Gfornell Hniaersity Slihraty 3tljara, N tva 5ork FROM THE BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY COLLECTED BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY Cornell University Library PR 1181.M82 1853 The pictorial book of ancient ballad poe 3 1924 013 290 840 .M6£ Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013290840 W&MGBmBk%OOJL Q\ OB miratHali^Moftoi '-v^ % - OF Jft^toitml jbrabituraal &Jbmattfo. —»?■ 'ridny^&T & P Jfr — Ji o n i> o ft . r! 'lt'V 'Mil' ESm - IR.Jbtbuis €\t ipidflrial tynijk OF ANCIENT BALLAD POETEY OF GREAT BRITAIN, HISTORICAL, TRADITIONAL, AND ROMANTIC: TO WHICH ABE ADDED, A SELECTION OF MODERN IMITATIONS, Irib gome SCranalattong. EDITED BY J. S. MOORE, ESQ. A NEW EDITION, REVISED, AND CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED, WITH ADDITIONS, INTRODUCTORY NOTICES, A GLOSSARY, ETC. ETC. LONDON: HENRY WASHBOURNE & CO., IVY LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1853. u Q4«H _.^._.__,.. /\L>&)]j 1 tyxtfnt. In presenting a New Edition of the Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry, it is only necessary to state that some additions have been made to it, and the whole has been re-arranged; and though it is scarcely possible to fix upon the exact period of all the pieces, yet some attempt has been made to place most of them in chronological order, so that as the earliest belong to the reign of Henry VI., the volume will show the progress of Ballad Poetry from that time; when, however, more than one version of a Ballad is given, it has been thought best to place them together, the earliest precede ing the later. The doings of Robin Hood and his Merrie Men, which form a prominent feature in this collection, and are comprised in ten pieces, embracing the earliest known Ballad, and ending with that upon his death, from Ritson's Robin Hood's Garland, printed at York, have been also kept together, as to have separated them would have spoilt the interest of the subject, and lessened their value. The sources from which the Ballads have been derived are pointed out in the introductory notice prefixed to each, by reference to which it will be seen that not only Percy, Ritson, PREFACE. Evans, Scott, Jamieson, Buchan, and other well known and popular collections, have been resorted to, but also some reprints of the Percy Society, which are perhaps less familiar to the general reader. To the Editors of these, and of the other volumes from which any of our materials are taken, many thanks are due for the zeal and care they have exercised, in rescuing from loss so many poems, of which a large propor- tion existed only in collections, whose bulk concealed the beauties to be found there, or else in fly-sheets, extant only in the libraries of a few of the learned. The numerous popular imitations of . Ancient Ballad Poetry from the pens of authors of so high a rank as Scott, Southey, Coleridge, Taylor, Percy, Chatterton, Leyden, Maginn, &c, mark so strongly the progress of national taste, and are themselves so fixed in the minds of old and young of our own times, that it was thought this publication would have been unsatisfactory without it contained a selection of them. — And finally, to complete the subject in all its branches, and to show the resemblances as well as the differences between Foreign and English Ballads, a few translations have been added, very similar in structure to that of our own old Ballads, though their wild and fanciful nature contrasts strongly with the rough simplicity of the latter. Cimtntk The Ancient Ballad op Chevy Chase. (Oldest Version) Chevy Chase. (Later Version) Eobin Hood and the Monk Eobyn Hode and the Potter A Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode Eobin Hood and Guy of Gisborne . . . A True Tale of Robin Hood Eobin Hood and the Beggar Eobin Hood and the Stranger Eobin Hood, his Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage Eobin Hood and Little John . . . ' ... Eobin Hood's Death and Burjal Lady Bessy King Estmere The Nut-Browne Mayde The Felon Sow of Rokeby, and the Friars of Eichmond The Outlaw Murray The Wandering Jew Gernutus the Jew The Northern Lord and Cruel Jew... The Battle of Otterbourne Another Version (Scottish) of Later Date PAGE 1 9 17 27 36 84 91 106 117 127 134 139 142 170 178 187 195 205 209 214 220 228 CONTENTS. PAGE The Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednal Green 232 Another Version of later date 240 Sir Andrew Barton 247 Another Version of later date 256 The Children in the Wood 263 Erlinton. (Supposed Original of the Child of Elle) 268 The Child of Elle 270 Adam Bel, Clym of the Cloughe, and Wyllyam of Cloudesle 276 King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid 295 The Spanish Lady's Love 299 Sir Hugh le Blond. (The Original of Sir Aldingai) 303 Sir Aldingar 307 Childe Maurice 314 Child Noryce 318 GilMorrice • • 321 King Malcolm and Sir Colvin ... 327 SirCauline 330 The Gay Goss-Hawk 341 The Jolly Goshawk 346 Fair Rosamond 350 Sir Lancelot du Lake 356 Robin Goodfellow ... 360 Patient Grissell 369 The King and a Poore Northerne Man 376 111 May-day 388 The Heir of Linne. (Scotch) 393 The Drunkard's Legacy. (The English Ballad) 397 The Heir of Linne. (Supposed Later Version) 403 Captain Car, (Supposed to be the Original of Edom o'Gordon) 410 Edom o'Gordon 414 The Death of Parcy. Reed 419 Young Bondwell ... 424 Lord Beichan. (An English Version of the same) ... ... 430 Robin Conscience 437 The Blessed Conscience 451 The Berkshire Lady's Garland 456 The Suffolk Miracle 463 CONTENTS. Im&tetom$ a Hardyknute Valentine and Ursine The Birth of St. George Sir James the Rose ... — ■ Another ... ... The Hermit of Warkworth The Bristowe Tragedie •... .".. The Red-Cross Knight Owen of Carron The Lady of the Black Tower. ;. . . . Hardyknute. Part Second John Gilpin Catskin's Garland The Story of Catskin The Unnatural Father The Eve of St. John Glenfinlas — Lord Ronald's Coronach Lord Soulis The Cout of Keeldar The Mermaid May of the Moril Glen Gondoline .. The Witch of Fife ...... The Rime of the Ancient Mariner . . The Eve of St. Jerry The Rime of the Auncient Waggonere Our Ladye's Girdle The Knight's Revenge Sir Delaval and the Monk Sir Guy the Seeker The Lists of Nasehy Wold. Roprecht the Robber The Luck of Muncaster . . The Feaste of Alle Deuiles The Worme of Lambton . . Sir Turlough, or the Churchyard Bride . . . W. Cakxeton . Lady Wardlaw. . Dr. Percy . Anon. . Anon. . Michael Bruce.*. . Dr. Percy . Chattkrton . MlCKLE . Langhorne . Mrs. M.Robinson. . PlNKEKTON . COWPER . Anon. . Anon. . Anon. . Sir W. Scott ... . Sir W. Scott .., ,. Dr. Leyden . Dr. Leyden . Dr. Leyden ,. James Hogg . H. K. White ... ,. James Hogg ,. S. T. Coleridge-. .. Dr. Maginn .. Anon. ... James Telfer , Delta Rob. Owen M. G. Lewis (Friendship's Offering) R. Southey Anon. Anon Rev. J. Watson. TAOS 469 479 490 496 499 506 530 541 552 568 576 588 596 605 61 1 618 624 632 640 648 656 667 676 685 703 708 713 722 733 741 750 757 768 777 784 796 CONTENTS. The Lay of the Eglantine The Admiral Guarino King Rodrigo's Fall Stark Tiderich and Olger Danske Ribolt and Guldborg The Diver The Elfin Gray Lenora The "Wild Huntsman PAGE French- -CoSTELLO ... 805 Spanish- -M. G.Lewis. 809 Spanish- —M.G.Lewis. 814 Danish— -Jamieson ... 818 Danish- -Jamieson ... 822 Geeman 826 Danish— -Jamieson ... 830 German- —Taylor ... 835 German- —Scott 843 Glossary , ... 851 CORRIGENDA. Page 36, Introduction, last line,yo»- p. 201 read p. 83. — 105, Introduction, last line, for p. 115 read p. 204. — 632, Introduction, first line, for preceding read succeeding. — 835, Introduction, last \vae,for the Appendix read p. 463. This Work is so arranged as to make either one or two Volumes j— if bound in two Vols, the first should consist of the Ancient Ballads, and the second (for which a separate title is given) the Imitations, Translations, and Glossary. OF [• This curiosity is printed from an old manuscript, at the end of Hearne's Preface to Chit, Nubrigiensis Hist. 1719, 8vo, vol. i. To the MS. copy is subjoined the name of the author, Rychaed Sheale, subscribed, after the usual manner of our old poets, explicit)) [explicit] qttotfj ^RpcfjrtrtJ SHFjcalf. : whom Hearne had so little judgment as to suppose to be the same with a R. Sheale, who was living in 1588. But whoever examines the gradation of language and idiom in the following volumes, will be convinced that this is the production of an earlier poet. It is indeed expressly mentioned among some very ancient songs in an old book intituled, The Complaint of Scotland, (fol. 42,) under the title of the Huntis of Chevet, where the two following lines are also quoted : The Ferssee and the Mongumrye mette That day, that day, that gentil day : Which, though not quite the same as they stand in the ballad, yet differ not more than might be owing to the author's quoting from memory. Indeed, whoever considers the style and orthography of this old poem, will not be inclined to place it lower than the time of Henry VI. ; as, on the other hand, the mention of BamCS tfje StOttfeT) 3St£ng, (Pt. 2, v. 36, 140.) with one or two anachronisms, forbids us to assign it an earlier date. King James I., who was prisoner in this kingdom at the death of his father, who died Aug. 5, 1406, in the seventh year of our Henry IV., did not wear the crown of Scotland till the second year of our Henry VI., but before the end of that long reign, a third James had mounted the throne. A succession of two or three Jameses, and the long detention of one of them in England, would render the name familiar to the English, and dispose a poet in those rude times to give it to any Scottish king he happened to mention. Hearne printed this ballad without any division of stanzas, in long lines, as he found it in the old written copy ; but it is usual to find the distinction of stanzas neglected in ancient MSS., where, to save room, two or three verses are frequently given in one line undivided. See flagrant instances in the Harleian Catalogue, No. 2253, s. 29, 34, 61, 70, et passim,'— Peect.J THE FIEST FIT. The Perse owt of Northombarlande, And a vowe to God mayd he, That he wolde hunte in the mountayns Off Chy viat within dayes thre, In the mauger of doughte Dogles, And all that ever with him be - The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat He sayd he wqld kill, and cary them away: Be my feth, sayd the dougheti Doglas, agayn, I wyll let that hqntyng yf that Strike off the "meal again With bis 'pjkk&M lie 'goes. E^er auy'of t!hem cdtfld red 'their *een Or a gliihmrihg might 'see t like one of them a dozen had, Well laid on 'with his tree. Theyb'tthg'm'en Were -tight 33w*ft offeot, And baltlly bound iaway, The beggar 'could 'them no hlciffe hit For'all the h^te he mav. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR. What's all this haste? the beggar said, May aot you \. [This fine old ballad appears to have been first printed, about 1520, in a black-letter book, entitled, ' The Customes of Lon- £ Jt- don, or, Arnoldes Chronicle ;' no earlier copy having been dis-» covered. It was probably an old piece, even then ; or an anti- quary like Arnolde would hardly have inserted it among his historical Collections. Indeed it has been supposed to have been written as early as the year 1 400. It was revived in ' The Muses Mercury' for June, 1707 ; where it is said to be ' near three hundred years old.* Prior, who founded upon it his ' Henry and Emma,' printed it with his Poems, (1718,) assert- ing it to have been ' written near three hundred years since ;' and Dr. Percy included it in his ' Reliques.' ' Its sentimental beauties,' he says, ' have always recommended it to readers of taste, notwithstanding the rust of antiquity which obscures the style and expression.' We give it in that rust ; nothing doubt- ing that every reader will prefer it to any modern polish that could be put upon it.] Eit ryght or wrong, these men among On women do complayne ; Affyrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vayne, To love them wele; for never a dele They love a man agayne: For late a man do what he can, J Theyr favour to attayne, Yet, yf a newe do them pursue, Theyr first true lover than Laboureth for nought; for from her thought He is a banyshed man. THE NUT-BROWNE MATDE. I say not nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayd That womans faith is, as who sayth, All utterly decayd; But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse In this case might be layd, That they love true and continue: Recorde the Not-browne Mayde: Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his mone, Wolde not depart: for in her hart She loved but hym alone. Than betwaine us late us dyscus What was all the manere Betwayne them two: we wyll also Tell all the payne and fere That she was in. Nowe I begyn, So that ye me answere; Wherefore, all ye, that present be, I pray you, gyve an ere. I am the knyght; I come by nyght, As secret as I can; Sayinge, Alas! thus standeth the case, I am a banyshed man. And I your wyll for to fulfyll In this wyll not refuse; Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe, That men have an yll use (To theyr own shame) women to blame, And causeless them accuse ; Therfore, to you I answere nowe, All women to excuse, — Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you tell anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. It standeth so; a deed is do, Whereof grete harm shall growe; My destiny is for to dy A shamefull deth, I trowe; Or elles to flee: the one must be. None other way I knowe, But to withdrawe, as an outlawe, And take me to my bowe. ^g THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. Wherefore adue, my owne hart true! None other rede I can: For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, That changeth as the mone! My somers day in lusty May Is derked before the none. 1 hear you say, Farewell! Nay, nay, We depart not so sone. Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go? Alas! what have ye done? All my welfare to sorrowe and care Sholde chaunge yf ye were gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. I can beleve, it shall you greve, And somewhat you dystrayne : But aftyrwarde, your paynes harde Within a day or twayne Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take Comfort to you agayne. Why sholde ye ought? for to make thought, Your labour were in vayne. And thus I do, and pray you to, As hartely as I can ; For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Now syth that ye have shewed to me The secret of your mynde, I shall be playne to you agayne, Lyke as ye shall me fynde. Syth it is so that ye wyll go, I wolle not leve behynde ; Shall never be sayd, the Not- Browne Mayde Was to her love unkynde : Make you redy, for so am I, Allthough it were anone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Yet I you rede to take good hede What men wyll thynke, and say : Of yonge and oldo-it shall be tolde, jgO That ye be gone away, THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. Your wanton wyll for to fulfyll, In grene wode you to play ; And that ye myght from your delyght No longer make delay. Rather than ye sholde thus for me Be called an yll woman, Yet wolde I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Though it be songe of old and yonge, That I sholde' be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large In hurtynge of my name : For I wyll prove, that faythfulle lore It is devoyd of shame ; In your dystresse, and hevynesse, To part with you, the same : And sure all tho, that do not so, True lovers are they none; For in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you alone. I counceyle you, remember ho we It is no mayden's lawe Nothynge to dout, but to renne out To wode with an outlawe ; For ye must there in your hand bere A bowe, redy to drawe ; And as a thefe, thus must you lyve, Ever in drede and awe. Whereby to you grete harme myght growe : Yet had I lever than, That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. I thynke not nay, but as ye say, It -is no mayden's lore : But love may make me for your sake, As I have sayd before, To come on fote, to hunt and shote To get us mete in store ; For so that I your company May have, I aske no more : From which to part it maketh my hart As cold as ony stone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. * 181 For an outlawe this is the lawe, That men hym take and bynde ; Without pyt6, hanged to be, And waver with the wynde. If I had nede, (as God forbede !) What rescous coud ye fynde ? Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe For fere wolde draw behynde : And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle Were in your counceyle than : Wherefore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Eyght wele knowe ye, that women be But feble for to fyght ; No womanhede it is indede To be bolde as a knyght : Yet, in such fere, yf that ye were With enemyes day or nyght, I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande, To greve them as I myght, And you to save; as women have From deth many one : For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Yet take good hede, for ever I drede That ye coude not sustayne The thornie wayes, the depe valeies, The snowe, the frost, the rayne. The colde, the hete; for dry or wete, We must lodge on the playne; And us above, none other rofe But a brake bush or twayne : Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve, And ye wolde gladly than That I had to the grenewode go, Alone, a banyshed -man. Syth I have here been partynere, With you of joy and blysse, I must also parte of your wo Endure, as reson is. Yet I am sure of one plesure, And, shortely, it is this; That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde', 182 I colde not fare amysse. THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. Without more speche, I you beseche That we were sone agone, For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, When ye have lust to dyne, There shall no mete be for to gete, Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne, No shetes clene, to lye betwene, Made of threde and twyne; None other house but leve3 and bowes, To cover your hed and myne. Oh myne harte swete, this evyll dyete, Sholde make you pale and wan; Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Among the wylde dere, such an archere, As men say that ye be, Ne may not fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plente. And water clere of the ryvere, Shall be full swete to me. With which in hele, I shall ryght wele Endure, as ye shall see; And, or we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Lo yet, before, ye must do more, Yf ye wyll go with me; As cut your here up by your ere, Your kyrtle by the kne; With bowe in hande, for to withstande Your enemyes, yf nede be ; And this same nyght, before day-lygbt, To wode-warde wyll I fle. Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill, Doit ehortely as ye can: Els wyll I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. I shall as nowe do more for you Than longeth to womanhede, To shorte my here, a bow to bere, To shote in tyme of nede. 183 THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 184 O, my swete mother, before all other For you I have most drede; But nowe adue ! I must ensue Where fortune doth me lede. All this make ye: Now let us fle; The day cometh fast upon: For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, And I shall tell ye why: Your appetyght is to be lyght Of love, I wele espy: For lyke as ye have sayed to me, In lyke wyse, hardely, Ye wolde answere whosoever it were, In way of company. It is sayd of old, Sone hot, sone colde; And so is a woman ; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banyshed man. Yf ye take hede, it is no nede Such wordes to say by me ; For oft ye prayed and longe assayed, Or I you loved, parde : And though that I, of auncestry, A baron's daughter be, Yet have you proved howe I you loved, A squyer of low degre ; And ever shall, whatso befall ; To dye therfore anone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. A baron's chylde to be begylde, It were a cursed dede ! To be felawe with an outlawe Almighty Ood forbede ! Yt beter were, the poor squyere Alone to forest yede, Than ye sholde say, another day, That, by my cursed dede, Ye were betrayd : Wherefore, good mayd, The best rede that I can, Is, that I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man, THE NUT-BROWNE MATDE. Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thyng you upbrayd ; But, yf ye go, and leve me so, Than have ye me betrayd. Remember you wele, howe that ye dele ; For yf ye, as ye sayd, Be so unkynde to leve behynde Your love, the Not-Browne Mayd, Trust me truly, that I shall dye Sone after ye be gone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Tf that ye went, ye sholde repent ; For in the forest nowe I have purvayed me of a mayd, Whom I love more than you ; Another fayrere than ever ye were, I dare it wele avowe, And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe With other, as I trowe : It were myne ese to lyve in pese ; So wyll I, yf I can ; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banyshed man. Though in the wode I undyrstode Ye had a paramour, All this may nought remove my thought, But that I wyll be your. And she shall fynde me soft and kynde And courteys every hour; Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll Commaunde me to my power. For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, Of them I wolde be one; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Myne own dere love, I see the prove That ye be kynde and true; Of mayde and wyfe, in all my lyfe, The best that ever I knewe. Be merry and glad; be no more sad; The case is chaunged newe; For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, Ye sholde have cause to rewe. 185 1 HE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. Be not dismayed ; whatever I sayd To you, when I began ; I wyll not to the grene wode go, I am no banyshed man. These tydings be more gladd to me, Than to be made a quene, Yf I were sure they sholde endure : But it is often sene, When men wyll breke promyse, they speke The wordes on the splene. Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele from me, I wene : Than were the case worse than it was, And I more wo-begone : For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Ye shall not nede further to drede : I wyll not disparage You (God defend !) syth ye descend Of so grete a lynage. Now undyrstande ; to Westmarlande, Which is myne herytage, I wyll you brynge ; and with a rynge, By way of maryage I wyll you take, and lady make, As shortely as I can : Thus have you won an erlys son, And not a banyshed man. Here may ye se, that women be In love, meke, kynde and stable : Late never man reprove them than, Or call them variable ; But, rather, pray God, that we may To them be comfortable ; Which sometyme proveth such as he loveth, Yf they be charytable. For syth men wolde that women sholde Be meke to them each one ; > Moche more ought they to God obey, And serve but hym alone. wmi [This ballad is taken from the Notes to Sir Walter Scott's poem of ' Kokeby,*< — in the fifth canto of which it is re- ferred to, — where it is given from * a manuscript in the pos- session of Mr. Rokeby, of Northamptonshire, descended of the ancient Barons of Rokeby.' It was first published, from what Sir Walter calls * an inaccurate MS. , not corrected very happily,' in Whitaker's ' History of Craven ;' from whence it was transferred, 'with some well-judged conjectural im- provements,' to Evans's ' Old Fallads.' But Sir Walter con- siders that Mr. Rokeby's MS. furnishes ' a more authenti- cated and full, though still imperfect, edition of this humor- ous composition.