Chapter VIII: Part III (1)

Soon after the knight took this maiden away,
And with her did ride, till they came to the sea;
Then looking on her with anger and spite,
He spoke to the virgin, and bid her alight.

The maid from her horse immediately went,
And trembled to think what it was that he meant;
"Ne'er tremble," said he, "for this hour is your last,
Then pull off your clothes, I command you in haste."

The virgin, with tears in her eyes, did reply,
"Oh! what have I done that now I must die?
Oh! let me but know how I did you offend,
I'll study each hour for to make you amends.

"Oh! spare but my life, and I'll wander the earth,
And never come near you while that I have breath."
He hearing this pitiful moan she did make,
Then from his own finger a ring he did take,

And unto this maiden in anger did say,
"This ring in the water I'll now throw away;
Pray look on it well, the posey is plain,
And when you see it may know it again.

"I charge you for life, ne'er come more in my sight,
For if you do, I shall owe you a spite;
Unless that you bring the same ring unto me."
With that, he let the ring drop into the sea:

Which when he had done, from the maid he did go,
And left her to wander in sorrow and woe.
She rambled all night, and at last did espy
A homely poor cottage, and to it did hie.

Being hungry and cold, with a heart full of grief,
She went to the cottage and asked for relief:
The people reliev'd her, and the very next day,
They got her a service, as I do hear say,

At a nobleman's house, not far from that place,
Where she behaved herself with modest grace;
She was a cook maid, and forgot all things past,
But here is a wonder now comes at the last.

As she a fish dinner was dressing one day,
And opening the head of a cod, as they say,
She found a rich ring, and was struck with amaze;
And then she with wonder upon it did gaze.

At viewing it well, she did find it to be
The very same ring the knight threw into the sea.
She smil'd when she saw it, and blest the kind fate,
But did to no creature the secret relate.

The maid in her place did all others excel,
That the lady took notice, and liked her so well;
Said she was born of some noble degree
And took her her own companion to be.

The hard hearted knight to this place he came,
A little time after, with persons of fame;
But was struck to the heart when he there did behold
This charming young virgin in trappings of gold.

Then he asked the lady to grant him a boon,
And said, 'twas to talk with that virgin alone;
The lady consented, and the young maid,
Who quickly agreed, but was sorely afraid.

When he did meet her, "Thou strumpet," said he,
"Pray did not I charge you ne'er to meet me;
This hour's your last, to the world bid good night,
For being so bold to appear in my sight."

Said she, "In the sea, sir, you flung your own ring,
And bid me not see you, unless I could bring
That ring unto you, and I have it," said she,
"Behold, 'tis the same that was thrown into the sea!"

When the knight saw the ring, he did fly to her arms;
He kissed her, and swore she had a million of charms.
Said he, "Charming creature, I pray pardon me,
Who has often contrived the ruin of thee.

"'Tis in vain to alter what fate has decreed,
For I find thou wast born my dear bride to be."
Then married they were, as I do hear say,
And now she's a lady both gallant and gay.

Then quickly unto her parents did haste,
Where the knight told the story of all that was past;
But asked both their pardons upon his bare knee,
Which they give, and rejoice their daughter to see.

Then they for the fisherman and his wife sent,
And for their past trouble did give them content;
But there was great joy by all those that did see
The farmer's young daughter a lady to be.

THE VIRGIN RACE; OR, YORKSHIRE'S GLORY.[190]

Being an account of a race lately run at Temple-Newsham Green; none being admitted to run but such as were virgins. The first that came to the Two Miles' Race end was to have a silver spoon; the second, a silver bodkin; the third, a silver thimble; and the fourth, nothing at all.

Tune "_New Game at Cards_."

You that do desire to hear
Of a virgin race run in York-shire,
Come and listen, I'le declare,
Such news before you ne'er did hear;
For, I think, since the world begun,
But seldom virgins races run.

Four virgins that supposed were
A race did run, I now declare;
Sure such a race was never seen,
As this at Temple Newsham Green;
In half shirts and drawers these maids did run,
But bonny Nan the race has won.

A silver spoon this Nan obtain'd;
The next a silver bodkin gain'd;
The third that was not quite so nimble,
Was to have a silver thimble;
And she that was the last of all,
Nothing unto her share did fall.

In drawers red Ann Clayton run,
And she it was the race that won;
Peg Hall, as I may tell to you,
Did run in drawers that were blew;
Honest Alice Hall that was the third,
Her drawers were white, upon my word.

A concourse great of people were,
For to behold these virgins there,
Who so well acted the man's part,
And love a man with all their heart;
But what means this, for well we know
Maids through the nation all do so.

Now let us come to bonny Nan,
Who won a race once of a man;
In Bassing-hall street he did dwell,
His name was Luke, 'tis known full well;
And let me now declare to you,
At something else she'l beat him too.

Let none the Yorkshire girls despise,
Who are so active now a days;
So brisk and nimble they do grow,
That few can match them, I do know;
Then let us stand up for Yorkshire,
Those country girls I love most dear.

A Yorkshire girl, who can outvie?
No city girls can them come nigh;
They've rosy blushes in their cheeks,
While city girls are green as leeks;
This with my fancy will agree,
A Yorkshire girl shall be for me.

Then here's a health to a Yorkshire girl,
For in mine eye she is a pearl,
Whose beauty doth so charm mine eye
That for her I would freely dye;
Her virtues do her face adorn,
And makes her look fresh as the morn.

Now to conclude, unto my friend
These lines I freely recommend,
Advising him above the rest,
To love a Yorkshire girl the best;
But let him use his skill, for I
Will love a Yorkshire girl until I dye.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 190: From a broadside in the Roxburgh coll., black letter. Printed for J. Wright, J. Clark, W. Thackeray, and T. Passinger.]

