
_A Thousand Notable Things of sundrie sorts newly corrected_, 1601,
where it appears as No. 37 of book i.

Michael Drayton has the following lines in his poem, _The Owl_:

"Cov'ring with moss the dead's unclosed eye
The little red-breast teacheth charitie."

In Dekker's _Villanies discovered by lanthorn and candlelight_,
1616, we read, "They that cheere up a prisoner but with their sight
are Robin red-breasts, that bring strawes in their bils to cover
a dead man in extremitìe." This is sufficient evidence that the
belief was wide-spread.]

* * * * *

Now ponder well, you parents deare,
These wordes, which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall heare,
In time brought forth to light.
A gentleman of good account 5
In Norfolke dwelt of late,
Who did in honour far surmount
Most men of his estate.

Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
No helpe his life could save; 10
His wife by him as sicke did lye,
And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kinde,
In love they liv'd, in love they dyed, 15
And left two babes behinde:

The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares olde;
The other a girl more young than he,
And fram'd in beautyes molde. 20
The father left his little son,
As plainlye doth appeare,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred poundes a yeare.

And to his little daughter Jane 25
Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid down on marriage-day,
Which might not be controll'd:

But if the children chance to dye,
Ere they to age should come, 30
Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
For so the wille did run.

Now, brother, said the dying man,
Look to my children deare;
Be good unto my boy and girl, 35
No friendes else have they here:
To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye;
But little while be sure we have
Within this world to staye. 40

You must be father and mother both,
And uncle all in one;
God knowes what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone.
With that bespake their mother deare, 45
O brother kinde, quoth shee,
You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or miserie:

And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward; 50
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deedes regard.
With lippes as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
God bless you both, my children deare; 55
With that the teares did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake
To this sicke couple there,
The keeping of your little ones
Sweet sister, do not feare; 60
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children deare,
When you are layd in grave.

The parents being dead and gone, 65
The children home he takes,
And bringes them straite unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a daye, 70
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both awaye.

He bargain'd with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take these children young, 75
And slaye them in a wood.
He told his wife an artful tale,
He would the children send
To be brought up in faire Londòn,
With one that was his friend. 80

Away then went those pretty babes,
Rejoycing at that tide,
Rejoycing with a merry minde,
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly, 85
As they rode on the waye,
To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives decaye:

So that the pretty speeche they had,
Made Murder's heart relent; 90
And they that undertooke the deed,
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart,
Did vowe to do his charge,
Because the wretch, that hired him, 95
Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto,
So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the childrens life: 100

And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slaye the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;
The babes did quake for feare!

He took the children by the hand, 105
Teares standing in their eye,
And bad them straitwaye follow him,
And look they did not crye:
And two long miles he ledd them on,
While they for food complaine: 110
Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread,
When I come back againe.

These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and downe;
But never more could see the man 115
Approaching from the town:
Their prettye lippes with black-berries,
Were all besmear'd and dyed,
And when they sawe the darksome night,
They sat them downe and cryed. 120

Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till deathe did end their grief,
In one anothers armes they dyed,
As wanting due relief:
No burial 'this' pretty 'pair'[388] 125
Of any man receives,
Till Robin-red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrathe of God
Upon their uncle fell; 130
Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell:
His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd,
His landes were barren made,
His cattle dyed within the field, 135
And nothing with him stayd.

And in a voyage to Portugal[389]
Two of his sonnes did dye;
And to conclude, himselfe was brought
To want and miserye: 140
He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven yeares came about.
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this meanes come out:

The fellowe, that did take in hand 145
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judg'd to dye,
Such was God's blessed will:
Who did confess the very truth,
As here hath been display'd: 150
Their uncle having dyed in gaol,
Where he for debt was layd.

You that executors be made,
And overseers eke
Of children that be fatherless, 155
And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such like miserye
Your wicked minds requite. 160

FOOTNOTES:

[388] Ver. 125. these ... babes. _P.P._

[389] [Ritson has the following note (_Ancient Songs_, 1829, vol. ii. P. 155): "_the_ voyage, A.D. 1588. See the Catalogue of the Harl. MSS. No. 167 (15). Dr. Percy, not knowing that the text alludes to a particular event, has altered it to _a_ voyage."]

XIX.

A LOVER OF LATE.

Printed, with a few slight corrections, from the Editor's folio MS.

* * * * *

[This song is printed, Hales and Furnivall's edition of the MS.
vol. iii. p. 389.]

* * * * *

A lover of late was I,
For Cupid would have it soe,
The boy that hath never an eye,
As every man doth know:
I sighed and sobbed, and cryed, alas! 5
For her that laught, and called me ass.

Then knew not I what to doe,
When I saw itt was in vaine[390]
A lady soe coy to wooe,
Who gave me the asse soe plaine:[391] 10
Yet would I her asse freelye bee,
Soe shee would helpe, and beare with mee.

An' I were as faire as shee,[392]
Or shee were as kind as I,[393]
What payre cold have made, as wee, 15
Soe prettye a sympathye:
I was as kind as she was faire,
But for all this wee cold not paire.

Paire with her that will for mee,
With her I will never paire; 20
That cunningly can be coy,
For being a little faire.
The asse Ile leave to her disdaine;
And now I am myselfe againe.

FOOTNOTES:

[390] [Ver. 8. when I see itt was vaine.]

[391] [V. 10. and gave.]

[392] [V. 13. faine, MS.]

[393] [V. 14. and shee, MS.]

XX.

THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD.

It has been a favourite subject with our English ballad-makers to represent our kings conversing, either by accident or design, with the meanest of their subjects. Of the former kind, besides this song of the King and the Miller; we have K. Henry and the Soldier; K. James I. and the Tinker; K. William III. and the Forrester &c. Of the latter sort, are K. Alfred and the Shepherd; K. Edward IV. and the Tanner;[394] K. Henry VIII. and the Cobler, &c.--A few of the best of these are admitted into this collection. Both the author of the following ballad, and others who have written on the same plan, seem to have copied a very ancient poem, intitled _John the Reeve_, which is built on an adventure of the same kind, that happened between K. Edward Longshanks, and one of his Reeves or Bailiffs. This is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of Edward IV. and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners, is infinitely superior to all that have been since written in imitation of it. The Editor has a copy in his ancient folio MS. but its length rendered it improper for this volume, it consisting of more than 900 lines. It contains also some corruptions, and the Editor chuses to defer its publication in hopes that some time or other he shall be able to remove them.

The following is printed, with corrections, from the editor's folio MS. collated with an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, intitled _A pleasant ballad of K. Henry II. and the Miller of Mansfield, &c._

* * * * *

[This ballad of _Henry II. and the Miller of Mansfield_ cannot
be traced farther back than the end of Elizabeth's reign or the
beginning of James's. One of the three copies in the Roxburghe
Collection is dated by Mr. Chappell between 1621 and 1655, and the
copy in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 147)
was written about the same period. (See Roxburghe _Ballads_, ed.
Chappell, vol. i. p. 538.)

As there are earlier copies than the one in the Folio MS. it has
not been thought necessary to add Collations.

_John the Reeve_, referred to above, is one of the earliest and
most interesting of this large class of tales. It was printed for
the first time in Hales and Furnivall's edition of the MS. (vol.
ii. p. 550) with a valuable introduction.

This spirited poem was probably written originally in the middle of
the fifteenth century. "It professes to describe an incident that
took place in the days of King Edward. It adds:

Of that name were Kings _three_
But Edward with the long shanks was he,
A lord of great renown.

The poem then was written after the death of Edward III.; that is,
after 1377, and before the accession of Edward IV., that is before
1461."]

* * * * *