* ' It is,' he says, ' one of the very best of the ancient minstrel's mock romances, and has no small portion of comic humour. Ralph Rokeby, who, for the jest's sake apparently, bestowed this intractable animal on the convent of Richmond, seems to have flourished in the time of Henry VII., which, since we know not the date of Friar Theobald's Warden ship, to which the poem refers, may indicate that of the composition itself.' It has been suggested to the Editor, by Mr. Dixon, his obligations to whom he has more than once had the pleasure of acknow- ledging, that ' the ballad is probably the effusion of some waggish monk of Sawlaye, or Bolton, who wished to ridicule the Benedictines of Richmond The language, Mr. Dixon says, is that of the mountain -district of Craven, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, as spoken by the inhabitants in the present day.' Stanza 22 is defective in the original.] E men that will of aunters winne, That late within this land hath beene, Of one I will you tell ; And of a sow that was sea Strang ; Alas ! that ever she lived sea lang, For fell folk did she whell. lg7 THE" FELON SOW OF ROKEBY AND She was mare than other three, The grisliest heast that ere might be, Her head was great and gray : She was bred in Rokeby wood, There were few that thither goed, That came on live away. Her walk was endlong Greta side ; There was no bren that durst her bide, That was frae heaven to hell ; Nor never man that had that might, That ever durst come in her sight, Her force it was so fell. Ralph of Rokeby, with good will, The fryers of Richmond gave her till, Full well to garre them fare ; Fryar Middleton by bis name, He was sent to fetch her hame, That rued him sine full sare. With him tooke he wicht men two, Peter Dale was one of thoe, That ever was brim as beare ; And well durst strike with sword and knife, And fight full manly for his life, What time as mister ware. These three men went at God's will, This wicked sew while they came till, Liggan under a tree ; Rugg and rusty was her haire ; She raise up with a felon fare, To fight against the three. She was so grisely for to meete, She rave the earth up with her feete, And bark came fro the tree ; When Fryar Middleton her saugh, Weet ye well he might not laugh, 188 Full earnestly look't hee. THE FRIARS OF RICHMOND. Those men of aunters that "was so wight, They bound them bauldly for to fight, And strike at her full sare : Until a kiln they garred her flee, Wold God send them the •victory, They wold ask him noa mare. The sew was in the kiln hole down, As they were on the balke aboon, For hurting of their feet ; They were so vaulted with this -sew, That among them was a stalworth stew, The kiln began to reeke. Durst noe man neigh her with his hand, But put a rape down with his wand, And haltered her full meete ; They hurled her forth against her will, • Whiles they came into a hill A little fro the street. And there she made them such a fray ; If they should live to Doomes-day, They tharrow it ne'er forgett ; She braded upon every side, And ran on them gaping full wide, For nothing would she lett. She gave such brades at the band That Peter Dale had in his hand, He might not hold his feet ; She chafed them to and fro, The wight men was never soe woe, Their measure was not so meete. She bound hes boldly to abide ; To Peter Dale she came aside, With many a hideous yell ; She gaped soe wide and cried soe hee, The Fryarseid, I conjure thee, Thou art a fiend of hell. 189 THE FELON SOW OF EOKEBY AND 190 Thou art come hither for some traine, I conjure thee to go agayne Where thou wast wont to dwell- He sayned him with crosse and creede, Took forth a booke, began to reade In St. John his gospell. The sew she would not Latin heare, But rudely rushed at the Frear, That blinked all his blee ; And when she would have taken her hold, The Fryar leaped as Jesus wold, And bealed him with a tree. She was as brim as any beare, For all their meate to labour there, To them it was no boote : Upon trees and bushes that by her stood, She ranged as she was wood, And rave them up by roote. He sayd, Alas! that I was Frear ! And I shall be rugged in sunder here, Hard is my destinie ! Wist my brethren in this houre, 'That I was sett in such a stoure, They would pray for me. This wicked beast that wrought this woe, Tooke that rape from the other two, And then they fledd all three ; They fledd away by Watling-street, They had no succour but their feet, It was the more pity. The feild it was both lost and wonne ; The sew went hame, and that full soone, To Morton on the Greene ; Waen Ralph of Rokeby saw the rape, He wist that there had been debate, Whereat the sew had beene. THE FRIARS OP RICHMOND. He bad them stand out of her way, For she had had a sudden fray, — I saw never so keene ; Some new things shall we heare Of her and Middleton the Frear, Some battell hath there beene. But all that served him for nought, Had they not better succour sought, They were served therfore loe. Then Mistress Rokeby came anon, And for her brought shee meate full soone, The sew came here unto. She gave her meate upon the flower, * * * * * ***** * * * * * * ***** ***** When Fryar Middleton came home His brethren was full fame ilkone, And thanked God of his life ; He told them all unto the end, How he had fo lighten with a fiend, And lived through mickle strife. We gave her battell half a day, And sithen was fain to fly away, For saving of our life ; And Peter Dale would never blinn, But as fast as he could ryn, Till he came to his wife. The warden said, I am full of woe, That ever ye should he torment so, But wee with you had beene ! Had wee been there your brethren all, Wee should have garred the warle fall, That wrought you all this teyne. 191 THE FELON SOW OF ROKEBY AND Fryar Middleton said soon, Nay, In faith you would have fled away, When most mister had been ; You will all speak e words at hame, A man would ding you every ilk ane, And if it be as I weine. He look't so griesly all that night. The warden said, Yon man will fight If you say ought but good ; Yon guest hath grieved him so sare, Hold your tongues and speake noe mare, He looks as he were woode. The warden waged on the morne, Two boldest men that ever were borne, I weine, or ever shall be ; The one was Gilbert Griffin's son, Full mickle worship has he wonne, Both by land and sea. The other was a bastard son of Spain, Many a Sarazin hath he slain, His dint hath gart them die. These two men the battle undertooke, Against the sew, as says the booke, And sealed security, That they should boldly bide and fight, And skomfit her in maine and might, Or therefore should they die. The warden sealed to them againe, And said, In field if ye be slain, This condition make I : We shall for you pray, sing, and read To doomesday with hearty speede, With all our progeny. Then- the letters well was made. Bands bound with seales brade, As deedes of armes should be THE FRIARS OF RICHMOND. These men of armes that were' so wight, With armour and with brandes bright, They went this sew to see ; She made on them slike a rerd, That for. her they were sare afer'd, And almost hound to flee. She came roveing them againe ; That saw the bastard son of Spaine, He braded out his brand ; Full spiteously at her he strake. For all the fence that he could make, She gat sword out of hand ; And rave in sunder half his shielde, And bare him- backward in the feilde, He might not her gainstand. She would have riven his privich geare, But Gilbert with his sword of 'werre, He strake at her full strong, On her shoulder till she held the swerd ; Then was good Gilbert sore afer'd, When the blade brake in throng. Since in his hands he hath her tane, She tooke ?iim by the shoulder bane And held her hold full fast, She strave so stiffly in that stower, That through all his rich armour The blood came at the last. Then Gilbert grieved was sae sare, That he rave off both hide and haire, The flesh came fro the bone ; And with all force he felled her there, And wann her worthily in werre, And band her him alone. And lift her on a horse sea hee, Into two paniers well-made of a tre, And to Richmond they did hay .: When they saw her come, They sang merrily Te Deum, The Fryers on that day. 193 THE FELON SOW OF ROKEBY, &c. They thanked God and St. Francis, As they had won the best of pris, And never a man was slaine ; There did never a man more manly, Knight Marcus, nor yett Sir Gui, Nor Loth of Louthyane. If ye will any more of this, In the Fryers of Richmond 'tis In parchment good and fine ; And how Fry*"" Middelton that was so kend, At Greta-bridge conjured a feind In likeness of a swine. It is well known to many a man, That Fryar Theobald was warden than, And this fell in his time ; And Christ them bless both farre and neare, All that for solace list this to heare, And him that made the rhime. Ralph Bokeby with full good-will, The Fryers of Richmond he gave her till, This sew to mend their fare : Fryar Middleton by his name, Would, needs bring the fat sew hame, That rued him since full sare. 194. MM ®%kl& [This ballad was printed by Dr. Percy, in his 'Reliques,' from an ' ancient black- letter copy in the Fepys Collection, -compared with the Ashmole copy — entitled, ' A New Song, showing the crueltie of Gemutus, a Jewe, who, lend- ing to a merchant an hundred crowns, would have a pound of his fleshe, because he could not pay him at the time ap- pointed. To the tone of ' Blacke and Yellow.' ' it is in- vested with an interest beyond that which of itself it might have inspired, by the circumstance of its having in all pro- bability been known to and employed by Shakespeare io the construction of his play of ' The Merchant of Venice For that it was written before that play, was the opinion of Warton, (' Observations on the Faerie Queene/ i. 128,) who first drew attention to the ballad ; and seems to be that of critics in general. This is equivalent to assigning it a date at least as old as 1598, in which year, we know, from Meres* * Palladia Tamia,* that Shakespeare's play was in existence ; though it does not appear to have been printed before the year 1600. (Pictorial Shakespeare, p. 192, London, 1846.) The original source, however, to which both Shakespeare and the ballad-maker were indebted, was undoubtedly the Pecorone of Sir Giovanni Fiorentino, which was printed in Italy in the year 1544. There is another ballad on the same subject, entitled, * The Northern Lord and Cruel Jew,' which was given by Mr. Buchan in his * Gleanings of Scotch, English, and Irish scarce Old Ballads,' Peterhead, 1825. THE FIBST PART. N Venice towne not long agoe | A cruel Jew did dwell, 1 "Which lived all on usurie. ^ ^** As Italian writers teH. p 209 210 GERNUTUS THE JEW. Gernutus called was the Jew, Which never thought to dye ; Nor ever yet did any good To them in streets that lie. His life was like a barrow hogge, That liveth many a day, Yet never once did any good, Until men will him slay. Or like a filthy heap of 3ung, That lyeth in a whoard ; Which never can do any good, Till it be spread abroad. So fares it with the usurer, He cannot sleep in rest, For feare the thiefe will him pursue To plucke him from "his nest. His heart doth think on many a wile, How to deceive the poore ; His mouthe is almost full of mucke ; Yet still he gapes for more. His wife must lend a shilling, For every weeke a penny, Yet bring a pledge, that is double worth, If that you will have any. And see, likewise, you keepe your day, Or else you loose it all : This was the living of the wife, Her cow she did it call. Within that citie dwelt that time A marchant of great fame, Which, being distressed in his need, Unto Gernutus came : Desiring him to stand his friend For twelve month and a day, To lend to him an hundred crownes ; And he for it would pay Whatsoever he would demand of him, And -pledges he should have. No, (quoth the Jew, with flearing lookes,) Sir, aske what you will have. GERNUTUS THE JEW. No penny for the loane of it For one year you shall pay ; You may do me as goode a turne, Before my dying day. But we will have a merry jeast, For to be talked long ; You shall make me a bond, quoth he, That shall be large and strong : And this shall be the forfeyture ; Of your own fleshe a pound. If you agree, make you the bond, And here is a hundred crownes. With right good will ! the marchant says ; And so the bond was made. When twelve month and a day drew on That backe it should be payd, The marchant' s ships were all at sea, And money came not in ; Which way to take, or what to doe, To think he doth begin ; And to Gernutus strait he comes With cap and bended knee, And sayde to him, Of curtesie I pray you beare with mee. My day is come, and I have not The money for to pay ; And little good the forfeiture Will doe you, I dare say. With all all my heart, Gernutus sayd, Commaund it to your minde ; In things of bigger waight then this You shall me ready finde. He goes his way ; the day once past, Gernutus doth not slacke To get a sergiant presently ; And clapt him on the backe : And layd him into prison strong, And sued his bond withall ; - And when the judgement day was come, For judgement he did call. 271 GERNUTUS THE JEW. The marchant's friends came thither fast, With many a weeping eye, For other means they could not find, But he that day must dye. THE SECOND PART, Of the Jew's Crueltie : setting forth the mercifulness of the Judge towards the Marchant Some offered for his hundred crownes Five hundred for to pay ; And some a thousand, two or three, Yet still he did denay. And at the last ten thousand crownes They offered, him to save. Gernutus sayd, I will no gold : My forfeite I will have. A pound of fleshe is my demand, And that shall be my hire. Then sayd the Judge, Yet, good my friend, Let me of you desire To take the fleshe from such a place, As yet you let him live : Do so and lo ! an hundred crownes To thee here will I give. No, no, quoth he ; no, judgment here ; For this it shall be tride, For I will have my pound of fleshe From under his right side. It grieved all the companie His crueltie to see, For neither friend nor foe could helpe, But he must spoyled bee. The bloudie Jew now ready is With whetted blade in hand, To spqyle the bloud of innocent, By forfeite of his bond. And as he was about to strike On him the deadly blow, Stay (quoth the judge) thy crueltie ; I charge thee to do so. Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have, Which is of fleshe a pound, See that thou shed no drop of bloud, „j2 Nor yet the man confound. GERNUTUS THE JEW. For if thou doe, like murderer, Thou here shalt hanged be ; Likewise of flesh see that thou cut No more than 'longes to thee : For if thou take either more or lesse To the value of a mite, Thou shalt be hanged presently, As is both law and right. Gernutus now waxt frantick mad, And wotes not what to say ; Quoth he at last, Ten thousand crownes I will that he shall pay ; And so I graunt to let him free, The judge doth answere make ; You shall not have a penny given ; Your forfeyture now take. At the last he doth demaund But for to have his owne. No, quoth the judge, doe as you list, Thy judgement shall be showne. Either take your pound of flesh, quoth he, Or cancel! me your bond. O cruell judge, then quoth the Jew, That doth against me stand ! And so with griping grieved mind He biddeth them fare-well. Then all the people prays'd the Lord, That ever this heard tell. Good people, that doe heare this song, For trueth I dare well say, That many a wretch as ill as hee Doth live now at this day. That seeketh nothing but the spoyle Of many a wealthey man, And for to trap the innocent Deviseth what they can. From whome the Lord deliver me, And every Christian too, And send to them like sentence eke That meaneth so to do. r,s Wk$ &in¥tifoim8 t&wtto! ami ■>■ My lady shee is alLwoe-begonej, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye she laments the deadlye feudei Betweene her house and thine., i, \ And here sheetsends thee a silken, scarfe Bedewde with many.ateare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on. her, Who loved thee so deare. , >». And here shee sends thee a ring of golde The last boone thou mayst have, And biddes thee weare it.for her sake, . Whan she is layde in grave* For, ah! her gentle heart is. broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, Sith her father .hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee. Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countuaye, And within three dayes sheetaust him wedde, Or he vowes he. willier slaye. Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And greet thy lady e. from mee, And telle her that I her owne true love Will dye, or sette her free. Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, ; And let thy fair ladye know This night will I bee at her bowre-wind&we; Betide me weale or, woe. , > j j. 271 THE CHILD OF ELLE. 272 The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, He neither stint ne stayd Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, "Whan kneeling downe he sayd, O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love, And he greets thee well by mee; This night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe, And dye or sette thee free. Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, All save the ladye Emmeline, "Who sate in her bowre to weepe: And soone shee heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle, Awake, awake, my deare ladye, Tis I thy true love call. Awake, awake, my ladye deare, Come, mount this faire palfraye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, He carrye thee hence awaye. Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, ,. Nowe nay, this may not bee; For aye sould I tint my maiden fame, If alone I should wend with thee. O ladye, thou with a knighte so true, Mayst safelye wend alone, To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, Where marriage shall make us one. ' My father he is a baron bolde, Of lynage proude and hye; And what would he saye if his daughter Awaye with a knight should fly? Ah ! well I wot, he never would rest,! Nor his meate should doe him no goode, Till he had slayne thee, Child of Elle, And seene thy deare hearts bloode.' ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro, 1 would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that he could doe. THE CHILD OF ELLE. ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle, 1 would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that might befalle. Faire Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe: At length he seizde her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe: And thrice he claspde her to his breste, And kist her tenderlie: The teares that fell from her fair eyes, . Kanne like the fountayne free. . Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, And her on a faire palfraye, And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye. All this beheard her owne damselle, In her bed whereas shee ley, Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee. Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Awake, my noble dame! Tour daughter is fledde with the Childe of Elle To doe the deede of shame. The baron he woke, the baron he rose, And called his merrye men all: ' And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, The ladye is carried to thrall.' Fair Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, When she was aware of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe: And foremost came the carlish knight, Sir John of the north countrsiye: ' Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitdure, Nor carry that ladye awaye. For she is come of hye lynage, And was of a ladye borne, And ill it beseems thee a false churles sonne To carrye her hence to scorneJ * 273 THE CHILD OF ELLE. Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, No we thou doest lye of mee; A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee. But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, Light downe, and hold my steed, While I and this discourteous knighte Doe trye this arduous deede. But light now downe, my deare ladye, Light downe, and hold my horse; While I and this discourteous knight Doe trye our valours force. Fair Emmeline sighde, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe, While twixt her love and the carlish knight. Past many a baleful blowe. The Child of EJle hee fought goe well, As his weapone he wavde amaine, That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, And layde him upon the plaine. And nowe the baron, and all his men Full fast approached nye: Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe? Twere now no boote to flye. Her lover he put his home to his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill, And soone he saw his owne merry men Come ryding over the hill. ' Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, I pray thee, hold thy hand, Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts, Fast knit in true loves band. Thy daughter I have dearly lovde Full long and many a day; But with such love as holy kirke Hath freelye sayd wee may. give consent, shee may be mine, And blesse a faithful! paire: My lands and livings are not small, My house and lynage faire: 274 THE CHILD OF ELLE. My mother she was an earles daughter, And a noble knyght my sire The baron he frownde, and turnde away With mickle' dole and ire. Fair Emmeline sighde, faire Emmeline wept, And did all tremblinge stand: At lengthe she sprange upon her knee, And held his lifted hand. Pardon, my lorde and father deare, This faire yong knyght and mee: Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, I never had fled from thee. Oft have you callde your Emmeline Your darling and your joye; O let not then your harsh resolves Tour Emmeline destroye. The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, And turnde his heade asyde To whipe awaye the starting teare, He proudly strave to hyde. In deepe revolving thought he stoode, And musde a little space: Then raisde faire Emmeline from the grounde, With many a fond embrace. Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, And gave her lillye hand; Here take my deare and only child, And with her half my land: , Thy father once mine honour wrongde In dayes of youthful pride; Do thou the injurye repayre In fondnesse for thy bride. And as thou love her, and hold her deare, Heaven prosper thee and thine: And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, My lovelye Emmeline. [Stanza 40. ' From the word kirke, this hath been thought to be a Scottish ballad ; but it must be acknowledged -that the line referred to is among the additions supplied by the Editor : besides, in the northern counties of Eng- land, kirk is used in the common dialect for church, as weU as beyond the Tweed.' — Percy.] 275 V 27G [This ' very ancient, curious, and popular performance' is taken from Ritson's ' Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry/ (London, 1791.) It had previously appeared in Percy's ' Beliques.' By both Editors it was given from an old black- letter quarto, without date, * imprinted at London in Loth* burye, by Wyllyam Copland,' preserved among Garricks Old Plays, in the British Museum. Dr. Percy, however, ** corrected* this - old quarto,' in some places, by a copy in his Folio MS., whereas Ritson appears to have followed it implicitly. ' No earlier edition,' he says, ' is known.' Of the heroes of the ballad, * there is,' according to Ritson, * no other memorial than the following legend.' Nume- rous allusions to them, however, as Dr. Percy points out, occur in various authors. Among others, Shakespeare, in 'Much Ado About Nothing,' Act I, Sc. i., seems to refer to ' Adam Bell,' as also in * Romeo and Juliet,' Act II., Sc. i. Ben Jonson, in his ' Alchemist,' Act I. Sc i-, mentions ' Clim o' the Clough;' whilst both are named together by Sir William Davenant, in his poem, 'The Long Vacation in London.' And in the ballad entitled, ' Robin Hood, his Birth, Breeding-, Valour, and Marriage,' Supra, p. ,26, all three of them are represented as being contem- poraries of ' the father of Robin.' * Clym of the Cloughe' is explained by Percy to mean Clem, (Clement) of the Cliff"; and Ritson thinks ' Cloudesle' the same with Clodsley. ' A ballad of William Clowdisley,' (never printed before,) was/ he says, ' allowed by the Stationer's Company to Edward White, on the 16th August, 1586.* * Englishe-Wood , is Englewood or Inglewood, in Cumberland ; and signifies, ac- cording to Percy, ' wood for firing ;' or, according to Ritson, * a wood in which extraordinary fires were made on partial lar occasions.'] ERY it was in grene forest. Amonge the leves grene, Wher that men walke east and west. Wyth bowes and arrowes kene, ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, To ryse the dere out of theyr demie, Such sightes hath ofte hene sene j As by thre yemen of the north countrey, By them it is I meane : The one of them light Adam Bel, The other Clym of the Clough, The thyrd was William of Cloudesly, An archer good ynough. They were outlawed for venyson, These yemen everechone ; They swore them brethren upon a day, To Englysshe-wood for to gone. Now lith and lysten, gentylmen, That of myrthes loveth to here : Two of them were single men, The third had a wedded fere. Wyllyam was the wedded man, Muche more then was hys care, He sayde to hys brethren upon a day, To Caerlel he would fare. For to speke with fayre Alse hys wife, And with hys chyldren thre. By my trouth, sayde Adam Bel, Not by the counsell of me ; For if ye go to Caerlel, brother, And from thys wylde wode wende, If the justice mai you take, Your lyfe were at an ende. If that I come not tomorrowe, brother, By pryme to you agayne, Trutse not els but that I am take, Or else that I am slayne. He toke hys leave of hys brethren two, And to Carlel he is gon, There he knocked at hys owne windowe, Shortlye and anone. "Where be you, fayre Alyce, my wyfe And my chyldren three 1 Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbande, Wyllyam of Cloudesle. 