THE MAYOR OF DONCASTER.[191]

A true and lamentable tale, showing how his worship was dubbed a knight a day too soon, and undubbed again a day too late, not to be laughed at.

Sweet girls of Pindus, hither bring
Your drums and bag-pipes hollow,
THE MAYOR OF DONCASTER I sing,[192]
Assist me O Apollo!
His worship is a jolly squire,
And loyal as a spaniel dog,
His zeal as hot as kitchen fire,
His head as learned and as big
As that great philosophic log
Whereon Puff trims his worship's wig.
Nature had ta'en Herculean pains
To scour his chambers clean from brains,
And truly at a vast expence
Had cur'd and purg'd them quite from evil sense.
Brains, sense, and wit, are such low vulgar things
As seldom trouble the heads of mayors or kings.
What of the mayor of Doncaster, I pray?
Sir he received a letter t'other day;
Judge, readers, judge, what huge surprize
Stretch'd like a brace of moons his eyes,
Judge, how he gaped for joy, for breath,
And show'd the ruins of his teeth;
Judge, how his head sublimer grew,
Judge, how his shoulders widen'd too,
Judge, how he swung his arms about,
Judge, how he mov'd his legs so stout,
So big he look'd you would have swore
A giant stood where stood a dwarf before.
Reader, behold this wonderful epistle,
And if thou canst not laugh, go whistle.--
"King George's compliments to Mr. Mayor,
Queen Charlotte also greets his lady fair.
Their gracious majesties have heard with pleasure
How you have sacrificed both time and treasure
On flannel jackets, breeches, stockings, socks,
Also on good warm petticoats and smocks,
To clothe our gallant troops abroad in Flanders,[193]
Their pretty lasses and our smart commanders,
The queen and princesses are quite delighted,
And king George swears such deeds shall be requited;
Come, come to London, sir, come and be knighted."

This note, signed "Granville," came by post,
And (cheap enough) a silver shilling cost.
No time must now be lost, he goes, he sends
To all his wealthy corporation friends.
The sleek-skinn'd brotherhood soon flock'd together,
All in full spirits and full feather,
With double chins and rosy faces,
Pictures of bacchanalian graces,
Expecting to behold a feast
Of turtle exquisitely drest.
They lick'd their chops, and stretch'd their maws,
And blest the man that first invented jaws.
Jaws form'd so wonderful and so complete,
Jaws that can swear and pray and lie and eat;
When lo! ah! disappointed paunches,
Instead of vast sirloins and haunches,
Bright dishes, shining knives and forks,
Gay bottles, sparkling glasses, smacking corks,
Up rose the mayor, with sage demeanour,
And read the letter--for a dinner!
He ended--and a broad prodigious grin
Screw'd every face, and tugg'd up ev'ry chin.
But yet mysterious silence hung
A padlock upon every tongue;
Then rearing his triumphant crest,
Whilst knighthood caper'd in his breast,
Thus the big mayor the aldermen addres't:
"Ha! honest gem'men, don't ye see
The king's most gracious majesty
Has fall'n quite in love with me?
Upon my honor, worthy gem'men,
I never knew myself before.
I've always been before a yeoman,
Not very rich, not very poor,
To-day, a man, like one of you,
A knight to-morrow I shall ride
In coach and six, with ribband blue,
And sword-knot flaming by my side.
On honor's ladder I intend to rise,
Step after step until I reach the skies,
A viscount, earl, a marquess, duke, I'll be,
God only knows what may become of me,
And really, gem'men, 'twould be no strange thing,
If, in my turn, I should become a king."
The aldermen all started from their places,
And open'd all the windows of their faces,
Each view'd the letter with a heart-heav'd groan.
And wish'd a thousand times it was his own.
Then bowing humbly to the mayor,
Each offer'd up his solemn prayer.--
"Make me," said one, "most gracious sir,
A learned lord high chancellor."
"And I," exclaimed a man of weight,
"I'll be your minister of state."
"Make me your majesty's physician,"
Cried a poor mean consumptive elf.
"I'll be your majesty's musician,"
Said one who seem'd a corporation of himself.
"Ask," quoth the mayor, "whate'er you want,
And all, aye, more than all, I'll grant,
Should heav'n bestow the golden fleece,
By George! I'll make you dukes apiece!"--
--"Fools, fools apiece," exclaim'd a fat
Old wag, who in a corner sat.
"Fools?" cried the mayor, abash'd, confounded,
"Fools?" cried the aldermen, astounded.
"Yes, fools apiece, fools altogether,"
Replied the wicked wag;
"Fools, fools," he cried, "fools of one feather,
I'll let the cat out o' the bag,
This letter ne'er was writ by Granville,
But forged on quite another anvil.
'Tis neither frank'd nor does the seal display
A coat of arms magnificent and gay.
Some Jacobin has sent the fabrication,
Just to befool our learned corporation."
Sneering he spake, then turn'd about,
Took up his chapeau, and walked out.
Ghastly and wild his worship stagger'd,
And look'd as if he had been dagger'd.
Stung to the stomach with vexation,
The aldermen all roar'd, "Damnation!"
The meeting, silent as the breaking day,
Soft as the mountain snow did melt away.
At first his worship stamp'd and storm'd and swore
He never had been made a fool before,
And therefore could not overlook it!
But, second thoughts are best--his worship then
Swore that he'd ne'er be made a fool again,--
So put his vengeance in his pocket!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 191: From a MS. _penes_ Charles Jackson, esq., of Doncaster.]

[Footnote 192: The civic functionary on whom these verses are traditionally said to have been made was GEORGE PEARSON, who was elected mayor 22 Sept. 1785 and 26 Sept. 1793. He died in 1798, and was interred at Stainton, co. York, where is a monument to his memory, with the following inscription:--

"This monument is erected to the memory of Geo. Pearson, esq., of Doncaster, wine-merchant (but who had some years ago retired from business). He was upwards of thirty years a member of that corporation, and had twice served the office of mayor for the said borough. He was born in this town, and was the youngest son of late Rev. Nathᴸ. Pearson, who was forty-six years vicar of this parish. He died December 25th, 1798, aged 73."]

[Footnote 193: In 1793 the corporation subscribed fifty guineas towards the purchase of flannels and other necessaries for the use of the British army serving on the Continent under the duke of York.]

THE CRAFTY PLOUGH BOY.

Please draw near and the truth you'll hear,
Of a farmer who lived in Hertfordshire,
A fine Yorkshire boy he had for his man,
For to do his work--his name it was Dan.
Fal de ral.

One morning right early he called for his man,
And when he came to him he thus began:--
Says he, "Take this cow this day to the fair,
She is in good order and I can her well spare."

Away went the boy with the cow in a band,
And he came to the fair as you shall understand,
And in a short time he met with three men,
And there sold his cow for six pounds ten.

He went to the ale-house in order to drink,
Where the farmer he paid down the boy all his chink,
The boy to the mistress this he did say,
"Now what shall I do with my money, I pray?"

"I'll sew it up in thy coat lining," said she,
"For fear on the road thou robbed should be."
And there sat a highwayman drinking of wine,
Thought he to himself this money is mine.

The boy took his leave and homeward did go,
The highwayman soon followed after also,
He soon overtook him upon the highway,
"You are well overtaken, young man," he did say.

"Will you get up behind me?" the highwayman said
"How far are you going?" replied the lad.
"Three or four miles for what I know;"
So he got up behind and away they did go.

They rode till they came to a very dark lane,
"Now," says the highwayman, "I will tell you plain,
Deliver your money without fear or strife,
Or else I will certainly take your sweet life."

The boy found that there was no time for dispute,
And so he alighted without fear or doubt;
He tore his coat lining, the money pulled out,
And amongst the long grass he strewed it about.

The highwayman also jumped down from his horse,
But little did he dream that it was for his loss;
But before they could find all the money, they say
The boy jumped on horseback and so rode away.

The highwayman shouted and begg'd him to stay,
But the boy would not hear him so kept on his way,
And to his old master the whole he did bring,
Horse, saddle, and bridle, a very fine thing.

The master he came to the door and said thus:--
"What the deuce! has my cow turned into a horse?"
"Oh, no, canny master, your cow I have sold,
But was robbed on the road by a highwayman bold.

"My money I strewed about on the ground,
For to take it up the rogue lighted down,
And while he was popping it into his purse,
To make him amends I came off with his horse."

The master he laughed till his sides he had to hold,
He says, "For a boy thou hast been very bold;
And as for the villain thou hast served him right,
Thou hast put upon him a clean Yorkshire bite."

He searched his bags and quickly he told,
Two hundred pounds in silver and gold,
And two brace of pistols; the lad said, "I vow,
I think, canny master, I've sold well your cow."

Then the boy for his courage and valour so rare,
Three parts of the money he got for his share;
Now since the highwayman has lost all his store,
He may go a robbing until he gets more.

THE YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY; OR, A WARNING TO ALL PERJUR'D LOVERS.

Parents you that have children, pray
Unto these lines attention give;
And unto God for mercy crave,
To be your guide while you live.

For in Yorkshire, I do declare,
There is a town call'd Thursk by name,
Near to the city of York so fair;
Went thence a gentleman of fame.

For to enjoy a fair estate
Of sixteen hundred pounds a year;
And with him went his virtuous wife,
Two sons, likewise two daughters fair.

When he had full possession took,
He was unto the poor most kind,
For he to charity, indeed,
And serving God, was much inclin'd.

Yet 'twas his most unhappy fate,
His youngest child to dote upon,
And also did his wife, indeed,
And that their ruin it begun.

This youngest daughter whom we hear,
Had many suitors far and near,
But none could then obtain her love
And yet for truth I shall declare.

But then, at last, a grocer's son,
A courting to this maiden went,
Who, in a short time, for truth we hear,
Brought this young maiden to consent;

For to be his lawful bride,
If that her parents would agree;
"Or else, my love, I ne'er must yield,
Indeed, my dear, your bride to be."

With that he to her parents went,
To ask of them their free good will,
Which they, poor souls, did soon consent,
So now observe what them befel.

For when he'd gain'd her friends' consent,
He then most treacherous did prove;
But pray observe, and all beware
You ne'er prove treacherous in love.

He to this maiden went, we hear,
A visit unto her to pay,
But with a false and treacherous heart,
He to this maiden fair did say,

"I'd have you now forthwith to go,
And get your father to agree
To settle on me his estate,
Or else my bride you ne'er shall be."

At this she burst forth into tears,
Saying, "Can you so cruel be,
For unto that I can't presume."
"Then fare thee well," replied he.

When he had left her all in woe,
She yielded to the devil's will,
Who did put her in a way
These cruel murders to fulfil.

She strait some miles from York did go,
And there she bought some poyson strong;
So, then, poor wretch, without delay,
She home again did soon return.

Her father, when she did return,
Said, "Child, your tender mother dear,
Unto a christ'ning she is gone;"
So parents all, take warning here.

Her father, for her safe return,
A bowl of punch prepared had,
And she help'd to make it herself,
So mix'd the poyson in with speed.

Then strait she feigned herself sick,
Saying, "To bed I must now go."
This was because she would not drink--
To work her own great overthrow.

Her father and her brothers dear,
They all around the bowl was set,
And then began to drink the same,
Not thinking poyson was in it.