277 AND WTLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. Alas ! then say d e fayre Alyce, And syghed wonderous sore, Thys place hath ben besette for you, Thys half yere and more. Now am I here, sayde Cloudesle, I woulde that I in were : — Now feche us meate and drynke ynoughe, And let us make good chere. She fetched hym meat and drynke plenty, Lyke a true wedded wyfe, And pleased hym wyth that she had, Whome she loved as her lyfe. There lay an old wyfe in that place, A lytle besyde the fyre, --. ■ •*, Whych Wyllyam had found of cherytye "" More then seven yere ; Up she rose and walked ful styll, Evel mote she spede therefoore, For she had not set no fote on ground In seven yere before. She went unto the justice hall, As fast as she could hye ; Thys nyght is come unto this town "Wyllyam of Cloudesld. Thereof the justice was full fayne, And so was the shirife also ; Thou shalt not travaile hether, dame, for nought, Thy meed thou shalt have or thou go. They gave to her a ryght good goune, Of scarlat it was as I heard sayne, She toke the gyft and home she wente, And couched her downe agayne. They raysed the towne of mery Carlel, In all the hast that they can, — And came thronging to Wyllyames house, As fast as they myght gone. Theyr they besette that good yeman, Round about on every syde ; Wyllyam hearde great uoyse of folkes That heyther-ward they hyed. 278 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, Alyce opened a shot-wyndaw, And loked all about, She was ware of the justice and shirife bothe, Wyth a full great route. Alas ! treason ! cr/d Aleyce, Ever wo may thou be ! Go into my chambre, my husband, she sayd, Swete Wyllyam of Cloudesle. He toke hys sweard and hys bucler, Hys bow hys chyldren thre, And wente into hys strongest chamber, -' 'Where he thought surest to be. Fayre Alice, folowed hiin as a lover true, -'"_'- With a pbllaie in her hande ; He shal be Head that here cometh in Thys dore whyle I may stand. Cloudesle bent a wel good bowe, That was of trusty tre, He smot the justise on the brest, That hys arrowe brest in thre. Gods curse on his hartt, saide William, Thys day thy cote dyd on, If it had beri no better then myne, It had gone nere thy bone. Yeldethe Cloudesle-, sayd, the justise, And thy. bowe and thy arrowes the fro. Gods curse on hys hart; sayde fair Alice, That my husband .councelleth so. Set fyre on the house, saide the sherife, Syth it wyll no better be, And brenne we therin Williamj he saide, Hys wyfe and chyldren thre. They fyred the house in many a place, The fyre flew up on hye ; Alas ! then cryed fayr Alicey ' I se we here' shall dy. William openyd hys backe wyndow, That was in hys chambre on hie, And wyth shetes let hys wyfe downe, And hys chyldren thre. AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. Have here my treasure, sayde William, My wyfe and my chyldren thre, For Christes love do them no harme, But wreke you all on me. Wyllyam shot so wonderous well, Tyll hys arrowes were all ygo, And the fyre so fast upon hym fell, That hys bowstryng brent in two. The spercles brent and fell hym on, Good Wyllyam of Cloudesle ! But than wax he a wofull man, And sayde, thys is a cowardes death to me. Lever I had, sayde Wyllyam, With my sworde m the route to renne, Then here among myne ennemyes wode, Thus cruelly to bren. He toke hys sweard and hys buckler, And among them all he ran, Where the people were most in prece, He smot downe many a man. There myght no man stand hys stroke, So fersly on them he rau ; Then they threw wyndowes and dores on him, And so toke that good yeman. There they hym bounde both band and fote, And in depe dongeon hym cast ; Now, Cloudesle, sayd the hye justice, Thou shalt be hanged in hast. One vow shal I make, sayde the sherife, A payre of new galowes shall I for the make, And the gates of Caerlel shal be shutte, There shall no man come in therat. Then shall not helpe Clim of the Cloughe, Nor yet shall Adam Bell, Though they came with a thousand mo, Nor all the devels in hell. Early in the mornyng the justice uprose, To the gates first gan he gon, And commaundede to be shut full cloce Lightile' every chone. ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOTJUHE, Then went he to the market-place, As fast as he coulde hye, A payre of new gallous there dyd he up set, Besyde the pyUory. A lytle hoy stod them amonge, And asked what meaned that gallow tre They sayde, to hange a good yeaman, Called Wyllyam of Cloudesle. That lytle hoye was the towne swyne-heard, And kept fayre Alyce swyne, Oft he had seene Cloudesle in the wodde, And geven hym there to dyne. He went out att a creves in the wall, And lightly to the wood dyd gone, There met he with these wight yongemen, Shortly and anone. Alas ! then sayde that lytle hoye, Ye tary here all to longe ; Cloudesle is taken and dampned to death, All ready e for to honge. Alas ! then sayde good Adam Bell, That ever we see thys daye ! He myght her with us have dwelled, So ofte as we dyd him praye ! He myght have taryed in grene foreste, Under the shadowes sheene, And have kepte both hym and us in reaste, Out of trouble and teene ! Adam bent a ryght good bow, A great hart sone had he slayne, Take that, chylde, he sayde to thy dynner, And bryng me myne arrowe agayne. Now go we hence, sayed these wight yongmen, Tary we no lenger here ; "We shall hym borowe, by Gods grace, Though we hye it full dere. To Caerlel went these good yemen, On a mery mornyng of Maye. Here is a fyt of Cloudesli, And another is for to saye. 281 AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. 282 THE SECOND FIT. And when they came to mery Caerlell, In a fayre mornyng tyde, They founde the gates shut them untyll, Round about on every syde. Alas ! than sayd good Adam Bell, That ever we were made men ! These gates be shut so wonderous wel, That we may not come here in. Then spake him Clym of the Clough, Wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng ; Let us saye we be messengers, Streyght come nowe from our king. Adam said, I have a letter written wel, Now let us wysely werke, We wyl saye we have the kinges seales, I holde the portter no clerke. ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, Then Adam Bell bete on the gate, With strokes great and strong, The porter herde. suche noyse therat, And to the gate he throng. Who is there nowe, sayde the porter, That make th all thys knocking ? We be tow messengers, sayde Clim of the Clough, Be come ryght from oiir kyng. We have a letter, sayd Adam Bel, To the justice we must it bryng : Let us in our messag to do, That we were agayne to our kyng. Here commeth none in, sayd the porter, Be hym that dyed upon a tre, Tyll a false thefe be hanged, Called Wyllyam of Cloudesle. Then spake the good yeman Clym of the Clough, A% A swore by Mary fre, And if that we staude longe wythout, Lyke a thefe hanged shalt thou be. Lo here we have the kynges seale ; What ! lordeyne, art thou wode ? The porter went it had ben so, And lyghtly dyd of hys hode. Welcome be my lordes seale, he saide, For that ye shall come in. He opened the gate full shortlye, An evyl openyng for him. Now are we in, sayde Adam Bell, Thereof we are full faine, But Christ knows, that harowed hell, How we shall com out agayne. Had we the keys, said Clim of the Clough, Ryght wel then shoulde we spede ; Then might we .come out wel ynough, When we se tyme and nede. They called the porter to counsell, And wrange hys necke in two, And caste him in a depe dongeon, And toke hys keys hym fro. 283 AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. Now am I porter, sayde Adam Bel, Se brother the keys have we here, The worst porter to merry Caerlel That ye had thys hundred yere : And now wyll we our bowes bend, Into the towne wyll we go, For to delyver our dere brother, That lyreth in care and wo. And thereupon they bent theyr bowes, And loked theyr stringes were round, The market-place in mery Caerlel, They beset that stound ; And as they loked them besyde , A paire of new galowe s ther tijei see, And the justice with a quest of squyers, That had judged Cloudesle there hanged to be : And Cloudesle hymselfe lay redy in a carte, Fast both fote and hande, And a stronge rop about hys necke, All readye for to hange. The justice called to him a ladde, Cloudesles clothes should he have, To take the measure of that yeman, And therafter to make hys grave. I have seen as great a mearveile, said Cloudesli, As betwyene thys and pryme, He that maketh thys grave for me, Himselfe may lye therin. Thou speakest proudli, saide the justice, I shall the hange with my hande : Full wel herd hys brethren two, There styll as they dyd stande. Then Cloudesle" cast hys eyen asyde, And saw hys to brethren stand At a corner of the market place, With theyr good bows bent in ther hand. I se comfort, sayd Cloudesle, Yet hope I well to fare ; If I might have my handes at wyll, Mi Ryght lytle wolde I care. ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, Then spake good Adam Bell, To Gym of the Clough so free, Brother, se ye marke the justyce wel, Lo yonder ye may him see ; And at the shyrife shote I wyll, Strongly with arrowe kene, A hetter shote in mery Caerlel Thys seven yere was not sene. They lowsed their arrowes both at once, Of no man had they dread, The one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe, That both theyr sides gan blede. All men voyded that them stode nye, "When the justice fell downe to the grounde, And the sherife fell nyghe hym by, Eyther had his deathes wounde. All the citezens fast gan flye, They durst no longer ahyde, They lyghtly then loused Cloudeslfe, "Where he with ropes lay tyde. Wyllyam searte to an officer of the towne, Hys axe out ot hys hande he wronge, On eche syde he smote them downe, Hym thought he taryed all to long. Wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two, Thys daye let us lyve and dye, If ever you have nede as I have now, The same shall you fynde by me. They shot so well in that tyde, For theyr stringes were of silke ful sure, That they kept the stretes on every side ! That batayle dyd loiige endure. They fought together as brethren tru, Lyke hardy men and bolde, Many a man to the ground they thrue, And many a herte made colde. But when their arrowes were all gon, Men preced to them full fast, They drew theyr swordes then anone, And theyr bowes from them cast. 285 AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. They went lyghtlye on theyr way, Wyth swordes and buclers round, By that it was myd of the day. They made mani a wound. There was an out-horne in Caerlel blowen, And the belles bacward did ryng, Many a woman sayd alas ! And many theyr handes dyd wryng. The mayre of Caerlel forth com was, And with hym a ful great route, These yemen dred him full sore, For of theyr lyves they stode in great doute. The mayre came armed a full great pace, With a pollaxe in hys hande, Many a strong man wyth him was, There in that stowre to stande. The mayre smot at Cloudlesle with his bil, Hys bucler he brust in two, Full many a yeman with great evyll, Alas ! treason ! they cryed for wo. Kepe we the gates fast they bad, That these tray tours thereout not go. But al for nought was that they wrought, For so fast they downe were layde, Tyll they all thre, that so manfulli fought, Were gotten without abraide. Have here your keys, sayd Adam Bel, Myne office I here forsake, Yf you do by my councell, A new porter do ye make. He threw theyr keys at theyr heads, And bad them evell to thryve, And all that letteth any good yeman To come and comfort hys wyfe. Thus be these good yemen gon to the wod, And lyghtly as lefe on lynde, They lough and be mery in theyr mode, Theyr ennemyes were ferre behynd. When they came to Englyshe-wode, Under the trusty tre, They found bowes full good, 286 And arrowes full great plentye. ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOTJGHE, So God me help, sayd Adam Bell, And Clym of the Clough so fre, I would we were in mery Caerlel, Before that fay re meyny. They set them downe and made good chere, And eate and drynke full well. Here is a fet of these wight yong men, An other I wyll you tell. THE THIRD FIT. As they sat in Englyshe-wood Under theyr trusty tre, They thought they herd a woman wepe, But her they mought not se. Sore then syghed the fayre Alyce, - And sayde, alas ! that eyer I sawe thys day ! For now is my dere husband slayne, Alas ! and wel a way ! Myght I have spoken with hys dere brethren, Or with eyther of them twayne, To let them know what him befell My hart were put out of payne ! 287. AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. Cloudesle walked a lytle besyde, And loked under the grenewood linde, He was ware of hys wife and chyldren thre, Full wo in hart and mynde. "Welcome wife, then sayde "Wyllyam, Under this trusti tre ; I had wende yesterday, by swete saynt John, Thou shuttle me never have se. Now well is me, she sayde, that ye be here, My hart is out of wo. Dame, he sayde, be mery and glad, And thanke my brethren two. Hereof to speake, sayd Adam Bell, I wis it is no bote ; The meat that we must supp withall, It runneth yet fast on fote. Then went they down into a launde, These noble archares all thre, Eche of them slew a hart of greece, The best they could there se. Have here the best, Alyce my wyfe, Sayde "Wyllyam of Cloudesle, By cause ye so bouldly stod by me, When I was slayne full nye. Then went they to supper, Wyth suche meat as they had, And thanked God of ther fortune, They were both mery and glad. And when they had supped well, Certayne without any leace, Cloudesle sayd, we wyll to our kyng, To get us a charter of peace ; Alee shal be at our sojournyng, In a nunry here besyde, My tow sonnes shall wyth her go, And ther they shall abyde : Myne eldest son shall go wyth me, For hym have I no care, And he shall you breng worde agayn £33 How that we do fare. 289 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, Thus be these yemen to London gone, As fast as they myght hye, Tyll they came to the kynges pallace. Where they woulde nedes be. And whan they came to the kynges courte, Unto the pallace gate, Of no man wold they aske no leave, But boldly went in therat. They preced prestly into the hall, Of no man had they dreade : The porter came after, and dyd them call, And with them began to chyde. The ussher sayed, Yemen, what wold ye have ? I pray you tell me : You myght thus make ofiycers shent : Good syrs, of whence be ye 1 Syr, we be out lawes of the forest, . Certayne without any lease ; And hether we be come to our kyng, To get us a charter of peace. And whan they came before the kyng, As it was the lawe of the lande, They kneled downe without lettyng, And eche helde up his hand. They sayed, Lord, we beseche the here, That ye wyll graunt us grace ; For we have slaine your fat falow der, In many a sondry place. What be your names ? then said our king, Anone that you tell me. They sayd, Adam Bel, Clim of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudesle. Be ye those theves, then sayd our kyng, That men have tolde of to me ? Here to God I make a vowe, Ye shal be hanged al thre : Ye shal be dead without mercy, As I am kynge of this lande. He commanded his officers everichone, Fast on them to lay hand. AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. There they toke these good yemen, And arested them al thre. So may I thryve, sayd Adam Bell, Thys game lyketh not me. But, good lorde, wp besechc you now, That you graunt us grace, Insomuche as we to you be comen, Or els that we may fro you passe, With suche weapons as we have here, Tyll we- bp out of your place ; And yf we lyve this hundreth yere, We wyll aske you no grace. Ye speake proudly, sayd the kynge ; Ye shal be hanged all thre. That were great pitye, then sayd the quene, If any grace myght be. My lorde, whan I came fryst into this lande To be your wedded wyfq, The fyrst bowne that I wold aske, Ye would graunt it me belyfe : And I asked never none tyll now ; Therefore, good lorde, graunt it me. Now aske it, madam, sayd the kynge, And graunted shall it be. • Then, good my lord, I you begeche, These yemen graunt ye me. Madame, ye rnyght have asked a bowne, That shuld have ben worth them all three : Ye myght have asked towrt;r., an4 townes, Parkes and forestes plenty. None soe pleasant to mi pay, she said ; Nor none so lefe to me. Madame, sith it is your desyre, Your aakyng graunted shal be ; But I had lever have geven you Good market townes thre. The quene was a glad woman, And sayde, Lord, gramarcy ; I dare undertake for them, 290 That true men shal they be. ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, But, good lord, speke som mery word, That comfort they may se. I graunt you grace, then said our king^ Wasshe, felos, and to meate go ve. They had not setten but a whyle, Certayne without lesynge, There came messengers out of the north With letters to our kyng. And whan they came hefore the kynge. They kneled downe on theyr kne ; And sayd, Lord, your offycers grete you wel, Of Caerlel in the north cuntre. How fare my justice, sayd the kyng, And my sherife also ? Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge, And many an officer mo. Who hath them slayne 1 sayd the kyng ; Anone thou tell me. Adam Bel, and Clime of the Clough, And Wyllyam of CloudeslS. Alas ! for rewth ! then sayd our kynge ; My hart is' wonderous sore ; I had lever than a thousands pounde, I had knowne of thys before ; For I have graunted them grace, And that forthynketh me ; But had I knowne all thys before, They had been hanged all thre. The kyng opened the letter anone, Hymselfe he red it tho, And founde how these thre outlawes had slame Thre hundred men and mo : Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe, And the mayre of Caerlel towne ; Of all the constables and catchipolles : Alyve were left not one : : The baylyes, and the bedyls both,. And the sergeauntes of the law, And forty fosters of the fe, These outlawes had yslaw : AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLYE. And broke his parks, and slaine his dere ; Over all they chose the best ; So perelous outlawes as they were Walked not by easte nor west. When the kynge this letter had red, In hys harte he syghed sore : Take up the table anone he bad, For I may eat no more. The kyng called hys best archars To the buttes wy th hym to go : I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd, In the north have wrought this wo. The kynges bowmen buske them blyve, And the quenes archers also ; So dyd these thre wyght yemen ; With them they thought to go. There twyse or thryse they shote about, For to assay theyr hande ; There was no shote these yemen shot, That any prycke myght them stand. Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslfe; By him that for me dyed, I hold hym never no good archar, That shuteth at buttes so wyde. Whereat ? then sayd our kyng, I pray thee tell me. At suche a but, syr, he sayd, As men use in my countree. Wyllyam went into a fyeld, And his to brethren with him, There they set up to hasell roddes, Twenty score paces betwene. I hold him an archar, said CloudeslS, That yonder wande cleveth in two. Here is none suche, sayd the kyng, Nor none that can so do. I shall assaye, syr, sayd Cloudesle, Or that I farther go. Cloudesly, with a bearyng arow, Clave the wand in to. 292 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, Thou art the best archer, then said the king, For sothe that ever I se. And yet for your love, sayd Wylliam, I wyll do more maystry. I have a sonne is seven yere olde, He is to me full deare ; I wyll hym tye to a stake ; All shall se, that be here ; And lay an apele upon hys head, And go syxe score paces hym fro, And I myselfe with a brode arow Shall cleve the apple in two. Now haste the, then sayd the kyng, By hym that dyed on a tre, But yf thou do not, as thou nest sayde, Hanged shalt thou be. And thou touche his head or gowne, In syght that men may se, By all the sayntes that be in heaven, I shall hange you all thre. That I have promised, said William, I wyl it never forsake. And there even before the kynge In the earth he drove a stake ; And bound therto his eldest sonne, And bad hym stande styll thereat ; And turned the childes face fro him, Because he shuld not sterte. An apple upon his head he set, And then his bowe he bent: Syxe score paces they were outmet, And thether Cloudesle went. There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe, Hys bowe was great and longe, He set that arrowe in his bowe, That was both styffe and stronge : He prayed the people that was there, That they wolde styll stande, For he that shooteth for such a wager, Behoveth a stedfast hand. 293 AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLYE. 1294 Muche people prayed for Cloudeslt, That hys lyfe saved myght be, And whan he made hym redy to shote, There was many a weping eye. Thus Cloudesle" clefte the apple in two, That many a man myght see ; Ouer Gods forbode, sayde the kynge, That thou shote at me. I geve the xviii pence a day, And my bowe shalt thou beare, And over all the north countre I make the chyfe rydere. And I geve the xvii pence a day, said the quene, By God, and by my fay : Come feche thy payment when thou wylt, No man shall say the nay. Wyllyam, I make the a gentelman Of clothyng, and of fe : And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre, For they are so semely to se. Your sonne, for he is tendre of age, Of my wyne-seller shall he be ; And whan he.commeth to mannes estate,' Jietter avaunced shall he be. And, Wylliam, bring me your wife, said the quene, Me longeth her sore to se : She shall be my chefe gentelwoman, To governe my nursery. The yemen thanketh them full curteously, And sayde, to some bysshop wyl we wend, -Of all the synnes, that we have done, To be assoyld at his hand. ' So forth be .gone these good yemen, As fast as they might hye, And after came and dwelled wyth the kynge, And dyed good men all thre. Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen ;. God send them eternall blysse ! And all, that with handebowe shotetb, .That of heaven may never mysse ! Wm$j (&s$lfo£&oets they did fame ; 295 296 KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR-MAID. From natures lawes he did decline, For sure he was not of my mind, He cared not for women-kinde, But did them all disdaine. But, marke, what hapned on a day, As he out of his window lay, He saw a beggar all in gray, The which did cause his paine. The blinded boy that shootes so trim, From heaven downe did hie; He drew a dart and shot at him, In place where he did lye: Which soone did pierse him to the quickc, And when he felt the arrow pricke, Which in his tender heart did sticke, He looked as he would dye. What sudden chance is this, quoth he, That I to love must subject be, Which never thereto would agree, But still did it defie? Then from the window he did come, And laid him on his bed. A thousand heapes of care did runne Within his troubled head: For now he meanes to crave her love, And now he seekes which way to proove How he his fancie might remoove, And not this beggar wed. But Cupid had him so in snare, That this poor begger must prepare A salve to cure him of his care, Or els he would be dead. And, as he musing thus did lye; He thought for to devise, How he might have her companye> That so did 'maze his eyes. In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; For surely thou shalt be my wife, Or else this hand with bloody knife, The gods shall sure suffice. KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR-MAID. Then from his bed he soon arose, And to his pallace gate he goes ; Full little then this beggar knowes When she the king espies. The gods preserve your majesty, The beggers all gan cry ; Vouchsafe to give your charity, Our children's food to buy. The king to them his pursse did cast, And they to part it made great haste ; This silly woman was the last That after them did hye. The king he cal'd her back againe, And unto her he gave his chaine ; And said, with us you shal remaine Till such time as we dye ; For thou, quoth she, shall be my wife, And honoured for my queene ; With thee I mean to lend my life, As shortly shall be seene : Our wedding shall appointed be, And every thing in its degree ; Come on, quoth he, and follow me, Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. Penelophon, O King, quoth she ; With that she made a lowe courtsey ; A trim one as I weene. Thus hand in hand along they walke Unto the king's pallace : The king with courteous comly talke This begger doth imbrace : The begger blusheth scarlet red, And straight againe as pale as lead, But not a word at all she said, She was in such amaze. At last she spake with trembling voyce, And said, O King, I doe rejoyce That you wil take me for your choyce And my degree's so base. 297 KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR-MAID. And when the wedding day was come, The king commanded strait The noblemen both all and some Upon the queene to wait. And she behaved herself that day, As if she had never walkt the way; She had forgot her gowne of gray, Which she did weare Of late. The proverbe old is come to passe The priest, when he begins his masse* Forgets that ever clerke he was, He knowth not his estate. Here you may read, Cophetua, Though long-time fancie-fed, Compelled by the blinded boy The begger for to wed : He that did lovers lookes disdaine, To do the same was glad and faine, Or else he would himselfe have slaine, In storie, as we read. Disdaine no Whit, O lady deere, But pitty now thy servant heere, Least that it hap to thee this yeare, As that king it did. And thus they led a quiet life During their princely raine; And in a tombe were buried both, As writers sheweth plaine. The lords they tooke it grievously, The ladies tooke it heavily, The commons cryed piteously, Their death to them was paine, Their fame did sound so passingly, That it did pierce the starry sky, And throughout all the world did Sya To every princes realme. 