And when the bowl of punch was out,
Her mother she returned home,
Whose husband said, "My loving wife,
Your daughter Ruth is safe return'd."

At this her mother did rejoice,
Saying, "This news I'm glad to hear."
But oh! poor souls, they little thought
Their latter end it was so near.

For when to bed they all did go;
But oh! next morning, as 'tis said,
Her father, brothers, and sister dear,
Were all found dead within their bed.

Next morning the old lady found
Her husband dead within the bed,
So she call'd for her daughter dear,
For to come up to her with speed.

But she not coming, she strait went
Unto her cruel daughter dear,
That had this sad destruction wrought;
So, parents all, I pray draw near.

She said, "My child, I pray get up,
For your dear father he is dead."
She seem'd amaz'd, and straitway cry'd,
"Oh! then I'm ruined," she cry'd.

"Indeed, no friend I have," she said,
"But you my tender mother dear;"
So then to tell her brothers, they
Unto the chamber did repair.

Where in their beds they there did lie
In death's cold arms as doth appear,
For now begins the bloodiest part
Of tragedy you e'er did hear.

The noise was quickly about spread,
That many went the same to see,
Amongst which, for a truth, 'tis said,
One Clerk, a noted surgeon he.

Who said, "They poyson'd be, indeed."
With that the daughter did declare,
"My mother she hath done this thing
As I will quickly make appear.

"I saw my mother mix some stuff
Into a bowl of punch, indeed;
Then, underneath the table she,
The paper she did fling, with speed

"Then burnt the paper instantly:"
Which made the doctor for to say,
"Madame, you have some murder done;"
So to a justice went straitway.

And, altho' she was innocent,
She strait to prison was convey'd,
Where she, poor soul, in grief, indeed,
Until the next assizes laid.

And then the morning being come,
She at the bar did strait appear,
Where then her cruel daughter, she
Swore false against her mother dear.

Her sentence was for to be burnt;
And then she back to prison went,
Where the poor soul did weep and mourn,
Being overprest with discontent.

So the next morning being come,
Unto the stake she was convey'd;
And being chain'd unto the same,
Poor soul, she to the people said:--

"I now must die a cruel death
As ever sinful soul did die;
So, Lord, my daughter pray forgive,
As Lord, you know, I am not guilty."

The psalms and prayers being done.
The fire kindled was with speed;
And as they pull'd the stool away,
She then for mercy call'd indeed.

The daughter that this thing had done,
She had a letter wrote, indeed,
And coming near the fire, she
Cry'd, "Pray make room for me with speed!"

She gave it to the minister:[194]
Then to the people's great surprise,
She in the flames did throw herself,
Indeed, with dismal shrieks and cries.

And yet, before any of the crowd
Had power hands on her to lay,
She, and her tender mother dear,
Was burnt to death that very day.

So, lovers all, a warning take,
Lest Satan does your ruin prove;
And, youths, slight not your parents dear,
For fear it proves your destruction.

And parents all, I humbly pray,
Prize not one child above the rest;
For often they do prove the worst,
The which you prize and love the best.

The young man he distracted run,
And threw himself into a well,
Unto his parents' great sorrow;
So justice on his head then fell.[195]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 194: The Rev. Mr. Jones, as he stood by the fire; which runs thus:--

"Let this be published as a warning to others, not to prove false in Love for the sake of Gold, which has been my ruin, for one James Parker, whom I priz'd above my soul; to get my father's estate into my own hands, that I might have him for my husband, I poyson'd my father, two brothers, and sister, and, to save myself, I swore falsely against my aged mother, and have taken away her life wrongfully, a sure way to the utter destruction of my soul; and, sir, let this my desire be fulfilled, that all young people may shun the snares of the devil, who are drawing to the paths of destruction this being the last desire of a miserable soul.

RACHELL GLASSOCK."

The Text of the sermon, preached by the Rev. Mr. Jones, was from Romans, chap vii. ver. 9. "For I was alive without the law once: but when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died."]

[Footnote 195: Printed and sold in Bow church-yard, London.--See Horace Rodd's _Garland_, in the British Museum.]

DOLLY DUGGING.

Love's like I deant knaw what,
Deevil cannot match it,
Auld, young and middle aged,
Is sarten sure ta catch it;
I catched it yance misen,
It made me quite uneasy,
And when I gat a wife
By gum she set me crazy.

Dolly Dugging I teak ta be my wife sir,
I did noutt but cry she lid me sic a life sir,
I niver efter smiled nor spent ane hour i' laughter,
She war a hangel forst but she proved a deevil efter.

It happened on a time I axed a friend ta dinner,
I needed some mysen I'd grown sae mickle thinner,
Doll bought sum ribs o' beef when doon sits I and Davy,
She gave us beans ta pick while she tuk meat and gravy.

About a week fra this,
Our Dolly 'd getten collick,
Now thinks I ta mysen,
This is time for frolick.
Dolly prayed neet and day,
As lang as she prayed I swer,
She prayed she might live,
But I prayed she might dee sir.

Sud Bonyparte cum
I'd fit him for his folly,
For I cud'nt wish him warse,
Than wedded tiv our Dolly;
She'd bring his courage doon,
And him severely handle,
Ay and mak him sune as fond,
As ony farden can'le.[196]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 196: Communicated by J. S. Sutton, esq., of Elton hall, Stockton, whom I also have to thank for "When at hame wi' Dad."]

SCARBORO' SANDS.

As I was a walking over Scarboro' Sands,
Some dainty fine sport for to see;
The lasses were crying and wringing their hands,
Saying the Rout it is come for the Blues.

Dolly unto her old mother did say,
"My heart's full of love that is true;"
She packed up her clothes without more delay,
To take the last leave of the Blues.

Our landlords and landladys walk arm in arm,
And so does the young women too,
You'd have laughed if you'd seen how the lasses flocked in,
To take the last leave of the Blues.

We tarried all night and part of next day,
For sweethearts we had got enough,
The times being hard the lasses did spare,
A glass of good gin for the Blues.

Such sparkling young fellows sure never was seen,
As the Blues and her Majesty too;
You may search the world over and Yorkshire all through,
There's none to compare to the Blues.

The boats being ready these lads to jump in,
The music so sweetly did play;
They gave out their voices with three loud huzzas,
Success to the Queen and her Blues.[197]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 197: From a broadside _penes me_.]

THE SHEFFIELD 'PRENTICE.[198]

I was brought up in Sheffield, but not of an high degree,
My parents doated on me, they had no child but me;
I rolled in such pleasures, just where my fancy led,
Then I was bound apprentice, and all my joys were fled.

I did not like my master, he did not use me well,
I made a resolution not long with him to dwell,
Unknown to my parents from him I ran away,
And steer'd my course to London on an unhappy day.

A wealthy rich young lady from Holland met me there,
And offered me great wages to serve her for a year,
At last with great persuasion with her I did agree,
To go and live in Holland which proved my destiny.

I had not been in Holland passing half a year,
Before my young mistress grew very fond of me,
"My gold and my silver, my houses and my land,
If you'll consent to wed with me shall be at your command."

I said, "Dear honoured lady, I cannot wed you now,
For I have lately promised and made a solemn vow
To wed none but Polly, your pretty chambermaid,
Excuse me my dear mistres', she has my heart betray'd."

Then in an angry humour she went from me away,
Resolved within herself to make me dearly pay,
She was so much perplexed she could not be my wife,
She soon contrived a tragedy to take away my life.

One day we were talking in the garden, fine and gay,
A viewing of the flowers that grew so fine and gay,
The gold ring on her finger, as I was passing by,
She slipped into my pocket and for it I must die.

My mistress swore I'd robbed her and quickly I was brought
Before a grave old justice to answer for my fault,
Long time I pleaded innocent but that was all in vain,
She swore point blank against me and I was sent to jail.

Then our royal assizes were drawing on apace,
Presently on me the judge a sentence past,
To the place of execution they brought me to a tree,
And may God forgive my mistress for she has wronged me.

All you who come to see me now, hear before I die,
Don't laugh at my downfall nor smile at my disgrace,
Believe me I'm quite innocent, I bid this world adieu,
Farewell my dearest Polly, I die thro' loving you.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 198: From a broadside in Mr. Hailstone's coll., collated with one _penes me_.]

THE YORKSHIRE VOLUNTEERS' FAREWELL TO THE GOOD FOLKS OF STOCKTON.[199]

BY HERBERT STOCKHORE, PRIVATE IN EARL FAUCONBERG'S YORKSHIRE NORTH RIDING VOLUNTEERS.

Tune, "_Push about the Jorum_."

Ye Stockton lads and lasses too,
Come listen to my story,
A dismal tale, because 'tis true,
I've now to lay before ye;
We must away, our rout is come,
We scarce refrain from tears O,
Shrill shrieks the fife, rough roars the drum,
March, Yorkshire Volunteers, O.
Fal lal lal la ral.

Yet ere we part, my comrades say,
Come, Stockhore, you're the poet,
If ere you'd pen a grateful lay,
'Tis now the time to show it;
Such usage kind, in these good towns,
We've met from age and youth, sirs,
Accept our heartfelt thanks, and once
A poet sings the truth, sirs.
Fal lal, &c.

Ye lasses too, of all I see,
Ye're fairest in the nation;
Sweet buds of beauty's blooming tree,
The top of the creation;
Full many of our lads, I ween,
Have got good wives and true, sirs,
I wonder what our leaders mean,
They have not done so too, sirs.
Fal lal, &c.

Perhaps--but hark! the thund'ring drum
From love to arms is beating;
Our country calls, we come, we come,
Great George's praise repeating;
He's great and good, long may he here
Reign, every bliss possessing,
And long may each true volunteer
Behold him Britain's blessing.
Fal lal, &c.

Our valiant earl[200] shall lead us on,
The nearest way to glory,
Bright honour hails her darling son,
And fame records his story;
Dundas commands upon our lists
The second, tho' on earth, sirs,
No one his second to, exists,
For courage, sense, and worth, sirs.
Fal lal, &c.

No venal muse before your view,
Next sets a veteran bold, sirs,
The praise to merit justly due,
From Paul she cannot hold, sirs;
His valour oft has bore the test,
In war he's brisk and handy;
His private virtues stand confest,
In short, he's quite the dandy.
Fal lal, &c.

Brave Mackarall heads his grenadiers,
They're just the lads to do it,
And should the dons or lank Monsieurs
Come here, he'll make them rue it.
He'll roar his thunder, make them flee,
With a row, row, row, row, rara,
And do them o'er by land,--at sea,
As Rodney did Langara.[201]

Young Thompson and his lads so light
Of foot, with hearts of steel, O,
His country's cause shall nobly fight,
And make her foes to feel, O,
For should the frog-fed sons of Gaul,
Come capering à la Francois,
"My lads," said he, "we'll teach them all
The light-bob country dance, A."
Fal lal, &c.

Our leaders all so brave and bold,
Shou'd I in verse recite, A,
A baggage waggon wou'd not hold
The songs that I cou'd write, A:
Their deeds so great, their words so mild,
O take our worst commander,
And to him Cæsar was a child,
And so was Alexander.
Fal lal, &c.

Such men as these we'll follow thro'
The world, and brave all danger;
Each volunteer is firm and true,
His heart's to fear a stranger;
Good folks farewell, God bless the king,
With angels centry o'er him;
Now, hark! to Winchester, we'll sing,
And push about the jorum.
Fal lal lal la ral.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 199: Called in the Rox. coll., "Hark to Winchester; or, The Yorkshire Volunteers, &c."]