298 MM §«)«dgifa %&"&$& %®M C* This pathetic tale,' which, 'whether viewed as a pic- ture of human emotions under circumstances applicable to all times, or as a noble and discriminating tribute to the English national character of the seventeenth century, is,* says a writer in the Edinburgh Review for April, 1846, 'one of the njost remarkable and perfect compositions of its class/ is taken from Percy's ' Reliques,* where it was * printed from an old black-letter copy, corrected in part by the editor's folio MS.* A copy in black letter, * printed by tfad for "W-iUliam] O.fnlejf] and Sold by the book3ellers of Pye-corner and London Bridge ;' and another, in Roman character, are in the Roxburghe Collection, in the British Museum. It 'most probably took its rise,' says Percy, 'from one of those descents made on the Spanish coast in the time of Queen Elizabeth : and in all -likelihood, from that which is celebrated in the ballad,' entitled * The winning of Cales* (Cadiz), by Lord Essex, in 1596. Of Its authorship, nothing, it has been remarked, appears to be known. Nor are we informed, says a critic in the Quarterly Review for October, 1846, ' when or where the events took place, nor who were the principal characters ; and consequently, as seven cities in Greece disputed the honour of having given birth to Homer, some half dozen counties in England have claimed, each for her own special honour, the hero of this song. 1 On this subject, farther information will be found in the note, p. 302.] ILL you hear a Spanish lady, How she wooed an English man ? Garments gay as rich as may be Decked with jewels she had on. ' Of a comely countenance and grace was she, .And by birth and parentage of high degree. 12§9 THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. As his prisoner there he kept her, In his hands her life did lye; Cupid's bands did tye them faster By the liking of an eye. In his courteous company was all her joy, To favour him in any thing she was not coy. But at last there came commandment For fo set the ladies free, With their jewels still adorned, None to do them injury. Then said this lady mild, ' Full woe is me; O, let me still sustain this kind captivity! Gallant captain, shew some pity To a ladye in distresse; Leave me not within this city, For to dye in heavinesse: Thou hast set this present day my body free, But my heart in prison still remains with thee.' ' How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, Whom thou knowst thy country's foe? Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: Serpents lie where flowers grow.' * All the harm I wishe to thee, most courteous knight, God grant the same upon my head may fully light! Blessed be the time and season, That you came on Spanish ground; ■ If our foes you may be termed, Gentle foes we have you found: With our city, you have won our hearts eche one, Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.' ' Best you still, most gallant lady; Best you still, and weep no more; 01' fair lovers there is plenty, Spain doth yield a wondrous store.' ' Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind. Leave me not unto a Spaniard, You alone enjoy my heart; I am lovely, young, and tender, Love is likewise my desert: Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; 300 The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.' THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. ' It wold be a shame, fair lady, For to bear a woman hence; English soldiers never carry Any such without offence.' ' I'll quickly change myself, if it be so, And like a page fie follow thee, where'er thou go. ' I have neither gold nor silver To maintain thee in this case, And to travel is great charges, As you know, in every place.' ' My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.' ' On the seas are many dangers, Many storms do there arise, Which wil be to ladies dreadful, And force tears from watery eyes.' ' Well ! in troth, I shall endure extremity, For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.' ' Courteous ladye, leave this fancy, Here comes all that breeds the strife; I in England have already A sweet woman to my wife : I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.' '• O! how happy is that woman That enjoys so true a friend! Many happy days God send her! Of my suit I make an end: On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence. Commend me to thy lovely lady, Bear to her this chain of gold; And these bracelets for a token; Grieving that I was so bold . All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. I will spend my days in prayer, Love and all her laws defye ; In a nunnery will I shroud mee Far from any companye: But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. 301 THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. Thus farewell, most gallant captain ! Farewell too my heart's content ! Count not Spanish ladies wanton, Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! 9 6 The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladle.' [* It was a* tradition in the West of England, 1 says Percy, ' that the person admired by the Spanish lady was a gentleman of the Popharn family, and that her picture, with the pearl necklace mentioned in the ballad, was, not many years ago, preserved at Littlecot, near Hungerford, Wilts, the seat of that respectable family. Another tradition hath pointed out Sir Richard Levison, of Trentham, in Staffordshire, as the subject of this ballad ; who mar- ried Margaret, daughter of Charles, Earl of Nottingham; and was eminently distinguished as a naval officer and commander, in all the expeditions against the Spaniards, in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign, particularjy in that to Cadiz, in 1596, when he was aged 27. He died in 1605, and has a monument, with his effigy in brass, in Wolverhampton church.' In the Edinburgh Review, No. 168, April, 1846, the writer, speaking of the uncertainty there is about both the traditions relative to the supposed actors in the scene of this ballad, as given by Percy, says, * Had the necklace been Btill extant, the preference would have been due to Littlecot ; but, as that piece of evidence had disappeared before Percy's time, we own we incline to prefer the claim of the Admiral to that of ' the gentleman of the Popham family." This produced a letter, which appeared in 'The Times' of April 30th, 1846, in which the writer, who signs himself ' Charles Lee,' and dates from ' Coldrey, Hants,' affirms that * the necklace is still extant, in the possession of a member of my family, and in the house from whence I write.' * The hero,' he goes on to say, ' of this beautiful ballad was my ancestor, Sir John Bolle, of Thorpe Hall, Lincolnshire, of most ancient and loyal family, and father of that Col. Bolle, who fell in Alton Church, whilst fighting against the rebels, in December, 1643. Of the truth of this I am prepared to give to the curious in these matters the most abundant evidence.' Mr. Lee then refers to Illingworth's ' Topographical Account of Scampton, with Anecdotes of the Family of Bolles,' in which work it is stated, he says, that ' the portrait of Sir John, drawn in 1596, at the age of 36 years, having on the gold chain given him by the Spanish lady, &c, is still in the possession of his descendant, Captain Birch. 1 ' That portrait,' says Mr. Lee, 'is now in the possession of Captain Birch's successor, Thomas Bosvill Bosvill, Esq., of Ravenfield Park, Yorkshire, and may be Been by any one.'' Mr. Lee then adds, from Illingworth, ' On Sir John Bolle'a departure from Cadiz, the Spanish lady sent, as presents to his wife, a profusion of jewels and other valuables, amongst which was her portrait, drawn in green, plate, money, and other treasure. Some articles are still in the possession of the family, though her picture was unfortunately, and by accident, disposed of about half a century since. This portrait being drawn in green, gave occasion to her being called in the neighbourhood of Thorpe Hall, * the green lady,' where, to this day, there is a traditionary superstition among the vulgar, that Thorpe Hall was haunted by the green lady, who used nightly to take her seat in a particular tree near the mansion.' Mr. Lee concludes his interesting letter, by mentioning, that * in Illingworth there is a long and full account of the Spanish lady, and the ballad given at length.' The ballad would appear to have been always popular ; and, like ' The Nut-Brown Maid,' has found imitators among more modern poets. The reader of Shenstone, if, indeed, ' in these degenerate days' he have any readers, will remember the Moral Tale, as he calls it, entitled ' Love and Honour,' in which, to use his own words, he ' brought out the ' Spanish Ladye and her Knight' in less grovelling accents than the simple guise of ancient record ;' while no one —for who does not read him ? — will require to be reminded of Wordsworth's ' Armenian Lady's Love,' in which he has been eloquently said (Ed. Rev.) to have imitated ' the purity of senti- ment, the expressive transitions of dialogue, and the peculiar melody of versification,' of ' The Spanish Lady's Love.'J 302 »fo Hm®i U Mmto. [From ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.'—' This ballad,' says Sir Walter, ' is a northern composition, and seems to have been the original of the legend called Sir Aldingar, which is printed in the Reliques of Antient Poetry. The names of Aldingar and Rodingham approach near to each other in sound, though not in orthography, and the one might, by reciters, be easily substituted for the other. I think I have seen both the name and the story in an ancient prose chronicle, but am unable to make any reference in support of my belief. The tradition upon which the ballad is founded, is universally current in the JMearns ; and the editor is informed that, till very lately, the sword with which Sir Hugh le Blond was believed to have defended the life and honour of the queen, was carefully preserved by his descendants, the viscounts of Arbuthnot. * I was favoured with the following copy of Sir Hugh le Blond by K. Williamson Burnet, Esq. of Monboddo, who wrote it down from the recitation of an old woman, long in the service of the Arbuthnot family. Of course the diction is very much humbled, and it has, in all proba- bility, undergone many corruptions ; but its antiquity is indubitable, and the story, though in- differently told, is in itself interesting. It is believed that there have been many more verses.'] The birds sang sweet as ony bell, The world had not their make, The queen she's gone to her chamber, With Rodingham to talk. ' I love you well, my queen, my dame 'Bove land and rents so clear, And for the love of you, my queen, Would thole pain most severe.' • If well you love me, Rodingham, I'm sure so I do thee: I love you well as any man, Save the king's fair bodye.' ' I love you well, my queen, my dame; 'Tis truth that I do tell: And for to lye a night with you, The salt seas I would sail.' 'Away, away, O Rodingham! You are both stark and stoor; Would you defile the king's own bed, And make his queen a whore? ' To-morrow you'd be taken sure, And like a traitor slain; And I'd be burned at a stake, Although I be the queen.' SIR HUGH LE BLOND. He then stepp'd out at her room-door, All in an angry mood; Until he met a leper-man, Just by the hard way-side. He intoxicate the leper-man With liquors very sweet; And gave him more and more to drink, Until he fell asleep. He took him in his arms two, And carried him along, Till he came to the queen's own bed, And there he laid him down. He then stepp'd out of the queen's bower, As swift as any roe, Till he came to the very place Where the king himself did go. The king said unto Rodingham, ' What news have you to me?' He said, ' Your queen's a false woman, As I did plainly see.' He hasten'd to the queen's chamber, So costly and so fine, Until he came to the queen's own bed, Where the leper-man was lain. He looked on the leper-man, Who lay on his queen's bed; He lifted up the snaw-white sheets, And thus he to him said: ' Plooky, plooky, are your cheeks And plooky is your chin, And plooky are your arms two My bonnie queen's layne in. ' Since she has lain into your arms, She shall not lye in mine; Since she has kiss'd your ugsome mouth, She never shall kiss mine.' In anger he went to the queen, Who fell upon her knee; He said, ' You false, unchaste woman, 304 . What's this you've done to me?' SIR HUGH LE BLOND. The queen then turn'd herself about, The tear blinded her e'e — ' There's not a knight in a' your court Dare give that name to me.' He said, • 'Tis true that I do say; For I a proof did make: You shall be taken from my bower, And burned at a stake. ' Perhaps I'll take my word agar And may repent the same, If that you'll get a Christian mar. To fight that Rodingham.' ' Alas! alas!' then cried our queen, ' Alas, and woe to me! There's not a man in all Scotland Will fight with him for me.' She breathed unto her messengers, Sent them south, east, and west; They could find none to fight with him, Nor enter the contest. She breathed on her messengers, She sent them to the north; And there they found Sir Hugh le Blond, To fight him he came forth. When unto him they did unfold The circumstance all right, He bade them go and tell the queen, That for her he would fight. The day came on that was to do „. That dreadful tragedy; Sir Hugh le Blond was not come up To fight for our lady. 'Put on the fire,' the monster said; ' It is twelve on the bell!' "Tis scarcely ten, now,' said the king; 'I heard the clock mysel'.' Before the hour the queen is brought, The burning to proceed; In a black velvet chair she's set, 3 °5 A token for the dead. x SIR HUGH LE BLOND. She saw the flames ascending high, The tears, blinded her e'e: • Where is the worthy knight,' she said, • Who is to fight for me?' Then up and spake the king himsel', ' My dearest, have no dpubt, For yonder comes the man himsel', As bold as e'er set out.' They then advanced to fight the duel With swords ot temper'd steel, Till down the blood of Rodingham Came running to his heel. Sir Hugh took out a lusty sword, 'Twas of the metal clear; And he has pierced Rodingham Till's heart-blood did appear. ' Confess your treachery, now,' he said, ' This day before you die!' ' I do confess my treachery, I shall no longer lye; * I like to wicked Hainan am, This day I shall be slain.' The queen was brought to her chamber, A good woman again. The queen then said unto the king, ' Arbattle's near the sea, Give it unto the northern knight. That this day fought for me.'" Then said the king, ' Come here, sir knight^ And drink a glass of wine; And, if ArbattUVs not enough, To it we'll Fordoun join.' [' This old fabulous legend,' as it is styled by Dr. Percy, is taken from his ' R eliques,' where it was first printed 'from the Editor's Folio MS., with conjectural emendations, and the insertion of some additional stanzas to supply and complete the story. 1 And, with this single item of information, Dr. Percy left it to the reader to form his own conjectures concerning as well his ' con- jectural emendations and additional stanzas' as the ballad itself generally. The only other remark he makes is, that it had been suggested to him ' that the author of the poem seems to have had in his" eye the story of Gunhilda, who is sometimes called Eleanor, and was married to the Emperor (here called King) Henry.* Some light may be thought to have been thrown upon the matter, by the publication, in the ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,' of a ballad, entitled * Sir Hugh le Blond,' which, says Sir Walter Scott, ' seems to have been the original of the legend of Sir Aldingar. The incidents are nearly the same in both ballads, excepting that' in Sir Hugh a mortal champion combats for the queen. Of this the reader may judge for himself, by comparing this ballad with that of '.Sir Hugh.' - UR king he kept a false stewarde, Sir Aldingar they him call; A falser steward than he was one, Servde not in bower nor hall. 307 SIR ALDINGAR. He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, Her deere worshippe to betraye: Our queene she was a good woman, And evermore said him naye. Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, With her hee was never content, Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, In a fyer to have her brent. There came a Iazar to the king's gate, A lazar both blinde and lame: He tooke the lazar upon his backe, Him on the queenes bed has layne. ' Lye still, lazar, wheras thou Iyest, Looke thou goe not hence away; He make thee a whole man and a sound In two howers of the day.' Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, And hyed him to our king: ' If I might have grace, as I have space, Sad tydings I could bring.' Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, Saye on the soothe to mee. ' Our queene hath chosen a new new love, And shee will have none of thee. If shee had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had beene her shame; But she hath chose her a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame.' If this be true, then Aldingar, The tyding thou tellest to me, Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, Rich both of golde and fee. But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, As Grod nowe grant it bee! Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, Shall hang on the gallows tree. He brought our king to the queenes chamber, And opend to him the dore. A lodlye love, King Harry says, For our queene dame Elinore! SIR ALDINGAR. If thou were a man, as thou art none, Here on my sword thoust dye; But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, And there shalt thou hang on hye. Forth then hyed our king. I wysse, And an angry man was hee; And soone he found queene Elinore, That bride so bright of blee. Now God you save, our queene, madame, And Christ you save and see; Here you have chosen a newe newe love, And. you will have none of mee. If you had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had been your shame: But you have chose you a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame. Therfore a fyer there shall be built, And brent all shalt thou bee. — ' Now out alacke!' said our comly queene, Sir Aldingar's false, to mee. Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, My heart with griefe will brast. I had thought swevens had never been true, I have proved them true at last. I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, In my bed wheras I laye, I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast Had carryed my crowne awaye; My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, And all my faire head-geere; And he wold wbrrye me with his tush, Andto his nest y-beare: Saving there came a little gray hawke, A merlin him they call, Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, That dead he dowue did fall. Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, A battell wold I prove, To fight with that traitor Aldingar: Att him I cast my glove. 309 SIR ALDINGAR. But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, My liege, grant me a knight To fight with that traitor, Sir Aldingar, To maintaine me in my right.' ' Now forty dayes I will give thee To seeke thee a knight therin: If thou find not a knight in forty dayes, Thy bodye it must brenn.' Then shee went east, and shee went west, By north and south bedeene: But never a champion colde she find, Wolde fight with that knight soe keene. Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, Noe helpe there might be had; ■Many ateare shed our comelye queene And aye her heart was Bad. Then came one of the queenes damselles, And knelt upon her knee— 1 Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, I trust yet helpe may be. And here I will make mine avowe, And with the same me binde; That never will I return to thee, Till I some helpe may finde.' Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye, O'er hill and dale about: But never a champion colde she finde, Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. And nowe the daye dr'ewe on a pace, When our good queene must dye; All woe-begone was that fair damselle, When she found no helpe was nye. All woe-begone was that faire damselle, And the salt teares fell from her eye: When lo! as she rode by a river side, She met with a tinye boye. A tinye boye she mette, God wot, All clad in mantle of goldej He seemed noe more in mans likenesse, Than a childe pf four yeere olde. 310. SIR ALDINGAB. Why grieve you, damselle faire? he sayd, And what doth cause you moane? The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, But fast she pricked on. Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle, And greete thy queene from mee; When bale is at hyest, boote is nyest, Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. Bid her remember what she dreamt In her bedd, wheras shee laye; How when the grype and the grimly beast Wolde have carried her crowne awaye, Even then there came the little gray hawke, And saved her from his clawes: Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, For heav en will fende her cause. Back then rode that fair damselle, And her hart it lept for glee: And when she told her gracious dame, A gladd woman then was shee. But when the appointed day was come, No helpe appeared nye: Then woeful, woeful was her hart, And the teares stood in her eye. And nowe a fyer was built of wood, And a stake was made of tree; And now queene Elinor forth was led, A sorrowful sight to see. Three times the herault.he waved his hand, And three times spake on hyes Giff any good knight will fende this dame, Come forth, or shee must dye. No knight stood forth, no knight there came, No helpe appeared nyei And now the fyer was lighted up, Queene Elinor she must dye. And now the fyer was lighted up, As hot as hot might bee; When riding upon a little white steed, The tinye boye they see. SIR ALDINGAR. 312 * Away with that stake, away with those brands, And loose our comelye queene: I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, And prove him a traitor keene.' Forth then stood Sir Aldingar; But when he saw the chylde, He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, And weened he had been beguylde. ' Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, And eyther fighte or flee; I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, Thoughe I am so small to see.' The boye pulld forth a well good sworde So gilt it dazzled the ee; The first stroke stricken at Aldingar Smote off his leggs by the knee. ' Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor, And fighte upon thy feete, For and thou thrive, as thou beginst, Of height wee shall be meete.' A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, While I am a man alive; A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, Me for to houzle and shrive. I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, * But shee wolde never consent; Then I thought to betraye her unto our lunge, In a fyer to have her brent. There came a lazar to the kings gates," A lazar both blind and lame: I tooke the lazar upon my backe, And on her bedd had him layne. Then ranne I to our comlye king, These tidings sore to tell. But ever alacke ! sayes Aldingar, Falsing never doth well. Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, The short time I must live. ' Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, As freely I forgive.' SIR ALDINGAR. Here take thy queene, our King Harrye, And love her as thy life, For never had a king in Christentye, A truer and fairer wife. King Harrye ran to claspe his queene, And loosed her full sone: Then turnd to look for the tinye boye: — The boye was vanisht and gone. But first he had touchd the lazar man, And stroakt him with his hand: The lazar under the gallowes tree All whole and sounde did stand. The lazar under the gallowes tree Was comely e, straight, and tall: King Henrye made him his head stewarde. To wayte withinn his hall. [Stanza 18. Of the* grype/ or 'griffin', Sir John Man- deville, in his ' Voyage and TravaUe,' (Ed. 1725, London, 8vo„) gives the following veritable account: — ' In that Contree ben many Griflbunes, more plentee than in ony other Contree. Sum men seyn, that thei han the Body upward, as an Egle, and benethe as a Lyoun : and treuly ihei seyn sothe, that thei ben of that schapp. But o Griffoun hathe the body more gret and is more strong thanne 8 Lyouns, of suche Lyouns as ben o this half; and more gret and strongere, than an 100 Egles, suche as we han amonges us. For o Griffoun there will bere, fieyinge to his nest, a gret Hors, or 2 Oxen Yoked togidere, as thei gon at the plowghe. For he hathe his Talouns so longe and so large and grete, upon his Feet, as thoughe thei weren Home of grete Oxen or of Bugles or ofKyzn, so that men make Cuppea of hem, to drynken of: and of hire Ribbes and of the Fennes of hire Wenges, men maken Bowes fulle stronge, to schote with Arwes and quarelle.' The reader will find a very learned and highly-interest- ing summary of the opinions of writers, ancient and modern, on this subject, in the Encyclopaedia Metropoli - tana ; Art., ' Griffons.'] 