[Footnote 200: Henry, last earl Fauconberg, only son of Thomas 1st earl. He was lord lieutenant and custos rotulorum of the North Riding of Yorkshire, and Lord of the Bedchamber to George III; died 23 March, 1802, and was buried at Coxwold.]

[Footnote 201: On the 16 Jan. 1780, admiral Rodney met a Spanish squadron off Cape St. Vincent, under the command of admiral Don Juan du Langara, and completely defeated it; capturing the Phoenix, of 80 guns, bearing the flag of the admiral, the Monarca, Princessa, and Diligenta, each of 70 guns. The St. Domingo, of 70 guns, blown up; and the San Julian and San Eugenio, of 70 guns, surrendered: while the British had the trifling loss of only 32 men killed and 120 wounded. Both houses of parliament voted Rodney thanks for his conduct upon the occasion, and the freedom of the city of London was presented him in a gold box valued at 100 guineas. Lord Rodney, K.B., died 24 May, 1792.]

FRAGMENT OF THE HAGMENA SONG.[202]

As sung at Richmond, Yorkshire, on the eve of the New-Year, by the Corporation Pinder.

To-night it is the New-year's night, to morrow is the day,
And we are come for our right, and for our ray,[203]
As we used to do in old king Henry's day.
Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit;
Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw;
Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb,
That me and my merry men may have some.
Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the black-ark, bring me X mark;
Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground,
That me and my merry men may have some.
Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 202: The custom of singing Hagmena songs is observed in different parts of the north of England, and in Scotland. The origin of the term is a matter of dispute. Some derive it from "au guy l'an neuf," _to the misletoe this new year_; others suppose the term to be a corruption of hagia mênê, _the holy month_. The Hagmena songs are sometimes sung on Christmas Eve, and sometimes, as at Richmond, on the eve of the new year. See BRAND'S _Popular Antiquities_.]

[Footnote 203: "Ray, ree, or rey, a Portuguese coin, 100 of which are equal to sixpence English."--CLARKSON'S _Richmond_.]

THE FAIR.[204]

Ye loit'ring minnits faster flee,
Ye're all ower slaw behawf for me,
That wait impatient for the moornin';
To-moorn's the lang, lang wish'd for fair,
Ah'll try te shine the fooremust there,
Mysen i' finest cleeas adoornin',
Te grace the day.

Ah'll put mah best white stockings on,
An' pair o' new cawf-leather shoon,
My cleean-wesh'd goon o' printed cotton;
Aboot my neck a muslin shawl,
A new silk hankercher ower all,
Wi' sike a careless air ah'll put on,
Ah'll shine that day.

My partner Ned, ah knaw, thinks he,
"He'll mak' his sen secure o' me,"
He's ofens sed he'd treeat me rarely;
Bud ah sal think ov other fun,
Ah'll aim for sum rich farmer's son,
An' cheeat our simple Neddy fairly,
Sea sly that day.

Why mud ah nut succeed as weel,
An' get a man full oot genteel,
As awd John Darby's dowghter Nelly;
Ah think mysen as good as she,
She can't mak' cheese or spin like me,
That's mare 'an beauty, let me tell ye,
On onny day.

Then hey! for spoorts an' puppy shows,
An' temptin' spice-stalls, rang'd i' rows,
An' danglin' dolls, by t' necks all hangin',
An' thoosand other pratty seeghts,
An' lasses, trail'd alang the streets,
Wi' lads, te t' yal-house gangin',
Te drink that day.

Let's leeak at t' winder,--ah can see 't,
It seeams as tho' 'twas growin' leeght,
The cloods wi' early rays adoornin',
Ye loit'ring minnits faster flee,
Ye're all ower slaw' behawf for me
'At wait impatient for the moornin',
O' sike a day.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 204: From _A Garland of New Songs_, without printer's name.]

THE YORKSHIRE LAD IN LONDON.

When I left father and mother, sister and brother,
They all cried you'll surely be undone;
For resolved was I my fortune to try,
And just take a trip to London--
Cry'd my father, "When there, dont curse and swear
As the Londoners do if they teaze ye,
But your passion keep down as well as you can,
And say--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me."

"Lord, father, do you take me for a fool,
That was in Yorkshire born and bred, man;
I'm not to be done by the London chaps,
As long as I've eyes in my head, man;
And should they think for to go to contrive
With their cunning and tricks to tease me,
I, as well as they, know how many beans make five
If I dont then--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me."

I went to the play, I went to the park, saw the king,
To see all the grand sights I were willing,
But when I came at night to count o'er my brass,
Egad I found I'd took two bad shillings.
"If the Yorkshire lads were to know it," says I,
"Oh dear how they would teaze me."
But some kind friend shall have them again,
If they dont, why--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

A fine lady came up, half drunk in the street,
Thinking for me to nicely trepan, sir;
For you see I being drest in my best,
She called me a handsome young man, sir;
"And sir, if along with me you'll go," says she,
"I think as how I should so please ye."
So I went--and I gave her the two bad shillings,
If I didn't--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

Then a stranger came up, says he, "My dear friend,
I'm glad in London to meet you;
Do you know me?" says he--says I, "Very well,
Come to the public house and I'll treat you."
So I called for the liquor--got half drunk,
Where the chap he thought to ease me,
But I walked me away, left him the reckoning to pay,
If I didn't--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

Then another chap called me on the other side,
Says he, "Look, I've found a gold ring, sir,
If you'll ten shillings give me, yours it shall be."
"Oh!" says I, "'tis a grand looking thing, sir,
But I tell you what, my sweet London chap,
Dont think of my money to ease me,
For a Yorkshire lad knows brass from gold,
If he don't--then Jemmy Johnson squeeze me."

I was tired of their tricks, says I, "I'll go home,
While all's right, tight, and comely;
For a rolling stone gathers no moss,
And home is home if it's ever so homely."
But I made 'em remember 'for I left town,
They thought how it did please me,
That the Yorkshire lad was not to be had,
If he was--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

THE TRYAL OF PATIENCE.[205]

Being a relation of a widow in Yorkshire, who, having buried her husband, and left seven small children, was reduced to great poverty, and turned out of house and home; then going to her husband's brother, being a rich man, in hopes of finding relief, but instead thereof he threatened them with cruelty. With an account of a lady's love at the greatest time of her distress.

To the tune of "_In Summer Time_."

A loving couple in Yorkshire,
They having seven children small,
When poverty was so severe,
They had for them no food at all.

As I the naked truth may speak,
Their father was in grief and woe,
Three years he lay both sick and weak,
This was enough to bring them low.

They sold their cattle, corn, and hay,
With other goods they parted free,
Till all they had was made away,
In this their sad extremity.

After the term of three long years,
Which he thus languishing did lye,
Upon his bed, with brinish tears,
He said, "Farewell, here now I dye."

A cruel landlord the next day,
Turn'd her and children out of door,
Where in a field all night they lay;
This griev'd the widow's heart full sore.

Poor soul, she was in sad distress.
Full seven children at her feet,
With hunger, cold and comfortless,
And not one bit of bread to eat.

Her children cry'd to her alone;
"O, give us food, mother," they said;
'Twould have broke a heart of stone,
To hear the piteous moan they made.

With weeping tears she did reply,
"My heart is overwhelm'd with grief;
To your rich uncle we will hye,
And see if he will yield relief.

"He told your father thus in love,
Before this world he bid adieu,
That he in tenderness would prove
A brother and a father too."

With cheerfulness they did repair,
Unto their uncle's house that night,
And they no sooner were come there,
But all their hopes were blasted quite.

As soon as he did them behold,
He said to her, "What make you here?
Begone, or else the whipping post,
Shall surely happen to your share."

He threatened her with this abuse,
Likewise with greater villany,
He vow'd his dog he would let loose,
If that she did his patience try.

In wrath he spurn'd them from his door,
Saying they should not there abide;
Her children they were frighten'd sore,
She likewise wrung her hands and cry'd.

"O here we will not tarry long,
Although we are in deep distress;
Dear brother, pray now do not wrong
The widow and the fatherless."

Tears from their eyes in showers did flow,
For there they see they might not stay;
Their hearts were fill'd with grief and woe,
As from his house they took their way.

The mother was with grief opprest,
The children in a woful plight;
"We have no home nor place of rest,
Where shall we lay our heads this night?"

As she did wander on the way,
Alas! her very heart did bleed;
"Good Lord, raise me some friend, I pray,
To help us in this time of need."

Her prayer was heard to heaven high,
For she no sooner this had said,
But a young lady riding by,
Did hear the piteous moan she made.

And call'd her to her coach with speed,
Giving her ten good guineas there,
In order for her present need,
And bid her to her house repair.

"A farm of twenty pounds a year,
I do declare I have in store,
And I will give thee title clear,
To you and yours for evermore."

The lady bid her cease to mourn,
"For ever happy may you be;"
Ten thousand thanks she did return
For this her generosity.

No tongue is able to express
How joy and comforts did increase,
For now the farm they do possess,
And live in plenty, joy, and peace.

This brother of malicious spite,
Who would not pity her poor case,
All that he had was blasted quite
Within a very little space.

God's wrath and vengeance here we see,
Was just for his sad cruel pride;
He was reduc'd to poverty,
Likewise upon a dunghill dy'd.

For having then no home nor friend.
That would this cruel wretch receive,
He made a miserable end,
When he, alas! this life did leave.

Rich men, relieve the poor, I pray,
Who does to you for succour cry,
Lest you be brought as low as they,
By making God your enemy.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 205: From a broadside in the Rox. Coll., black letter. Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden Ball in Pye Corner.]

THE BEGGAR'S BRIDGE.

BY MRS. GEORGE DAWSON.

They talk of dales and hills in Wales,
As the loveliest in our isle;
But the Yorkshire dells and rocky fells,
Where the bright sun beams on the sparkling streams,
Are all forgot the while.

You may roam for hours 'mid sweet spring flowers,
With a gurgling "beck" beneath,
While the rustling breeze just parts the trees,
And reveals the sweep of the wild woods deep,
Shut in the darkling heath.

You may hear the note of the blackbird float,
From the top of each tall ash tree,
When he pours his song each evening long;
For in "true love" tales such romantic dales,
Must needs abundant be.

The dalesmen say that their light archway
Is due to an Egton[206] man,
Whose love was tried by a whelming tide;
I heard the tale in its native vale,
And thus the legend ran:--

"Why lingers my lov'd one? Oh! why does he roam
On the last winter's evening that hails him at home?
He promised to see me once more ere he went,
But the long rays of gloaming all lonely I've spent:
The stones at the fording no longer I see;
Ah! the darkness of night has concealed them from me."

The maiden of Glaisdale sat lonely at eve,
And the cold stormy night saw her hopelessly grieve;
But when she looked forth from her casement at morn,
The maiden of Glaisdale was truly forlorn!
For the stones were engulphed where she looked for them last
By the deep swollen Esk, that rolled rapidly past;
And vainly she strove with her tear-bedimmed eye,
The pathway she gazed on last night to descry.