313 [' This is the set of the ballad to which Dr. Percy refers, as occurring In his folio MS., under the title of ' Childe Maurice ;' and it has been printed by Mr. Jamieson, in his collection from that MS. with minute fidelity, who thereby hath conferred no small favour on the lovers of ancient song. As it is not only a curious version withal, but likewise peculiarly illustrative both of the sets which have gone before, and of that one which gives a title to this prolix argument ; it is to be hoped that no apology will be necessary for presenting it here to the reader, more especially as the valuable collection from which it is extracted hath not been eo well received by the world as its merits deserve.' — MothebweIl.] Childe Maurice hunted ithe silven wood he hunted it round about & noebody y l he found theren nor noebody without and tooke his silver cofnbe in his hand to kembe his yellow lockes he says come hither thou little footpage y' runneth lowly by my knee ffor thou 6halt goe to John Steward's wiffe & pray her speake w* mee & as it flails out many times as knotts been knitt on a kell or merchantmen gone to leave London either to buy ware or sell and grete thou doe y' ladye well ever so well ffroe mee and as it ffalls out many times as any harte can thinke as schoole masters are in any schoole housa writting with pen and inke ffor if I might as well as shee may this night I wold w ,h her speake & heere I send a mantle of greene as greene as any grasse and bid her come to the silver wood to hunt w* Childe Maurice. 3U CHILDE MAURICE. & there I send her a ring of gold a ring of precyous stone and bid her come to the silver wood let for no kind of man; one while this little boy he yode another while he ran until he came to John Steward's hall I wis he never blaa and of nurture the child had good he ran up hall & bower ffree and when he came to this lady ffaire sayes God you save and see I am come ffrom Childe Maurice a message unto thee & Childe Maurice he greetes you well & ever soe well ffrom me and as it falls out oftentimes as knotts been knitt on a kell or merchant men gone to leeve London either to buy or sell & as oftentimes he greetes you well as any hart can thinke or schoolemaster in any schoole wryting w* pen and hike & heere he sends a mantle of greene as greene as any grasse & he bidds you come to the silver wood to hunt w" 1 child Maurice & heere he sends you a ring of gold a ring of precyous stone he prayes you to come to the silver wood let for no kind of man now peace now peace thou litle fotpage ffor Christe's sake I pray thee ffor if my Lo heare one of those words thou must be hanged hye John Steward stood under the castle wall & he wrote the words every one 315 CHILDE MAURICE. & he called unto his horsse keeper make readye you my steede and soe he did to his Chamberlaine make ready then my weed & he cast a lease upon his backc & he rode to the silver wood & there he sought all about about the silver wood & there he found him Child Maurice sitting upon a blocke w' h a silver combe in his hand kembing his yellow locke he sayes how now how now Child Maurice alacke how may this bee but then stood by him Child Maurice & sayd these words trulye I do not know your ladye he said if that I do her see ffor thou hast sent her love tokens more now then 2 or 3 for thou hast sent her a mantle of greene as greene as any grasse & bade her come to the silver wood to hunt w' h Childe Maurice and by my faith now Childe Maurice the tane of us shall dye now by my troth sayd Child Maurice & that shall not be I but he pulled out a bright browne sword & dryed it on the grasse & soe fast he smote at John Steward I wis he never rest then hee pulled forth his bright browne sword & dryed itt on his sleeve & the (first good stroke John Steward stroke Child Maurice head he did cleeve & he pricked it on his sword's poynt went singing there beside and he rode till he came to the ladye ffaire 316 whereas his ladye lyed CHILDE MAURICE. and sayes dost thou know Child Maurice head iff that thou dost it see and Hap it soft, and kisse itt offt ffor thou lovedst him better than mee but when shee looked on Childe Maurice head shee never spake words but three I never beare noe childe but one and you have slain him trulye sayes wicked be my merry men all I gave meate drink and clothe but cold they not have holden me when I was in all that wrath ffor I have slaine one of the courteousest knights that ever betrode a steede soe have I done one of the fairest ladyea that ever ware womans weede S17 ffifoflHSr jtov^sii* [This Is the very ancient traditionary ballad which was first printed by Mr. Motherwell, In his ' Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,' Glasg. 1827, verbatim as it was taken down from the singing of widow M'Cormick, who, at that date, (January, 1825,) resided In Westbrae-street of Paisley. ' With much deference to the opinion of others skilled in these matters, he chal- lenged for it, in point of antiquity, a precedence far above any of its fellows; indeed, in his judgment, it has every appearance of being the prime root from which all the variations of the ballad heretofore known, have originated,' ' It may be remarked, too,' he says, ' that it obviously preserves the true title of the ballad, ' Morice" and ' Maurice' being evident corruptions of ' Norice," a nursling or foster, corrup- tions which, from similarity of sound In the enunciation, can easily be conceived as likely ones into which reciters, who learn by the ear, are exceedingly apt to fall j and corruptions of which the experience of every one who has attempted to collect these interesting monuments of early song, can furnish ample parallels. Again, its- clear, straightforward, rapid, and succinct narrative— its extreme simplicity of style and utter destitution of all ornament, argue most powerfully in behalf of the prlmitlveness and authenticity if Its text. It is, in fact, the very anatomy of a perfect .ballad, wanting nothing that it should have, and having nothing that it should want. By testimony of a most unexceptionable description— but which it would be tedious here to detail— the editor can distinctly trace this ballad as existing in its present shape at least a century ago, which carries it decidedly beyond the date of the first printed copy of Gil Morice ; and this, with a poem which has been preserved but by oral tradition, is no mean positive antiquity. If we imagine it a more ancient version than that contained in Dr. Percy's MS., our sole means of arriving at a satisfactory conclusion must be derived from such internal evidence as the ballad itself affords ; and, both versions being now before the reader, he is enabled to judge deliberately for himself, and to form his own opinion on that which many will, ere this, I suspect, have deemed a very unimportant subject. * In conclusion, it may be mentioned that the ballad is exceedingly rare ; and, so far as the editor has been able to learn, it has escaped the notice of our most eminent collectors of traditionary poetry.'] Child Noryce is a clever young man, He wavers wi' the wind; His horse was silver shod before, With the beaten gold behind. He called to his little man John, Saying, " You don't see what I see; For oh yonder I see the very first woman, That ever loved me. " Here is a glove, a glove," he said, " Lined with the silver grey; You may tell her to come to the merry green wood, To speak to Child Nory. " Here is a ring, a ring," he says, " Its all gold but the stane; You may tell her to come to the merry green wood, And ask the leave o' nane." 318 CHILD NOBYCE. " So well do I love your errand, my master, But far better do I love my life; O would ye have me go to Lord Barnard's castel, To betray away his wife?" " don't I give you meat," he says, " And don't I pay you fee? How dare you 6top my errand," he says, " My orders you must obey." Oh when he came to Lord Barnard's castel, He tinkled at the ring; Who was as ready as Lord Barnard himself,* To let this little boy in* " Here is a glove, a glove," he says, " Lined with the silver grey; You are bidden to come to the merry green wood, And ask the leave o' nane." Lord Barnard he was standing by, And an angry man was he: " Oh, little did I think there was a lord in this world, My lady loved but me !" Oh he dressed himself in the holland smocks, And garments that was gay ; And he is away to the merry green wood, To speak to Child Nory. Child Noryce sits on yonder tree He whistles and he sings; " O wae be to me," says Child Noryce, " Yonder my mother comes!" Child Noryce he came off the tree, His mother to take off the horse; " Och, alace, alace," says Child Noryce, My mother was ne'er so gross." Lord Barnard he had a little small sword, That hung low down by his knee; He cut the head off Child Noryce, And put the body on a tree. * This unquestionably ihould be Lady Barnard, instead of her lord, see third stanza under ; but as it was so recited, this obvious error the editor did not conceive himself warranted to correct, more especially as he has found It out of his power to obtain another copy f the balls d from any different quarter. 31U CHILD NORYCE. And when he came to his castel, And to his lady's hall, He threw the head into her lap, Saying, " Lady, there is a ball !" She turned up the bloody head, She kissed it frae cheek to chin; " Far better do I love this bloody head, Than all my royal kin. " When I was in my father's castell, In my virginitie; There came a lord into the north, Gat Child Noryce with me." " wae be to thee, lady Magaret," he saiS, *' And an ill death may you die; For if you had told me he was your son, He had ne'er been slo'n by me." 320 [This ballad, — interest'ng as well for its own intrinsic merits as for having furrished the plot of the tragedy of ' Douglas/ and supplied the materials for the more modern ballad, ' Owen of Carron,* — is taken from Percy's * Re- liques,' where it is said to have ' run through two editions in Scotland ; the second being printed at Glasgow in 1755, 8vo. Prefixed to them both," says Dr. Percy, ' was an advertisement, setting forth that the preservation of it was owing to " a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses;" and requesting " any reader that could render it more correct or complete," to oblige the public * by so doing. Accordingly, '■ sixteen additional verses were handed about in MS.,' which the Dr. * inserted in their proper places;' with the remark that they ' were, perhaps, after all, only an ingenious interpolation.' They are here inclosed in brackets. In the ' folio MS.' was a ' very old imperfect copy of this ballad,* bearing the title, * Childe Maurice;' which was gi\en hy Mr Jamieson in his col- lection from that MS. ; ?nd after him by Mr- Motherwell, in ' Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,' Glasgow, 1827, 4to. In the same work Mr. Motherwell also prints, * for the first time, a very ancient traditionary ballad on the same sub- ject) which he considers to have been ' the prime root from which all the variations of the ballad heretofore known have oi'iginated.* IL Morrice was an erles son, His name it waxed wide ; It was nae for his great riches, Nor zet his mickle pride ; Bit it was for a lady gay, That livd on Carron side. GIL MORRICE. Quhair sail I get a bonny boy, That will win hose and shoen ; That will gae to lord Barnards ha', And bid his lady cum ? And ze maun rin my errand, Willie ; And ze may rin wi' pride ; Quhen other boys gae on their foot, On horse-back ze sail ride. O no ! Oh no ! my master dear ! I dare nae for my life ; I'll no gae to the bauld barons, For to triest turth his wife. My bird Willie, my boy Willie ; My dear Willie, he sayd ; How can ze strive against the stream ? For I sail be obeyd. Bot, O my master dear ! he cryd, In grene wod ze're zour lain ; Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, For fear ze should be tain. Haste, "haste, I say, gae to the ha', Bid hir cum here wi speid : If ze refuse my heigh command, 111 gar zour body bleid. Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, "Tis a' gowd bot the hem ; Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, And bring nane bot hir lain : And there it is, a silken sarke, Hir am hand sewd the sleive ; And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, Speir nae bauld barons leave. Yes, I will gae zour black errand, Though it be to zour cost ; Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, In it ze sail find frost. The baron he is a man of might, He neir could bide to taunt, As ze will see before its nicht, How sma' ze hae to vaunt. And sen I maun zour errand rin Sae sair against my will, I'se make a vow .and keip it trow, 322 It sail be done for ill. GIL MORRICE. 323 And quhen he came to broken brigue, He bent his bow and swam ; And quhen he came to grass growing, Set down his feet and ran. And quhen he came to Barnards ha', Would neither chap nor ca' ; Bot set his bent bow to his breist, And lichtly lap the wa\ He wauld nae tell the man his errand, Though he stude at the gait ; Bot straiht into the ha' he cam, Quhair they were set at meit. Hail ! hail ! my gentle sire and dame ! My message winna waite ; Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod Before that it be late. Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel, Tis a' gowd bot the hem ; Zou maun gae to the. gude grene wode, Ev'n by your sel alane. And there it is, a silken sarke, Your ain hand sewd the sleive ; Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morfce ;. Speir nae bauld barons leare. The lady stamped wi' hir foot, And winked wi' hir ee : Bot a' that she coud say or do, Forbidden he wad nae bee. Its surely to my bow"r-wom&n ; It neir could be to me. I brocht it to lord Barnards lady ; I trow that ze be she. 'Then up and spack the wylie nurse, (The bairn upon hir knee) If it be cum frae Gill Morice, It's deir welcum to mee. Ze leid, ze leid, ye filthy nurse, Sae loud I heard ze lee, I brocht it to lord Barnards lady ; I trow ze be nae shee. GIL MORRICE. 321 Then up and spack the bauld baron, An angry man was hee ; He's tain the table wi' his foot, Sae has he wi' his knee ; Till siller cup and mazer dish In flinders he gard flee. Gae bring a robe of zour eliding, That Mngs upon the pin ; And I'll gae to the gude grene wode, And speik wi' zour lemman. O bide at hame, now lord Barnard, I warde ze bide at hame ; Neir wyte a man for violence, That neir wate ze wi' nane. Gill Morice sate in gude grene wode, He whistled and he sang : O what mean a' the folk coming, My mother tarries lang. [His hair was like the threeds of gold, Drawne frae Minerva's loome : His lipps like roses drapping dew, His breath was a' perfume. His brow was like the mountain snae Gilt by the morning beam : His cheeks" like living roses glow ; His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, Sweete as the infant spring : And like the mavis on the bush, He gart the vallies ring.] The baron came to the grene wode, Wi' mickle dule and care, And there he first spied Gill Morice, Kameing his zellow hair : [That sweetly wavd around his face, That face beyond compare : He sang sae sweet it might dispel A' rage but fell despair.] Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice, My lady loed thee weel, The fairest part of my bodie Is blacker than thy heel. GIL MORRICE. Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice, For a' thy great beautie, Ze's rew the day ze eir was born ; That head sail gae wi' me. Now he has drawn his trusty brand, And slaited on the strae ; And thro' Gill Morice' fair body He's gar cauld iron gae, And he has tain Gill Morice' head And set it on a speir ; The meanest man in a' his train Has gotten that head to bear. And he has tain Gill Morice up, Laid him across his steid, And brocht him to his painted bowr, And laid him on a bed. The lady sat on castle wa', Beheld baith dale and dcun ; Vnd there she saw Gill Morice' head Cum trailing to the toun. Far better I loe that bluidy head, Both and that zellow hair, Than lord Barnard, and a' his lands, As they lig here and thair. And she has tain her Gill Morice, And kissd baith mouth and chin : I was once as fow of Gill Morice As the hip is o' the stean. I got ze in my father's house, Wi' mickle sin and shame ; I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, Under the heavy rain. Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, And fondly seen thee sleip ; But now I gae about thy grave, , * The saut tears for to weip. And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, And syne his bluidy chin : O better I loe my Gill Morice Than a' my kith and kinl , Away, away, ze ill woman, And an il deith mait ze dee : Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, He'd neir bin slain for mee. 325 GIL MORRICE. Obraid me not, my lord Barnard ! Obraid me not for shame ! Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart! And put me out o' pain. Since nothing bot Gil Morice head Thy jelous rage could quell, Let that saim hand now tak hir life, That neir to thee did ill. To me nae after days nor nichts Will eir be saft or kind ; I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, And greet till I am blind. Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt, Seek not zour death frae me ; I rather lourd it had been my sel Than eather him or thee. With waefo wae I hear zour plaint ; Sair, sair I rew the deid, That eir this cursed hand of mine Had gard his body bleid. Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, Ze neir can heal the, wound ; Ze see his head upon the speir, His heart's blude on the ground. I curse the hand that did the deid, The heart that thocht the ill ; The feet that bore me wi' silk speid, The comely zouth to kill. I'll ay lament for Gil Morice, As gin he were mine ain ; I'll neir forget the dreiry day On which the zouth was slain. 326 tfatfi MfctoUm &m% ^fe (SmUMro* [From Buchan's ' Ancient Ballads and Songs, &c.'J There ance liv'd a king in fair Scotland, King Malcolm called by name; Whom ancient history gives record, For valour, worth, and fame. And it fell ance upon a day, The king sat down to dine; And then he miss'd a favourite knight, Whose name was Sir Colvin. But out it speaks another knight, Ane o' Sir Col Yin's kin; * He's lyin' in bed right sick in love, All for your daughter Jean.' ' O waes me,' said the royal king, ' I'm sorry for the same; She maun take bread and wine sae red, Give it to Sir Colvin.' Then gently did she bear the bread, Her page did carry the wine; And set a table at his bed, — ' Sir Colvin, rise and dine.' ' O well love I the wine, lady, Come frae your lovely hand; But better I love your fair body, Than all fair Scotland's strand.' * O hold your tongue now, Sir Colvin, Let all your folly be; My love must be by honour won, Or nane shall enjoy me. But on the head o' Elrick's hill, Near by yon sharp hawthorn, Where never a man with life e'er came Sin' our sweet Christ was born; 327 328 KING MALCOLM AND SIR COLVIN. O ye'll gang there and walk a' night, And boldly blaw your horn; With honour that ye do return, Ye'll marry me the morn.' Then up it raise him, Sir Colvin, And dress'd in armour keen; And- he is on to Elrick s hill, "Without light o' the meen. At midnight mark the meen upstarts, The knight walk'd up and down; While loudest cracks o' thunder roar'd, Out ower the bent sae brown. Then by the twinkling of an e'e, He spied an armed knight; A fair lady bearing his brand, Wi' torches burning bright. Then he cried high as he came nigh, ' Coward, thief, I bid you flee ! There is not ane comes to this hill, But must engage wi' me. Ye'll best take road before I come, And best take foot and flee; Here is a sword baith sharp and broad, Will quarter you in three.' Sir Colvin said, ' I'm not afraid Of any here I see; You ha'e not ta'en your God before, Less dread ha'e I o' thee.' Sir Colvin then he drew his sword, His foe he drew his brand; And they fought there on Elrick's hill Till they were bluidy men. The first an' stroke the knight he strake, Ga'e Colvin a slight wound; The next an' stroke Lord Colvin strake, Brought's foe unto the ground. ' I yield, I yield,' the knight he said, ' I fairly yield to thee; Nae ane came e'er to Elrick-hill E'er gain'd such victorie. KING MALCOLM AND SIR COLVIN. I and my forbears here did haunt Three hundred years and more; I'm safe to swear a solemn oath, We were never beat before.' ' An asking,' said the lady gay, ' An asking ye'll grant me.' ' Ask on, ask on,' said Sir Colvin, ' What may your asking be?' ' Ye'll gi'e me hame my wounded knight Let me fare on my way; And I'se ne'er be seen on EIrick's hill, By night, nor yet by day. And to this place we'll come nae mair, Could we win safe away. To trouble any Christian one Lives in the righteous law; We'll come nae mair unto this place, Could we win safe awa'.' ' O ye'se get hame your wounded knight, Ye shall not gang alane; Bat I maun ha'e a word o' him, Before that we twa twine.' Sir Colvin being a book-learn'd man. Sae gude in fencing tee; He's drawn a stroke behind his hand, And followed in speedilie. Sae fierce a stroke Sir Colvin's drawn, And followed in speedilie; The knight's brand, and sword hand, In the air he garM them flee. It flew sae high into the sky, And lighted on the ground ; The rings that were on these fingers, Were worth five hundred pound. • Up he has ta'en that bluidy hand, Set it before the king; And the morn it was Wednesday, When he married his daughter Jean. S29 Ut ©&wlWm«» [' Thjs old romantic tale,' says Dr. Percy, from whose ' Reliques' it is taken, — ' was preserved in the Editor's Folio MS.,- but in so very defective and mutilated a condition, (not from any chasm in the MS., but from great omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel,) that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and complete the story.' Of the extent of the additions, by which the story was thus connected and completed by the Dr., some idea may be formed by comparing the ballad, as given by him, with one published by Mr. Buchan, in his ' Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scot- land, (Edinb. 1828,)' entitled ' King Malcolm and Sir Colvin.' The similarity of names will be obvious at once ; and, although in the catastrophe the two ballads differ widely, and there is not in ' King Malcolm and Sir Colvin ' any thing at all corresponding with the second part of * Sir Cauline ;' yet the resemblance of the latter to the former, as far as it goes, is, notwith- standing, very striking, and on the supposition of their being two independent ballads, not a little remarkable. Probably, however, the old Scotch ballad published by Mr. Buchan, or some version of it, formed the ground- work of * Sir Cauline.' Or it may be regarded as ' some illiterate minstrel's faulty recitation.' THE FIRST PART. N Ireland, ferr over the sea, There dwelleth a bonnye kinge ; And with him a yong and comlye knighte, Men call him syr Cauline. SIR CAULINE. The kinge had a lady e to his daughter, In fashyon she hath no peere ; And princely wightes that ladye wooed To he theyr wedded feere. Syr Cauline loveth her hest of all, But nothing durst he saye ; Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man, But deerlye he lovde this may. Till on a daye it so heffell, Great dill to him was dight ; The maydens love removde his mynd, To care-hed went the knighte. One while he spred his armes him fro, One while he spred them nye : And aye ! but I whine that lady es love, For dole now I mun dye. And whan our parish-masse was done, Our kinge was bowne to dyne : He says, Where is syr Cauline, That is wont to serve the wyne 1 Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, And fast his handes gan wringe : Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye Without a good leechinge. Fetche me downe my daughter deere, She is a leeche fulle fine : Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread, And serve him with the wyne soe red ; Lothe I were him to tine. Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes, Her maydens followyng nye : O wefl, she sayth, how doth my lord ? O sicke, thou fayr ladye. Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, Never lye soe cowardlee ; For it is told in my fathers halle, You dye for love of mee. Fayre ladye, it is for your lov That all this dill I drye : For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, Then were I brought from bale to blisse, No lenger wold I lye. 331 SIR CAULINE. Sir knighte, my father is a kinge, I am his onlye heire ; Alas ! and well you knowe, syr knighte, I never can be youre fere. ladye, thou art a kinges daughter, And I am not thy peere, But let me doe some deedes of armes To be your bacheleere. Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, > My bacheleere to bee, (But ever and aye my heart wold rue, Giff harm shold happe to thee,) Upoa Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, Upon the mores brodlnge ; And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte Untill the fayre morninge ? For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte, Will examine you beforne ; And never man bare life awaye, But he did him scath and scorne. That knighte he is a foul paynim, And large of limb and bone ; And but if heaven may be thy speede, Thy life it is but gone. Nowe on the Eldridge hilles He walke, For thy sake fair ladie ; And He either bring you a ready token, Or He never more you see. The lady is gone to her own chaumbere, Her maydens following bright : Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone, And to the Eldridge hills is gone, For to wake there all night. Unto midnight, that the moone did rise, He walked up and downe ; Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe Over the bents soe browne : Quoth hee, If cryance come till my heart, 332 I am ffar from any good towne. SIR CAULINE. And soone he spyde on the mores so broad, A furyous wight and fell ; A ladye bright his brydle led, Clad in a fayre kyrtell : And soe fast he called on syr Cauline, man, I rede thee flye, For, ' but' if cryance come till thy heart, 1 weene but thou mun dye. He sayth, ' No' cryance comes till my heart, Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee ; For, cause thou minged not Christ before, The less me dreadeth thee. The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed ; Syr Cauline bold abode : Then either shooke his trustye speare, And the timber these two children bare Soe soone in sunder slode. Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, And layden on full faste, Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde, They all were well-nye brast. The Eldridge knight was mickle of might, And stiffe in stower did stande, But syr Cauline with a 'backward' stroke, He smote off his right-hand ; That soone he withpaine and lacke of bloud Fell downe on that lay-land. Then up syr Cauline lift his brande All over his head so hye : And here I sweare by the holy roode, Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye. Then up and came that ladye brighte, Faste wringing of her hande : For the maydens love, that most you love, Withold that deadlye brande : For the maydens love, that most you love, Now smyte no more I praye ; And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord, He shall thy hests obaye. Now sweare to mee, thou Eldridge knighte, And here on this lay-land, That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye, And thereto plight thy hand : 333 SIR CAULINE. And that thou never on Eldridge come To sporte, gamon, or playe : And that thou here give up thy armes Until thy dying daye. The Eldridge knighte gave up his armes With many a sorrowfulle sighe ; And sware to obey syr Caulines hest, Till the tyme that he shold dye. And he then up and the Eldridge knighte Sett him in his saddle anone, And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye To theyr castle are they gone. Then he tooke up the bloudy hand That was so large of bone, And on it he founde five ringes of gold Of knightes that had be slone. Then he tooke up the Eldridge sworde As. hard as any flint : And he tooke off those ringes five, As bright as fyre and brent. Home then pricked syr Cauline As light as leafe on tree : I-wys he neither stint ne blanne, Till he his ladye see. Then downe he knelt upon his knee Before that lady gay : O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills : These tokens I bring away. Now welcome, welcome, syr Cauline, Thrice welcome unto mee, For now I perceive thou art a true knighte, Of valour bolde and free. O ladye, I am thy own true knighte, Thy nests for to obaye : And mought I hope to winne thy love ! — No more his tonge colde say. The ladye blushed scarlette redde, And fette a gentill sighe : Alas ! syr knight, how may this bee, 33 4 For my degree's soe highe ? SIR CAULINE, But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youths To be my batchilere, He promise if thee I may not wedde, I -will have none other fere. Then shee held forthe her lilly-white hand Towards that knighte so free : He gave to it one gentill kisse, His heart was brought from bale to blisse, The teares sterte from his ee. But keep my counsayl, syr Caulme Ne let no man it knowe ; Fot and ever my father sholde it ken, I wot he wolde us sloe. From that daye forthe that ladye fayre Lovde syr Caulme the knighte : From that daye forthe he only joyde Whan shee was in his sight. Yea and oftentimes they mette Within a fayre arboure, Where they in love and sweet daliauncf Past manye a pleasaunt houre. PART THE SECOND. Everye white will have its blacke, And everye sweete its sowre : This fouude the ladye Christabelle In an untimely howre. For so it befelle as syr Caulme Was with that ladye faire, The kinge her father walked forthe To take the evenyng aire : And into the arboure as he went To rest his wearye feet. He found his daughter and syr Caulme There sette in daliaunce sweet. The kmge hee sterted forthe, i-wys, And an angrye man was hee : Nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe, And rewe shall thy ladie. 335 SIR CAULINE. Then forthe syr Cauline he was ledde, And throwne in dungeon deepe : And the ladye into a towre so hye, There left to wayle and weepe. The queene she was syr Caulines friend, And to the kinge sayd shee : I praye you save syr Caulines life, And let him hanisht bee. Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent Across the salt sea fome : But here I will make thee a band, If ever he come within this land, A foule deathe is his doome. All woe-begone was that gentil knight To parte from his ladyl ; And many a time he sighed sore, And caste a wistfulle eye : Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte, Farre lever had I dye. Fair Christabelle, that ladye bright, Was had forthe of the towre ; But ever shee droopeth in her minde, As nipt by an ungentle winde Doth some faire lillye flowre. And ever shee doth lament and weepe To tint her lover soe : Syr Cauline, thou little think' st on mee, But I will still be true. Manye a kinge, and manye a duke, And lords of high degree, Did sue to that fayre ladye of love ; But never shee wolde them nee. When manye a daye was past and gone, Ne comf'orte she colde finde, The kynge proclaimed a tourneament, To cheere his daughters mind : And there came lords, and there came kiughts, Fro manye a farre countrye, To break a spere for theyr ladyes love 336 Before that faire ladye. SIR CAULINE. And many a ladye there was sette . In purple and in palle : But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone Was the fayrest of them all. Then manye a knighte -was mickle of might Before his ladye gaye ; But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe He wan the prize eche daye. His acton it was all of blacke, His hewberke, and his sheelde, Ne noe man wist whence he did come, Ne noe man knewe where he did gone, When they came out the feelde. And now three days were prestlye past In feates of chivalrye, When lo upon the fourth morninge A sorrowfulle sight they see. A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke, All fpule of liuibe and lere ; Two goggling eyen like fire farden, A mouthe from eare to eare. Before him came a dwarffe full lowe, That waited on his knee, And at his backe five heads he bare, ^ All wan and pale of blee. Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe, Behold that hend Soldain ! Behold these heads I beare with me ! They are kings which he hath slain. The Eldridge knight is his own cousine, Whom a knight of thine hath shent : And hee is come to avenge his wrong, And to thee, all thy knightes among, Defiance here hath sent. But yette he will appease his wrath Thy daughters love to whine : And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd, Thy halls and towers must brenne. Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee ; Or else thy daughter deere ; Or else within these lists soe broad Thou must finde him a peere. 55 a37 SIR CAULINE. The king he turned him round aboute, And in his heart was woe : Is there never a knighte of my round table, This matter will undergoe ? Is there never a knighte amongst yee all Will fight for my daughter and mee ? Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan, Right fair his meede shall bee. For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, And of my crowne be heyre ; And he shall winne fayre Christabelle To be his wedded fere. But every knighte of his round table Did stand both still and pale ; For whenever they lookt on the grim soldan, It made their hearts to quail. All woe-begone was that fayre ladye, When she sawe no helpe was nye : She cast her thought on her owne true-love, And the teares gusht from her eye, Up then sterte the stranger knighte, Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd : He fight for thee with this grimme soldan, Thoughe he be unmacklye made. And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde, That lyeth within thy bowre, I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende Thoughe he be stiff in stowre. Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde, The kinge he cryde, with speede : Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte ; My daughter is thy meede. The gyaunt he stepped into the lists, And sayd, Awaye, awaye : I sweare, as I am the hend soldan, Thou lettest me here all daye. Then forthe the stranger knight he came In his blacke armour dight: The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, 338 « That this were my true knighte !" SIR CAULINE. And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett Within the lists soe broad ; And now with swordes soe sharpe of Steele, They gan to lay on load. The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke, That made him reele asyde ; Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, And thrice she deeply sighde. The soldan strucke a second stroke, And made the bloude to flowe : All pale and wan was that ladye fayre, And thrice she wept for woe. The soldan strucke a third fell stroke, "Which brought the knighte on his knee : Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, And she shriekt loud shriekings three. The knighte he leapt upon his feete, All recklesse of the pain : Quoth hee, But heaven be now my speede, Or else I shall be slaine. He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, And spying a secrette part, He drave it into the soldan's syde, And pierced him to the heart. Then all the people gave a shoute, "When they sawe the soldan falle : The ladye wept, and thanked Christ, That had reskewed her from thrall. And nowe the kinge with all his barons Rose uppe from offe his seate, And downe he stepped into* $ie Hstes, That curteous knighte to greete. But he for payne and lacke of bloude Was fallen into a swounde, And there all walteringe in his gore, Lay lifelesse on the grounde. Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, Thou art a leeche of skille ; Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes, Than this good knighte sholde spille. 339 SIR CAULINE. Downe then steppeth that fayre ladyfc, To helpe him if she maye ; But when she did his beavere raise, It is my life, my lord, she sayes, And shriekte and swound awaye. Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes When he hearde his ladye crye, O ladye, I am thine owne true love ; For thee I wisht to dye. Then giving her one partinge looke, He closed his eyes in death, Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde, Begane to drawe her breathe. But when she found her comelye knighte Indeed was dead and gone, She layde her pale cold cheeke to his And thus she made her moane. O staye, my deare and onlye lord, For mee thy faithfulle feere "Tis meet that I shold followe thee, Who hast bought my love so deare. Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, And with a deep-fette sighe, That burst her. gentle heart in twayne Fayre Christabelle did dye. 310 Slfoe ©s$ <®isig#*|I$aM~ [This ballad is taken from ' The Minstrelsy of the Scot* tish Border/, where it was given, as ' never before published, partly from one, under the same title, in Mrs. Brown's Col- lection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, penes EcHU The stanzas appearing to possess most merit were selected from each copy.' It is to be regretted that Sir Walter Scott did not give the two versions in their genuine state rather than a third made op of them. Some idea, how- ever, of what they were may be gotten from comparing the ballad, as given by him, with what Mr. Motherwell calls ' a less complete version' of it, which he prints in his * Min- strelsy,' under the title of *The Jolly Goshawk.' With regard to the story, 'there is,' Sir Walter Scott says, 'some resemblance betwixt it and an Irish Fairy Tale, called ' The Adventures of Faravla, Frineess of Scotland, and Carral O'Daly, son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ireland.' Th_- princess, being desperately in love with Carral, despatches in search of hi™ a faithful confidante, who, by her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, nesting upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the Princess of Scotland.] WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen !" " And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean ! 341 THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. " O have ye tint, at tournament, Your sword, or yet your spear 1 Or mourn ye for the Southern lass, Whom you may not win near ? " " I have not tint, at tournament, My sword, nor yet my spear ; But sair I mourn for my true love, Wi' mony a hitter tear. " But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye can baith speak and flee ; Ye sail carry a letter to my love, Bring an answer back to me." " But how sail I your true love find, Or how suld I her know ? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, An eye that ne'er her saw." " O weel sail ye my true love ken, Sae sune as ye her see ; For, of a' the flowers of fair England, The fairest flower is she. " The red, that's on. my true love's cheik, Is like blood drops on the snaw ; The white, that is on her breast bare, Like the down o' the white sea-maw. " And even at my love's hour door There grows a flowering birk ; And ye maun sit and sing thereon As she gangs to the kirk. " And four-and-twenty fair ladyes Will to the mass repair ; But well may ye my ladye ken, The fairest ladye there." Lord William has written a love letter, Put it under his pinion gray ; And he is awa' to Southern land As fast as wings can gae. And even at that ladye' s bour There grew a flowering birk ; And he sat down and sung thereon „ As she gaed to the kirk. THE GAY GOSS-HAWR. And weel he kent that ladye fair Amang her maidens free; For the flower, that springs in May morning, Was not sae sweet as she. He lighted at the ladye' s gate, And sat him on a pin ; And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love, Till a' was cosh within. And first he sang a low low note, And syne he sang a clear ; And aye the o'erwofd o' the sang Was — " Tour love can no win here." " Feast on, feast on, my maidens a', The wine flows you amang, While I gang to my shot-window, And hear yon honnie hird's sang. ** Sing on, sing on, my bonnie bird, The sang ye sung yestreen : For weel I ken, by your sweet singing', Ye are frae my true love seen." O first he sang a merry sang, And syne he sang a grave ; And syne he peck'd his feathers gray, To her the letter gave. " Have there a letter from lord William : He says he's sent ye three, He canna wait your love langer, But for your sake he'll die." " Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, And brew his bridal ale ; And I shall meet him at Mar^s kirk, Lang, lang ere it be stale." The lady's 5 gane to her chamber, And a mdanfu* woman was she ; As gin she had ta J en a sudden brash, And were about to die. "A boon, a boon, my father deir A boon I beg of thee ! " Ask not that paughty Scottish lord, For him you ne'er shall see. THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. " But, for your honest asking else Weel granted it shall be." " Then, gin I die in Southern land, In Scotland gar bury me. " And the first kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the mass be sung ; And the next kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the bells be rung. And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk, Ye's tarry there till night." And so her father pledged his word, And so his promise plight. She has ta'en her to her bigly hour As fast as she could fare ; And she has drank a sleepy draught, That she had mix'd wi' care. A.nd pale, pale grew her rosy cheek, That was sae bright of blee, And she seemed to be as surely dead As any one could be. Then spak' her cruel step-minnie, "Tak' ye the burning lead, And drap a drap on her bosome, To try if she be dead." They took a drap o' boiling lead, They drapp'd on her breast ; " Alas ! alas!" her father cried, " She's dead without the priest." She neither chatter'd with her teeth, Nor chiver'd with her chin ; " Alas ! alas \" her father cried, " There is nae breath within." Then up arose her seven brethrer And hew'd to her a bier; They hew'd it frae the solid aik. Laid it o'er wi'. silver clear. Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell ; And every steek that they put in '344 Sewed to a siller bell. THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. The first Scots kirk that they cam' to, They garr'd the bells be rung, The next Scots kirk that they cam' to, They garr'd the mass be sung. But when they cam' to St. Mary's kirk, There stood spearmen all in a raw ; And up and started lord William, The chieftane amang them a'. " Set down, set down the bier," he said ; " And let me look her upon :" But as soon as lord William touched her hand, Her colour began to come. She brightened like the lily flower, Till her pale colour was gone ; With rosy cheik, and ruby Up, She smiled her love upon. " A morsal of your bread, my lord, And one glass of your wine : For I ha'e fasted these three lang days, All for your sake and .mine. " Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers ! Gae hame and blaw your horn ! I trow ye wad- ha'e gi'en trie the skaith, But I've gi'en you the scorn. " Commend me to my grey father, That wish'd my saul gude rest ! But wae be. to my cruel step-dame, Garr'd burn me On the breast." " Ah ! woe to you, you light woman ! An ill death may you dee ! For we left father and sisters at hame Breaking their hearts for thee." 345 346 [From Motherwell's • Minstrelsy^ " O well is me my Jolly Goshawk, That ye can speak and flee; For ye can carry a love letter To my true love from me." " how can I carry a letter to her, When her I do not know ? I bear the lips to her never spak, And the eyes that she never saw." " The thing of my love's face that's white, Is that of dove or maw ; The thing of my love's face that's red, Is like blood shed on snaw. And when you come to the castell, Light on the bush of ash; And sit you there and sing our loves, As she comes from the mass. And when she gaes into the house, Sit ye upon the whin; And sit you there and sing our loves As she goes out and in." And when he flew to that castell, He lighted on the ash; And there he sat and sung their loves, As she came from the mass. And when she went into the house, He flew unto the whin; And there he sat and sung their loves, As she went out and in. THE JOLLY GOSHAWK " Come hitherward my maidens all, And sip red wine anon, Till I go to my west window, And hear a birdie's moan." She is gone unto her west window, And fainly aye it drew, And soon into her white silk lap The bird the letter threw. " Tere bidden send your love a send, For he has sent you twa; And tell him where he can see you, Or he cannot live ava." u I send him the rings from my white finger The garlands off my hair; I send him the heart that's in my breast, What would my love have mair; And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, Ye'll bid him meet me there." She hied her to her father dear, As fast as gang could she; " An asking, an asking, my father dear, An asking ye grant me, That if I die in fair England, In Scotland gar bury me. At the first kirk of fair Scotland, You cause the bells be rung; At the second kirk of fair Scotland, You cause the mass be sung; At the third kirk of fair Scotland, You deal gold for my sake; And at the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, O ! there you'll bury me at. And now my tender father dear, This asking grant you me." " Your asking is but small," he said, Weel granted shall it be." [The lady asks the same boon and receives a similar answer, first from her mother, then from her sister, and lastly from her seven brothers.] Then down as dead that lady dropped Beside her mother's knee; Then out it spak an auld witch wife, — By the fire-side sat she, — 347 THE JOLLY GOSHAWK. Says, " Drap the hot lead on her cheek, And drap it on her chin, And drap it on her rose red lips, And she will speak again; For much a lady young will do, To her true love to win." They drapp'd the hot lead on her cheek, So did they on her chin; They drapp'd it on her rose red lips, But they breathed none again. Her brothers they went to a room, To make to her a bier; The boards of it were cedar wood, And the plates on it gold so dear. Her sisters they went to a room, To make to her a sark; The cloth of it was satin fine, And the steeking silken wark. " But well is me, my Jolly Goshawk, That ye can speak and flee; Come show to me any love tokens That you have brought to me." " She sends you the rings from her fingers, The garlands from her hair; She sends you the heart within her breast, And what would you have mair; And at the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, She bids you meet her there." " Come hither, all my merry young men, And drink the good red wine; For we must on to fair England, To free my love from pine." At the first kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the bells be rung; At the second kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the mass be sung. At the third kirk of fair Scotland, They dealt gold for her sake; And the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, 348 Her true love met them at. THE JOLLY GOSHAWK. " Set down, set down the corpse," he said, " Till I look on the dead; The last time that I saw her face, She ruddy was and red. But now, alas! and woe is me, She's wallowed like a weed." He rent the sheet upon her face, A little aboon her chin; With lily white cheek, and lemin' eyne, She lookt and laught to him. " Give me a chive of your bread, my love, A bottle of your winej For I have fasted for your love, These weary lang days nine; There's not a steed in your stable, But would have been dead ere syne. Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers, Gae hame and blaw the horn; For you can say in the south of England. Your sister gave you a scorn. I came not here to fair Scotland, To lye amang the meal; But I came here to fair Scotland, To wear the silks so weeL I came not here to fair Scotland, To lye among the dead; But I come here to fair Scotland, To wear the gold so red.' SiV il%k i^§$«w®wlf<> [The ballad of 'Fair Rosamond,' says Dr. Percy, {'Re- liques,' ii., 155, J 'appears to have been first published in 'Strange- Histories, or Songs and Sonnets of Kinges, Princes, Dukes, Lords, Ladyes, Knights, and Gentlemen, &c. By Thomas Deloney, London, 1612, 4to. In the ' Reliques' the ballad Was ' printed, with conjectural emen- dations, from four ancient copies in black-letter ; two of them in the Pepys library.' These several copies vary con- siderably one from another. Our text is not that of any one of them, to the exclusion . of the others ; though it princi- pally follows the version of the ' Strange Histories,* as re- printed by the Percy Society from (he only known perfect copy; the date of which howeverisnot J612, but 1607. With regard to the heroine, she was, according to Stowe, 'the fayre daughter of Walter Lord Clifford, concubine to Henry IF. (poisoned by Queen Elianor, as some thought ) and dyed at Woodstocke[A.D. 1 177,] where King Henry had made for her a house'Of wonderfulle working, so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the King, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house after some was named Labyrinthus, or Dedalues worke, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a Maze ; hut it was commonly said that lastly the queene -came to her by a clue of thridde, or silke, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after : but when she was dead, she was buried at Godstow, in an house of nunnes beside Oxford, with these verses upon her tombe : Hie jacet in tiunba, rosa mundi, non rosa munda . Non redolet, sed olet, quae redolere solet.] HEN as king Henry rulde this land The second of that name, Besides the queene, he dearly lovde A faire and comely dame. FAIR ROSAMOND. Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, Her favour, and her face ; A sweeter creature in this worlde Did never prince embrace. Her crisped lockes like threads of golde Appeard to each man's, sight ; Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, Did cast a heavenlye light. The blood within her crystal cheekes Did such a colour drive, As though the liljye and the rose For mastership did strive. Yea Rosamond, fair Rosamond, Her name was called so, To whom our queene, dame Elinor, Was known a deadlye foe. The king therefore, for her defence, Against the furious queene, At Woodstocke builded such a bower, The like was never seene. Most curiously that bower was built Of stone and timber strong, An hundred and fifty doors Did to this bower belong : And they so cunninglye contriv'd With turnings round about, That none but with a clue of thread, Could enter in or out. And for his love and ladyes sake, That was so faire and brighte, The keeping of this bower he gave Unto a valiant knighte. But fortune, that doth often frowne Where she before did smile, The kinges delighte, the ladyes joy, Full soon shee did beguile : For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised warres Within the realm e of France. 