Her lover had come to the brink of the tide,
And to stem its swift current repeatedly tried;
But the rough whirling eddy still swept him ashore,
And relentlessly bade him attempt it no more.
Exhausted he climbed the steep side of the brae,
And looked up the dale ere he turned him away;
Ah! from her far window a light flickered dim,
And he knew she was faithfully watching for him.

"I go to seek my fortune, love,
In a far, far distant land;
And without thy parting blessing, love,
I am forced to quit the strand.

"But over Arncliffe's brow, my love,
I see thy twinkling light;
And when deeper waters part us, love,
'Twill be my beacon bright.

"If fortune ever favour me,
St. Hilda! hear my vow!
No lover again in my native plain,
Shall be thwarted as I am now.

"One day I'll come to claim my bride,
As a worthy and wealthy man!
And my well earned gold shall raise a bridge
Across this torrent's span."

The rover came back from a far distant land,
And he claimed of the maiden her long-promised hand;
But he built, ere he won her, the bridge of his vow,
And the lovers of Egton pass over it now.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 206: "On first entering the village of Egton (near Whitby), instead of proceeding forward, take the road through a gate to the right, which leads past the church of Limber Hill, a winding and steep descent, which affords, from several points, fine views of Eskdale and Glaisdale, and at the foot of which the Beggar's Bridge, with its elegant single arch, bestrides the river Esk."--REED'S _Guide to Whitby_.]

THE BANKS O' MORTON O' SWALE.[207]

As autumn pour'd her teern o' good,
And woe had ceased to wail,
Ah wander'd forth hard by a woode,
Upon the banks o' Swale.

And there ah spied a lovely nymph
Yan that neean could but hail,
Ah sed, "Sweet lass, come take e trip
Alang the banks o' Swale."

Wi' looks as sweet as angels wear,
She soon was in the vale,
And ah was walking by my fair
Upon the banks o' Swale.

But ah sall neear forget that night,
Whale life or memory fail,
The hours they pass'd wi' syke delight,
Upon the banks o' Swale.

They swifter flew than did the stream,
That murmur'd en the dale,
For mah enjoyment was extreme
Upon the banks o' Swale.

Ah lov'd that lass as meh life,
Ah felt to wish her weal,
Ah ask'd her to become my wife
Upon the banks o' Swale.

Wi' looks bespeaking mind intent
On what ah ardent tell,
E' vain ah woo'd her to consent
Upon the banks o' Swale.

Ah kiss'd, ah press'd her to gi way
But all of no availe,
She had a wooer far away
Fra the sweet banks o' Swale.

A drinking ranting wretch wes hee,
As ever was out o' hell,
She took his hand and spurned me
Far fra the banks o' Swale.

But ah! when years had roll'd away
Ah met a form full frail,
She recognised me that day
As fra the banks o' Swale.

Said ah full low, "Can this be she,
This thing of woe and wail,
That ah yance kiss'd delightfully
Upon the banks o' Swale?"

O, heavens it was the very one
Ah met e' that sweet vale,
But ah the evary charm was gone,
Ah saw ont' banks o' Swale.

Wi' sorrow stamp'd on her brow
She did her mind unveil,
She told me all she had pass'd thro'
Since on the banks o' Swale.

But O her history how sad,
To sad for me to tell,
T'wad mak e' heart o' stane to bleed,
Ah mourn ye banks o' Swale.

Then ye nymphs that mak sea free
Wi' laddies that love ale,
Ah think of her that went wi' me
Upon the banks o' Swale.

And spurn syke wooers that wad woo
Ye to become their wife,
For knaw 'e this, if ye do
Ye 'd ruined be for life.[208]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 207: A pleasant straggling village, in the parish of Ainderby Steeple, near North Allerton, on the east bank of the Swale. Lambard, Bede, and other early writers, inform us that Paulinus, the first archbishop of York, baptized 10,000 persons in this river in one day,--"By cause at that tyme theare weare no churches or oratories yet buylt."]

[Footnote 208: Communicated by Mr. Wm. Todd, of Keckmondwike, author of "T' Country Chap," &c.]

THE CHASE OF THE BLACK FOX.

This ballad, communicated by Mr. Wm. Grainge,[209] of Minskip, has never been printed, and is little known. The tradition on which it is founded is yet related by old people in the midland parts of Yorkshire, and the incidents recited in the narrative are very nearly those related by the tongue of "hoary eld."

Listen, Yorkshire gentlemen,
Unto the tale I tell,
'Tis of a strange adventure
That once a lord befel,

Who took his way with horse and hound,
With huntsman and with horn,
To chase the wily fox I ween,
One autumn's merry morn.

Long did they seek the cunning one,
And roamed with labour vain,
Through many a thorny thicket,
O'er many a woody plain;

No traces of sly reynard,
Their closest search can find,
There is no track upon the ground,
No scent upon the wind.

The hunters are impatient all,
The huntsman swears, "In vain
We've beaten round, we've beaten square,
No fox is on the plain.

"We might as well call off the hounds
And come another day,
Old N--k must have been hunting here
And driven them away."

"If we had caught him in the act,"
The angry lord replies,
"We would have chased him home again,
And made his brush our prize:

"Or if he would but come to day,
We'd give him such a run,
As he ne'er had in all his life,
O, 'twould be noble fun!"

So spake the lord and huntsman,
When to their great surprise,
A noble fox unkenelled
Before their wondering eyes,

As black as any raven,
As glossy and as bright,
Save that his brush--no hunter's prize,
Is tipp'd with shining white.

The huntsman wakes from wonder,
And gives a cheering blast,
The hounds reply in thunder,
The hunters follow fast.

Away they go a gallant band,
Ye would have thought they flew;
Their horses were the fleetest
That Yorkshire ever knew.

O'er many a lofty fence they pass,
O'er many a gate and stile,
The sable one is leading them
Many a dreary mile.