351 FAIR ROSAMOND. But yet before our comelye king The English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, bis lady faire, His farewelle thus he tooke : ' My Rosamond, my only Rose, That pleasest best mine eye : The fairest flower in all the worlde To feed my fantasye : The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excelle : My royal Rose, a thousand times I bid thee nowe farwelle ! For I must leave my fairest flower, My sweetest Rose, a space, And cross the seas to famous France, Proud rebelles to abase. But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortlye see, And in my heart, when hence I am, He beare my Rose with mee.' When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, Did heare the king saye soe, The sorrowe of her grieved heart Her outward lookes did showe ; And from her cleare and crystall eyes The teares gusht out apace, Which like the silver-pearled dewe Ranne downe her comely face. Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, Did waxe both wan and pale, And for the sorrow she conceivde Her vitall spirits faile ; And falling down all in a swoone Before king Henryes face, Full oft he in his princelye armes Her bodye did embrace : And twentye times, with watery eyes, He kist her tender cheeke, Untill he had revivde againe 352 Her senses milde and meeke. FAIR ROSAMOND. * Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose ? : The king did often say, ' Because,' quoth shee, * to bloodye warres My lord must pass awaye. But since your grace on forrayne coa Amonge your foes unkinde Must goe to hazard life and limbe, Why should I staye behinde ? Nay rather let me, like a page, Your sworde and target beare ; That on my breast the blowes may lighte, Which would offend you there. Or lett mee, in your royal tent, Prepare your bed at nighte, And with sweete baths refresh your grace, At your returne from fighte. So I your presence may enjoye No toil I will refuse ; But wanting you, my life is death ; Nay, death He rather chuse ! ' ' Content thyself, my dearest love ; Thy rest at home shall bee In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle, For travell fits not thee. Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres ; Sweet peace their pleasures breede ; The nourisher of hearts content, Which fancy first did feede. My Rose shall rest in Woodstocke With musickes sweet delight ; Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes, Against my foes do fighte. My Rose in robes of pearle, and golde, With diamonds richly dighte ; Shall dance the galliards of my love, Whilst I my foes do fighte. And you, sir Thomas, whom I truste To bee my loves defence ; Be carefull of my gallant Rose When I am parted hence.' A A 353 FAIR ROSAMOND. And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, As though his heart would breake : And Rosamond, for very griefe, Not one plaine word could speakc. And at their parting well they mighte In heart be grieved sore : After that daye faire Rosamond The king did see no more. For when his grace had past the seas, And into France was gone ; With envious heart, queene Elinor, To Wdodstocke.came anone. And forth she calles the trustye knighte, Which kept this curious bower ; Who with his clue of twined thread, Came from this famous' flower. And when that they had wounded him, The queene his thread did gette, And went where ladye Rosamond Was like an i; ahgell sette- But when the queene with stedfast eye Beheld her heavenlye face, She was amazed in her minde At her exceeding grace. ' Cast off from thee thy robes,' she said, 'That riche and costlye bee ; And drinke thou up this destdlye draught, Which I have brought' to thee.' Then presentlye upon her knees Sweet Rosamond did falle ; And pardon of the queene she crav'd For her offences all. ' Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,' Faire Rosamond did crye ; ' And lett mee not with poison stronge Enforced bee to dye. I will renounce my sinfull life, And in some cloyster bide ; Or else be banisht, if you please,' 354 To range the world soe wide. ' FAIR ROSAMOND. And for the fault which I have done, Though I was forc'd theretoe, Preserve my life, and punish mee As you thinke good to doe.' And with these words, her lillie handes She wrunge full often there ; And downe along her lovely face Did trickle many a teare. But nothing could this furious queene Therewith appeased bee ; The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, As she knelt on her knee, «'*■" Shee gave thisEomelye dame to drinke; Who tooke it In her hand, And from her%ended knee arose, And on her feet, did stand : And casting up her : eyes to heaven, • > Shee did for mercye calle ; - And drinking up the poison stronge, Her life she lost withalle. And when that death through everye liflr.be Had showde its greatest spite, Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse Shee was a glorious wight. Her body then they did entomb, When life was fled away, At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, As may be seene this day. 35D 'm %mml®& *«lste« •lib * ,//, [This ballad, the first two lines of which are sung by Fa) staff, in Henry IV. pt. 2, Act ii. sc. 4, was given in Percy's ' Reliques,' from ' a printed copy, corrected in part by the Folio MS.' Itis also contained in Ritson's ' Ancient Songs and Ballads/ where it is said to be * by Thomas Deloney.' Neither of these versions, however, is so correct as that of an old black-letter copy, in broadside. In the British Museum, entitled, ' The Noble Acts newly found, Of Arthur of the Table Round.* To the tune of ' Flying Fame.* * Printed by and for Alex. Milbourn, in Green- Arbor-Court, in the Little Old-Baily.* From 1 at copy it is here printed. In the same collection there is another copy, also in broadside, in Roman letter, the title of which is ' The Noble Achievements of King Arthur, and his Knights of the Round Table.' To the tune of* Flying Fame.' These titles, as Ritson remarks, and as the reader will see, are incorrect, though the subject of the ballad, as Dr. Percy points out, is taken from the ancient romance of ' King Arthur,* (commonly called * Morte d' Arthur,') being a poetical translation of ch. cviii., cix., ex., in Part I., as they stand in edition 1634, 4to.J HEN Arthur first in court began, And was approved king; By force of arms great victories won. And conquest home did bring; 356 SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. Then into Britain straight he came, "Where fifty good and able Knights then repaired unto him, Which were of the Round Table. And many justs and tournaments Before him there were presj, Wherein these knights did then excell, And fir surmount the rest. But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, Who was approved well, He, in his fights and deeds of arms, All others did excell. When he had rested hiin awhile, To play, and game, and sport; He thought he wold approve himself In some adventurous sort. He armed rode in forrest wide, And met a damsel faire, Who told him of adventures great; Whereto he gave good eare. Such wold I find, quoth Lancelot, For that cause came I hither. Thou seemst, quoth she, a knight full good, And I will bring thee thither, Whereas the mightiest knight doth dwell, That now is of great fame: Wherefore tell me what knight thou art; And what may be thy name. My name is Lancelot du Lake. Quoth she, It likes me, then; Here dwells a knight that never was O'ermatcht of any man; Who hath in prison threescore knights And four, that he hath bound; Knights of King Arthur's court they be, And of the Table Round. She brought him to a river then, And also to a tree, Whereon a copper bason hung And many shields to see. 004 SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. 353 He struck soe hard, the hason broke : When Tarquine heard the sound, He drove a horse before him straight, Whereon a knight was bound. Sir knight, then sayd sir Lancelot, Bring me that horse-load hither, And lay him down, and let him rest ; We'll try our force together : For, as I understand, thou hast As far as thou art able, Done great despite and shame unto The knights of the Bound Table. If thou art of the Table Bound, Quoth Tarquin speedilye, Both thee, and all thy fellowship, I utterly defye. That's over much, quoth Lancelot tho ; Defend thee by and by. They put their spurs unto their steeds, And each at other fly. They coucht their spears, and horses run, As though they had been thunder ; And each struck then upon the shield, Wherewith they brake asunder. Their horses' backs brake under them ; The knights they were astound : To avoyd their horses they made haste To fight upon the ground. They tooke them to their shields full fast, Their swords they drew out then ; With mighty strokes most eagerlye Each one at other run. They wounded were, and bled full sore, For breath they both did stand ; And leaning on their swords a awhile, Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand ; And tell to me what I shall ask^- Say on, quoth Lancelot tho. Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight, That ever I did know ; SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. And like a knight that I did hate : Soe that thou be not hee, I will deliver all the rest, And eke accord with thee. That is well said, quoth Lancelot ; But sith it soe must bee, What knight is that thou hatest soe, I pray thee show to me 1 v ' an . His name 's Sir Lancelot du Lake ; He slew my brother dear ; Him I suspect of all the rest : I wold I had him here. Thy wish thou hast, but now unknown ; I am Lancelot du Lake, Now knight of Arthur's Table Round, > King Hand's son of Benwake ; And I defye thee ; — do thy worst. Ha, ha, quoth Tarquine tho, One of us two shall end our lives, Before that we do go. If thou bee Lancelot du Lake, Then welcome shalt thou bee ; Wherefore see thou thyself defend, For now defye I thee. They buckled then together fast, Like unto wild boars rashing, And with their swords and shields they ran At one another slashing. The ground besprinkled was with blood : Tarquine began to faint ; For he had backt and bore his shield, So low, he did repent. This soon espied Sir Lancelot : He leapt upon him then, He pulld him dowjie upon his knee, And, rushing off his helm, Forthwith he strucke his necke in two ; And when he had so done, From prison threescore knights and four Deliverd everye one. 35 9 [This ballad is printed from a reprint, edited by J. P. Collier, Esq., for the Percy Society, of an unique black- letter copy, in his own possession, ' printed early in the seventeenth century as a chap-book.' It was originally illustrated with a woodcut upon the title-page, nearly the whole of which, however, has been torn away : with the woodcut, part of the letter-press has unfortunately disap- peared. The vacancies thus occasioned have been sup- plied by Mr. Collier from conjecture, and are inserted be- tween brackets. With the ballad, or rather song, in Percy's * Reliques,' entitled ' The Merry Pranks of Robin Good- fellow,' the reader is doubtless familiar. It is attributed by Peck to Ben Jonson ; and it is no slight confirmation of this that Mr. Collier possesses a contemporary MS. version, to which the initials B. J. are appended. This MS. copy contains some variations from Percy's version, which was printed from ' an ancient black-letter copy in the British Museum,' and an additional stanza, which the reader will find at the end of the present ballad. With regard to the hero, the reader may consult the reprint, by Mr. Collier, for the Percy Society, of a black-letter tract (1628) in the pos- session of Lord Francis Egerton, (now Earl of Ellesmere,) entitled ' The Mad Pranks and Merry Jests of Robin Good- fellow ;* and Mr. "Wright's Essay on Fairy Mythology, in the Foreign Quarterly Review, No. 35.] CHAPTER I. Shewing his Birth, and whose Sonne he wa ■- ERE doe begin the merry iests Of Robin Good-fellow; L'de wish you for to reade this booke, If you his pranks would know. ROBIN GOODFELLOW. But first I will declare his birth, And what his mother was, And then how Robin merrily Did bring his knacks to passe. In time of old, when fayries us'd To wander in the night, And through key-holes swiftly glide, Now marke my story right, Among these pretty fairy elves Was Oberon, their king, "Who us'd to keepe them company Still at their revelling. And sundry houses they did use, But one, above the rest, Wherein a comely lasse did dwell, That pleas'd King Oberon best. This lovely damsell, neat and faire, So courteous, meek, and mild, As sayes my booke, by Oberon She was begot with child. She knew not who the father was But thus to all would say — In night-time he to her still came, And went away ere day. The midwife having better skill Than had this new-made mother, Quoth she, ' Surely some fairy 'twas, For it can be no other.' And so the old wife rightly judg'd. For it was so indeed. This fairy shew'd himself most kind, And helpt his love at need; For store of linnen he provides, And brings her for her baby; With dainty cates and choised fare, He serv'd her like a lady. The Christening time then being [come, Most merry they [did pass; The gossips dra[ined a cheerful cup As then provided was. And Robin was [the infant call'd, So named the [gossips by; What pranks [he played both day and night, 111 tell you cer[tainly. 36 , ROBIN GOODFELLOW. CHAPTER II. Shewing how Robin Good-fellow carried himselfc, and how he run away from his Mother. [While yet he was a little la]d [And of a tender age,] He us'd much waggish' tricks to men, As they at him would rage. Unto his mbthei* they complain'd, Which grieved her to heare, And for these pranks she threatned him, He should have whipping cheare, If that he did not leave his tricks, , His jeering mocks and mowes; Qouth she, ' Thou vile untutor'd youth, These prankes no breeding shewes: I cannot to the market goe, But ere I backe returne, Thou scofst my neighbours in such sort, Which makes my heart to mourne. But I will make you to repent These things, ere I have done: ... I will no favour have on thee, Although thou beest my sonne.' Robin was griev'd to hear these words, Which she to him did say, But to prevent his punishment, From her he run way. And travelling long upon the way, His hunger being* great, Unto a taylor's house he came, And did entreat some meat: The taylor tooke compassion then Upon this pretty youth, And tooke him for his prentice straight. As I have heard in truth. 362 ROBIN GOODFELLOW. CHAPTER HI. Bow Robin Good-fellow left his Master, and also how Oberon told him he should be turned into what shape he could wish or desire. Now Robin Good-fellow, being plac't With a taylor, as you'heare, He grew a workman in short space, So well he plyM his geare. He had a gowne which must be made, Even with all haste and speed, The maid must have't against next day To be her wedding weed. The taylor he did labour hard Till twelve a clock at night; Betweene him and his servant then They finished aright The gowne, but putting on the sleeves: Quoth he unto his man, ' Be goe to bed: whip oh the sleeves As fast as ere you can.' So Robin straightway takes the gowne And hangs it .on .a pin, Then takes the sleeves and whips the gowne, Till day he nere did lin. His master rising in the. morne, And seeing what he did, Begun to chide; quoth Robin then, ' I doe as I was bid.' His Master then the gowne did take, And to his worke did fall: By that time he had done the same, The maid for it did call. Quoth he to Robin, ' Goe thy wayes And fetch the remnants hither, That yesterday we left,' said he, ' Wee'l breake our fasts together.' Then Robin hies him up the staires And brings the remnants downe, Which he did know his master sav'd Out of the woman's gowne. „„„ ROBIN GOODFELLOW. The taylor he was vext at this; He meant remnants of meat, That this good woman, ere she went, Might there her breakfast eate. Quoth she, ' This is a breakfast good, I tell you, friend, indeed; And to requite your love, I will Send for some drinke with speed.' And Robin he must goe for it With all the speed he may: He takes the pot and money too, And runnes from thence away. When he had wandred all the day, A good way from the towne, Unto a foreste then he came; To sleepe he laid him downe. Then Oberon came, with all his elves, And danc'd about his sonne, With musick pleasing to the eare; And, when that it was done, King Oberon layes a scroule by him, That he might understand Whose sonne he was, and how hee'd grant Whate'er he did demand: To any forme that he did please Himselfe he would translate; And how one day hee'd send for him To see his fairy state. Then Robin longs to know the truth Of this mysterious skill, And turnes himselfe into what shape He thinks upon or will. Sometimes a neighing horse was he, Sometimes a gruntling hog, Sometimes a bird, sometimes a crow, Sometimes a snarling dog. 364 ROBIN GOODFELLOW. CHAPTER IV. How Robin Good-fellow was merry at the Bridehouse. Now Robin having got this art, He oft would make good sport, And hearing of a wedding day, He makes him ready for't. Most like a joviall fidler then He drest himselfe most gay, And goes unto the wedding house, There on his crowd to play. He welcome was unto this feast, And merry they were all; He play'd and sung sweet songs all day, At night to sports did fall. He first did put the candles out, And being in the dark, Some would he strike, and some would pinch, And then sing like a lark. The candles being light againe, And things well and quiet, A goodly posset was brought in To mend their former diet. Then Robin for to have the same Did turn him to a beare; Straight at that sight the people all Did run away for feare. Then Robin did the posset eate, And having serv'd them so, Away goes Robin with all haste, Then laughing hoe, hoe, hoe ! CHAPTER V. Declaring how Bobin Good-fellow served an old lecherous Man. There was an old man had a neece, A very beauteous maid; To wicked lust her unkle sought This faire one to perswade. 365 ROBIN GOODFELLOW. 366 But she a young man lov'd too deare To give consent thereto; 'Twas Robin's chance upon a time To heare their grievous woe. ' Content yourselfe,' then Robin saies, ' And I will ease your griefe, I have found out an excellent way That will yeeld you reliefe.' He sends them to be married straight, And he, in her disguise, Hies home with all the speed he may To blind her uncle's eyes: And there he plyes his work amaine, Doing more in one houre, Such was his skill and workmanship, Than she could doe in foure. The old man wondred for to see The worke goe on so fast, And there withall more worke doth he Unto good Robin cast. Then Robin said to his old man, ' Good uncle, if you please To grant me but one ten pound, I'll yeeld your love-suit ease.' ' Ten pounds,' quoth he, ' I will give thcc, Sweet neece, with all my heart, So thou wilt grant to me thy love, To ease my troubled heart.' ' Then let me a writing have,' quothe he, ' From your owne hand with speed, That I may marry my sweet-heart When I have done this deed.' The old man he did give consent That he these things should have, Thinking that it had bin his neece, That did this bargain crave; And unto Robin then quoth he, ' My gentle n[eece, behold, Goe thou into [thy chamber soone, And He goe [bring the gold,' ROBIN GOODFELLOW. When he into [the chamber came, Thinking in[deed to play, Straight Robin [upon him doth fall, And carries h[im away Into the chambfer where the two Faire lovers [did abide, And gives to th[em their unkle old, I, and the g[old beside. The old man [vainly Robin sought, So man[y shapes he tries; Sometimes he was a hare or hound, Som[etimes like bird he flies. The [more he strove the less he sped, Th[e lovers all did see; And [thus did Robin favour them Full [kind and merrilie. [Thus Robin lived a merry life As any could enjoy, 'Mongst country farms he did resort^ And oft would folks annoy:] But if the maids doe call to him, He still away will goe In knavish sort, and to himselfe He'd laugh out hoe, hoe, hoe! He oft would beg and crave an almes, But take nought that they'd give: In severall shapes he'd gull the world Thus madly did he live. Sometimes a cripple he would seeme, Sometimes a souldier brave: Sometimes a fox, sometimes a hare; Brave pastimes would he have. Sometimes an owle he'd seeme to be, Sometimes a skipping frog; Sometimes a kirne, in Irish shape, To leape ore mire or bog: Sometime he'd counterfeit a voyce, And travellers call astray, Sometimes a walking fire he'd be, And lead them from their way. 367 ROBIN GOODFELLOW. Some call him Robin Good-fellow, Hob -goblin or mad Crisp, And some againe doe tearme him oft By name of Will the Wispe; But call him by what name you list, I have studied on my pillow, I think the best name he deserves Is Robin the Good Fellow. At last upon a summer's night King Oberon found him out, And with his elves in dancing wise Straight circled him about. The fairies danc't, and little Tom Thumb On his bag-pipe did play, And thus they danc't their fairy round Till almost break of day. Then Phebus he most gloriously Begins to grace the aire, "When Oberon with his fairy traine Begins to make repaire, With speed unto the fairy land, They swiftly tooke their way, And I out of my dreame awak't, And so 'twas perfect day. Thus having told my dreame at fulL I'le bid you all farewell. If you applaud mad Robin's prankes, May be ere long I'le tell Some other stories to your eares, Which shall contentment give: To gaine your favours I will seeke The longest day I live. [The following is the ' additional stanza' mentioned in the introductory Note. p. 36". When as my fellow elves and I In circled ring do trip around, If that our sports by any eye Do happen to be seen or found ; If that they No words do say, But mum continue as they go. Each night I do Put groat in shoe, And wind out laughing, ho, ho, ho 1] 368 SBfrtfemrt <&9igg&U<, [This ballad is taken from the reprint, by the Percy Society, of a ' tract in the form of a small 8 vo chap-book, entitled * The pleasant and sweet History of Patient Grissell, shewing how she, from a poore Man's Daughter, came to be a great Lady in France, being a Patterae to all vertuous Women. Translated out of Italian. London : Printed by E. P. for John Wright, dwelling in Giltspur-street at the signe of the Bible. 1 * The date, as we learn from the * Intro- duction' to the reprint, * has unfortunately been cut away ; but it is not, perhaps, older than 1630, although it must have gone through many previous editions,' inasmuch as the title- page bears a representation of ' Queen Elizabeth in her robes, wearing her crown, and sustaining her globe and sceptre ;* and it may consequently be referred to some period of her reign. It consists of eleven chapters, of which the first two and the last two are in prose, and were added, in the opinion of the editor of the reprint, 'for the sake of giving it greater bulk, novelty, and importance.' A black letter broadside, in the British Museum, bears the title, ' An excellent Ballad ofaNoble Marquesse and Fatieitf.Grissell,"To the Tune of ' The Bride's Good-morrow.' --Printed by and for Alex. Mil- bourn, in Green Arbor-Court in the Little Old Bailey.' How the Marquesse of Salusa, riding a Hunting, fell in Love with the faire G rissell. NOBLE Marquesse, As he did ride a hunting Hard by a forest side, A faire and comely maiden, As she did sit a spinning, His gentle eye espide. 2b 369. PATIENT GRISSELL. Most faire and comely, And of comely grace was she, Although in simple attire: She sung, full sweetly, With pleasant yoyce melodiously, Which set the lord's heart on fire. The more he lookt, the more he might; Beauty bred his heart's delight, And to this comely damsell then he went. God speed, quoth he, thou famous flower, Faire mistresse of this homely bower Where love and vertue dwel with sweet content. With comely gesture, . And modest mild behaviour, She bid him welcome then: She entertained him In faithful friendly manner, And all his gentlemen. The noble Marquesse In's heart felt such, a flame Which set his sences at strife: Quoth he, faire maiden, Shew me soone what is thy name, I meane to make thee my wife. Grissell is my name, quoth she, Far unfit for your degree, A silly maiden and of parents poore. Nay, Grissell, thou art rich, he said, A vertuous, faire, and comely maid; Grant me thy love, and I will aske no more. 370 How the Marquesse married faire Grissel, and how the Lords desired him to put her away, because she was of so meane a blood. At length she consented, And being both contented, They married were with speed; Her country russet Was chang'd to silke and velvet, As to her state agreed* And when that she Was trimly tyred in the same, Her beauty shined most bright, Farre staining every Other faire and princely dame That did appeare in her sight. PATIENT GRISSELL. Many envied her therefore, Because she was of parents poore, And 'twixt her lord and she great strife did raise. Some said this, and some said that, And some did call her beggar's brat, And to her lord they would her oft dispraise. O! noble Marquesse, Quoth they, why dost thou wrong us, Thus basely for to wed, That might have gotten An honourable lady Into your princely bed? Who will not now Tour noble issue still deride Which shall hereafter be borne, That are of blood so base Borne by the mother's side? The which will bring them in scorn. Put her, therefore, quite away And take to you a lady gay, Whereby your linage may renowned be. Thus every day they seem'd to prate, That maliced Grissels good estate, Who all this while tooke it most patiently. How the noble Marquesse had two Children by Patient Grissell, how he sent for them, and told her they must be murthered, and of her .patience. When that the Marquesse Did see that they were bent thus Against his faithfull wife, Whom he most dearely, Tenderly and entirely Beloved as his life; Minding in secret For to prove her patient heart, Thereby her foes to disgrace; Thinking to shew her A hard discourteous part, That men might pitty her case. Great with child this lady was, And at last it came to passe, Two goodly children at one birth she had. A son and daughter God had sent, Which did her father wel content, And which did make their mother's heart full glad. g71 PATIENT GRISSELL. Great royall feasting Was at these childrens' christening, And princely triumph made; Six weeks together, All nobles that came thither, "Were entertaind and staid: And when all these pleasant Sporting quite were done, The Marquesse a messenger sent For his young daughter, And his pretty smiling sonne, Declaring his full intent, How that the babes must murthred be; For so the Marquesse did decree. Come let me have the children, then he said. With that faire Grissell wept full sore, She wrung her hands, and said no more, My gracious lord must have bis will obey'd. Of the gret sorrow that Patient Grissel made for her children. She tooke the babies, Even from the nursing ladies, Betweene her tender amies: She often wishes, With many sorrowful kisses, That she might ease their harmes. Farewell, farewell, A thousand times, my children deare, Never shall I see you againe: 'Tis long of me, Your sad and wofull mother here For whose sake both must be slaine. Had I beene borne of royall race, You might have lived in happy case; But you must dye for my unworthinesse. Come, messenger of death (quoth she) Take my dearest babes to thee, And to their father my complaints express©. He tooke the children, And to his noble master He brought them both with speed; Who in secret sent them Unto a noble lady, , 7 To be brought up in deed. PATIENT GRISSELL. Then to faire Grissell With a heavy heart he goes, Where she sate mildly all alone: A pleasant gesture And a lovely looke she shewes, As if no grief e she had knowne. (Qd he) my children now are slaine: What thinks fair Grissel of the same? Sweet Grissel, now declare thy mind to me. Sith you, my lord, are pleased with it, Poore Grissel thinks the action fit: Both I and mine at your command will be. Bow Patient Grissel was parted from the noble Marquesse, and sent to her lather againe, and of a great marriage was prepared the second match of the Marquesse. My nobles murmur, Faire Grissell, at thy honour And I no joy can have, Till thou be banisht Both from the court and presence, As they unjustly crave. Thou must be stript Out of thy stately garments all; And as thou earnest to me, In homely gray, Instead of bisse and purest pall, Now all thy cloathing must be; My lady thou must be no more, Nor I thy lord, which grieves me sore. The poorest life must now content thy mind. A groat to thee I must not give, Thee to maintaine while I doe live; Against my Grissell snch great foes I find. When gentle Grissell Did heare these wofull tidings The teares stood in her eyes, Nothing she answered, No words of discontentment Did from her lips arise. Her velvet gowne Most patiently she stripped off, Her kirtle of silke with the samei Her russet gowne Was brought againe with many a scoffe, To beare them herself she did frame. 373 PATIENT GRISSELL. When she was drest in this array, And was ready to part away, God send long life unto my lord, quoth she, Let no offence be found in this, To give my love a parting kisse. With watery eyes, farewell, my deare, said he. 374 How Patient Grissel was sent for to the wedding, and of her great humility and patience. From princely palace Unto her father's cottage Poore Grissell now is gone. Full sixteene winters She lived there contented; No wrong she thought upon. And at that time through All the land the speeches went, The Marquesse should married he Unto a noble lady great, Of high descent; And to the same all parties did agree. The Marquesse sent for Grissell faire, The brides bed-chamber to prepare, That nothing therein might be found awry. The bride was with her brother come, Which was great joy to all and some; But Grissell tooke all this most patiently. And in the morning, When as they should be wedded, Her patience there was tride: Grissel was charged Herselfe in friendly manner For to attire the bride. Most willingly She gave consent to doe the same; The bride in bravery was drest, And presently The noble Marquesse thither came With all his lords at his request. O! Grissell, I would aske of thee, If to this match thou wilt agree? Methinks thy lookes are waxed wondrous coy. With that they all began to smile, And Grissel she replied the while, God send lo^d Marquesse many years of joy PATIENT GRISSELL. How the Marquesse, being moved with her patience, gave her two children, were friends, and after lived in peace* The Marquesse was moved To see his best beloved Thus patient in distresse. He stept unto her, And by the hand he tooke her; These words he did expresse: — Thou art my bride, And all the bride I meane to have: These two thy own children be. The youthfull lady On her knees did blessing crave, Her brother as well as she. And you that envied her estate, Whom I have made my loving mate, Now blush for shame, and honour vertuous life. The chronicles of lasting fame Shall evermore extol the name Of Patient G-rissel, my most constant wife. [The story of Patient Grissell was first told to English readers by the father of English poetry, in whose delightful • Canterbury Tales' it is given as that of the Clerk of Oxenford. The Clerk, speaking for his creator, says he had heard it from Petrarch at Padua. However this might be, certain it is, that Petrarch was acquainted with the story, for a letter has been preserved, in which he sends Boccaccio a Latin version of it. Whether Boccaccio was pre- viously acquainted with it, or was indebted for it in the first instance to Petrarch, he gave it « place in his Decameron, which indeed is the earliest work in which it has been found. ' The French,' however, ' lay claim to it,' and brought it on the stage in Paris as early as 1393. (Warton, Hist. Eng. Poetry, ii. 251 ; edit. 1824,) and the Germans in 1550. It was also made the foundation of a * Pleasant Comodie,' by Dekker, Chettle, and Haughton, which was edited, a few years ago, for the Shakespeare Society, by J. P. Collier, Esq., to whose ' Introduction' we must refer the reader who desires farther information respecting it.) 375 [This ballad is taken from the reprint, for the Percy Society, under the editorial care of J. P. Collier, Esq., of a black-letter tract, * Printed at London, by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Francis Grove, dwelling upon Snow- hill, 1640,' the title of which, as given by Mr. Collier, is as follows :-— ' The King and a Poore Northerne Man. Shewing how a Poore Northumberland Man, a Tenant to the King, being wronged by a Lawyer, (his Neighbour, ) went to the King himself to make knowne his Grievances. Full of simple mirth and merry plaine jests.' No older edition is known, according to Mr. Collier ; nor any other copy of that from which he printed. There is, however, as mentioned by him, a broadside in Bagford's Collection, in the British Museum, entitled ' The King and Northern Man,' printed *by"W. O., and to be sold by the Book- sellers in Pye Corner and London Bridge.* And since Mr. Collier's reprint was made, the Roxburghe Collection of Ballads has been added to the same national repository, in which collection is another copy, also in broadside, and in black-letter, the title of which varies but little from that given above. The ballad is therein directed to be sung ' to the tune of Slut ;' and is ' printed by and for Alex. Milbourn, at the Stationer's Arms in Green Arbor- court, in the Little Old Bailey.' For some information re- specting the story and the authorship of the ballad, the reader is referred to the Note, p. 387.] OME hearken to me all around, And I will tell you a merry tale Of a Northumberland man that held some ground, Which was the King's land, in a dale. A POORE NORTHERNE MAN. He was borne and bred thereupon, And his father had dwelt there long before, Who kept a good house in that country, And staved the wolfe from off his doore. Now for this farm the good old man Just twenty shillings a-year did pay. At length came cruell death with his dart, And this old farmer he soone did slay; Who left behind him an aulde wife then, That troubled was with mickle paine, And with her cruches she walkt about, For she was likewise blinde and lame. When that his corpes were laid in the grave, His eldest sonne possesse did the farme, At the same rent as the father before: He took great paines and thought no harme. By him there dwelt a Lawyer false, That with his farme was not content, But over the poore man still hang'd his nose, Because he did gather the King's rent. This farme Iayd by the Lawyer's land, Which this vild kerne had a mind unto: The deele a good conscience had he in his bulke, That sought this poore man for to undoe. He told him he his lease had forfite, And that he must there no longer abide: The King by such lownes hath mickle wrong done, And for you the world is broad and wide. The poore man prayM him for to cease, And content himselfe, if he would be willing; And picke no vantage in my lease, And I will give thee forty shilling. Its neither forty shillings, no forty pound, Ise warrant thee, so can agree thee and me, Unlesse thou yield me thy farme so round, And stand unto my curtesie. The poore man said he might not do sa; His wife and his bearnes will make him ill warke. If thou wilt with my farme let me ga, Thou seemes a good fellow, Ise give thee five marke. THE KING AND The Lawyer would not be so content, But farther in the matter he means to smell. The neighbours bad the poore man provide his rent, And make a submission to the King himselL This poore man now was in a great stond, His senses they were almost wood: I thinke, if he had not tooke grace in 's mind, That he would never againe beene good. His head was troubled in such a bad plight, As though his eyes were apple gray; And if good learning he had not tooke, He wod a cast himselfe away. A doughty heart he then did take, And of his mother did blessing crave, Taking farewell of his wife and bearnes; It earned his heart them thus to leave. Thus parting with the teares in his eyne, His bob-taild dog he out did call: Thou salt gang with me to the King: And so he tooke his leave of them all. He had a humble staffe on his backe, A jerkin, I wat, that was of gray, With a good blue bonnet, he thought it no lacke; To the King he is ganging as fast as he may He had not gone a mile out o' th' toone, But one of his neighbours he did espy:- How far ist to th' King? for thither am I boone As fast as ever I can hye. I am sorry for you, neighbour, he sayd, For- your simplicity I make mone: Ise warrant you, you may ask for the King, When nine or ten dayes journey you have gone. Had I wist the King wond so farre, Ise neere a sought him a mile out o'th' toone: Hes either a sought me, or wee'd neere a come nare; At home I had rather spent a crowne. Thus past he alang many a weary mile, In raine, and wet, and in foule mire, That ere he came to lig in his bed, 378 His dog and he full ill did tire. A POORE NORTHERNE MAN. Hard they did fare their charges to save, But alas hungry stomackes outcrie for meate, And many a sup of cold water they dranke, When in the lang way they had nought to eate. Full lile we know his hard griefe of mind, And how he did long London to ken; And yet he thought he should finde it at last, Because he met so many men. At length the top of kirkes he spide, And houses so thicke that he was agast: I thinke, quoth he, their land is full deere, For there's nought that here lies wast. Tut when he came into the city of London, Of every man for the King he did call. They told him that him he neede not feare, For the King he lies now at Whitehall. For Whitehall he then made inquire; But as he passed strange geere he saw: The bulkes with such gue gaws were dressed, That his mind a tone side it did draw. , Gud God, unto himselfe he did say, What a deele a place I am come unto! Had a man, I thinke, a thousne pounds in's purse, . Himselfe he might quickly here undoe. At night then a lodging him a got, And for his supper he then did pay: He told the host then heed goe lig in his bed, Who straight took a candle and shewd him the way. Then with spying of farlies in the citie, Because he had never been there beforne, He lee so long a bed the next day, The Court was remov'd to Windsor that morno. You ha laine too long then, then said his host, Tou ha laine too long, by a great while: The King is now to Windsor gone; He's farther to seeke by twenty mile. I thinke I was curst, then said the poore man; If I had been wise I might ha consider: Belike the King of me has gotten some weet: He had neere gone away had not I come hither. 379 THE KING ANL He fled not for you, said the hoste; But hie you to Windsor as fast as you may: Be sure it will requite your cost, For looke, what's past the King will pay. But when he came at Windsor Castle, With his bumble staff upon his backe, Although the gates wide open stood, He layd on them till he made um cracke. Why, stay! pray friend, art mad? quoth the Porter, What makes thee keepe this stirre to day? Why, I am a tenant of the Kings, And have a message to him to say. The King has men enough, said the Porter, Your message well that they can say. Why, there's neere a knave the King doth keepe, Shall ken my secret mind to day. I were told, ere I came from home, Ere I got thither it would be dear bought: Let me in, Ise give thee a good single penny, I see thou wilt ha small, ere thou't doe for nought. Gramercy, said the Porter then, Thy reward's so great, I cannot say nay. Yonder's a Nobleman within the court, He first heare what he will say. When the Porter came to the Nobleman, He sayd he would shew him a pretty sport: There's sike a clowne come to the gate as came not this seven yeares to the Court. He cals all knaves the King doth keepe; He raps at the gates and makes great din; He's passing liberall of reward; Heed give a good single penny to be let in. Let him in, sayd the Nobleman. Come in, fellow, the Porter gan say: If thou come within thy selfe, he sayde, Thy staffe behind the gate must stay. And this cuckolds curre must lig behind: What a deele, what a cut hast got with thee. The King will take him up for his owne sel, 380 Ise warrant, when as he him doth see. A POORE NORTHERNE MAN. Beshrew thy limbes, then said the poore man; Then mayst thou count me foole or worse. I wat not what banckrout lies by the King; For want of money he may picke my purse. • That's to be fear'd, the Porter said, Ise wish you goe in well armed; For the King he hath got mickle company, And among them all you may soone be harmed. Let him in with his stafi'e and his dog, said the Lord, And with that he gave a nod with's head, and beck with's knee; If you be Sir King, then said the poore man, As I can very well thinke you be; For I was told ere I came from home You're the goodliest man ere I saw beforne, With so many jingle jangles about ones necke As is about yours, I never saw none. I am not the King, said the Nobleman, Fellow, although I have a proud coat. If you be not the King, helpe me to the speech of him, You seeme a good fellow, Ise gi you a groat. Gramercy, said the Nobleman, The reward's so great, I cannot say nay. He go know the Kings pleasure, if I can; Till I come againe be sure thou stay. Heres sike a staying, then said the poore man; Belike the King's better than any in our countrey; I might be gone to th' farthest nuke i' th' house, Neither lad nor lowne to trouble me. When the Nobleman came to the King, He said he would shew his Grace good sport : Heres such a clowne come to the gate, As came not this seven yeares to the Court. He cals all knaves your Highnesse keepes, And more than that, he termes them worse. Heele not come in without his staffe and his dogge, For fare some bankrout will picke his purse. Let him in with his staffe and his dog, said our King, That of his sport we may see some. Weele see how heele handle everything, As soone as the match of bowles is done. 38 1 THE KING AND The Nobleman led him through many a roome, And through many a gallery gay. What a deele doth the King with so many toome houses, That he gets um not flld with corne and hay? What gares these babies and babies all? Some ill have they done that they hang by the walls : And staring aloft at the golden roofe toppe, At a step he did stumble, and downe he falles. Stand up, good fellow, the Nobleman sayd; What, art thou drunke or blind, I trow? Ise neither am blinde nor drunke, he sed, Although, in my sowle, you oft are so. It is a disease, said the Lord againe, That many a good man is troubled withall. Quoth the Country man then, yet I made your proud stones To kisse my backeside, though they gave me a fall. At last they spide the King in an ally, Yet from his game he did not start; The day was so hot, he cast off his doublet; He had nothing from the wast up but his shirt. Loe, yonder's the King, said the Nobleman, Behold, fellow, loe, where he goes. Beleevet hee's some unthrift, sayes the poore man, That has lost his money and pawnd his cloathes. How hapt he hath gat neere a coate to his backe? This bowling I like not; it hath him undone. Ise warrant that fellow in those gay cloathes, He hath his coyne and his doublet won. But when he came before the King, The Nobleman did his curtesie: The poore man followed after him, And gave a nod with his head and a beeke with his knee. If you be Sir King, then said the poore man, As I can hardly thinke you be, Here is a gude fellow that brought me hither, Is liker to be the King than ye. I am the King, his Grace now sayd, Fellow, let me thy cause understand. , If you be Sir King, Ime a tenant of yours, That was borne and upbrought within your owne lande. oo2 A POORE NORTHERNE MAN. There dwels a Lawyer hard by me, And a fault in my lease he sayes he hath found; And all was for felling five poore ashes, To build a house upon my owne ground. Hast thou a lease here? said the King, Or canst thou shew to me the deed? He put it into the King's owne hand, And said, Sir, 'tis here, if that you can read. Why, what if I cannot? said our King, That which I cannot, another may. I have a boy of mine owne not seven yeares old, A will read you as swift as yould run i' th' highway. Lets see thy lease, then said our King. Then from his blacke boxe he puld it out. He gave it into the Kings owne hand, With four or five knots tj^d fast in a clout. Wast neere unloose these knots? said the King: He gave it to one that behind him did stay. It is a proud horse, then said the poore man, Will not carries owne provinder along the highway. Pay me forty shillings, as Ise pay you, I will not thinke much to unloose a knot: I would I were so occupied every day; Ide unloose a score on um for a groat. When the King. had gotten these letters to read, And found the truth was very so; I warrant thee, thou hast not forfeit thy lease, If that thou hadst felld five ashes moe. I, every one can warrant me, But all your warrants are not worth a flea, For. he that troubles me and will not let me goe, Neither cares for warrant of you nor me. The Lawyer he is sike a crafty elfe, A will make a foole of twenty such as me, And if that I said gang hang mysel, Ise trow, he and I sud neere agree. For he's too wise for all our towne, And yet we ha got crafty knaves beside. Heele undoe me and my wife and bearnes : Alas, that ever I saw this tide! 383 THE KING AND Thoust have an injunction, said our King; From troubling of thee he will cease: Heele either shew thee a good cause why, Or else heele let thee live in peace. What's that injunction? said the poore man, Good sir, to me I pray you say. Why, it is a letter He cause to be written; But art thru as simple as thou shewest for to day? Why, ift. be a letter, Ime neere the better; Keep't to yourselfe and trouble not me. I could a had a letter cheaper written at home, And neere a come out of mine owne countrey. Thoust have an attachment, said our King; Charge all thou seest to take thy part. Till he pay thee an hundred pound, Be sure thou never let him start. A, wais me! the poore man saide then; You ken no whit what you now do say. A won undoe me a thousand times, Ere he such a mickle of money will pay. And more than this, there's no man at all That dares anongst him for to lift a hand, For he has got so much guile in his budget That he will make all forfeit their land. It any seeme against thee to stand, Be sure thou come hither straight way. A, marry, is that all Ise get for my labour? Then I may come trotting every day. Thou art hard a beleefe, then said our King: To please him with letters he was right willing. I see you have taken great paines in writing, With all my heart lie give you a shilling. He have none of thy shilling, said our King; Man, with thy money God give thee win. He threw it into the Kings bosome; The money lay cold next to his skin. Beshrew thy heart, then said our King; Thou art a carle something too bold: Dost thou not see I am hot with bowling? 384 The money next to my skin lies cold. A POORE NORTHERNE MAN. I neere wist that before, said the poore man Before sike time as I came hither. If the Lawyers in our countrey thought 'twas cold, They would not heape up so much together. The King called up his Treasurer, And bad him fetch him twenty pound. If ever thy errant lye here away, He beare thy charges up and downe. When the poore man saw the gold tendred, For to receive it he was willing. If I had thought the King had so mickle gold, Beshrew my heart, Ide a kept my shilling. Now farewell, good fellow, quoth the King, See that my command you well doe keepe; And when that the Lawyer you have in your hands, Looke that he doe pay you before he doe sleepe. Gods benison light on your soule, then he sayd, And send you and yours where ever you gang: If that I doe ever meete with your fewd foes, Ise sweare by this stafie that their hide I won bang. And farewell, brave lads now, unto you all; I wod all may win and neane of you leese. Haude; take this same tester, among you awe; I ken that you courtiers do all looke for fees. Thus with a low courtsie of them he tooke leave, Thinking from the court to take his way; But some of the gentlemen then of the Kings Would needs invite him at dinner to stay. A little entreaty did soone serve his turne: A thought himsel as good a man as them all. But where (quoth he) sail I have this same feast? Then straightway they ushered him into the hall. Such store of ches ». meare. THE KING AND A POORE NORTHERNE MAN. Credit! nay thats it the King forbad; He bad, if I got thee, I should thee stay. The Lawyer payd him an hundred pound In ready money, ere he went away. "Would every Lawyer were served thus! From troubling poore men they would cease: They'd either show them a good cause why^ Or else they'd let them live in peace. And thus I end my merry tale, Which shews the plain man's simplenesse, And the Kings great mercy in righting his wrongs, And the Lawyers fraud and wickednesse. M. P. [The. initials, M. P., which, as will be seen* are appended to this ballad, were intended, in the opinion of Mr. Collier, to make the reader suppose that it was written by Martin Parker, the celebrated and popular ballad-maker; though he regards, the story as ' much older than 1640.' -It was known of old, by the name of ' Too Good to be True,' as Mr. Collier shows by reference to Henslowe's Diary, (since edited by him for the Shakespeare Society, vide pp. 204, 6, 7,) and the second of two stanzas at the commencement of the Bagford broadside mentioned above, in which the ' book* from which the author professes to have taken the history,' is called ' The Second Lesson, too good to be true.* Those stanzas are as follows :— * To drive away the weary day, A book I chanc'd to take in hand, And therein I read assuredly A story, as you shall understand. Perusing many a history over, Amongst the leaves I chanc'd to view The books name, and the title is this. The Second Lesson, too good to be true' 'Lessons,* as Mr. Collier remarks, was the title of the several divisions of collections of I-opular histories. } 337 IE i)%fi$'£Sttff« 388 ffij- [This ballad ia taken from * The Crown Garland of Golden Roses/ Fart II., as reprinted, by the Percy Society, from the rare edition of 1659 ; the author of which was Richard John- son, mentioned, p. 490, as the author of ' The Seven Cham- pions of Christendom.' The full title of it is as follows :— * The story of 111 May-Day in the time of King Henry the Eighth, and why it was so called : and how Queen Katherine begged the lives of Two Thousand London 'Prentices. To the tune of ( Essex's Good Night." It was inserted in the * Collection of Old Ballads,' London, 1723 ; in Evans's ' Old Ballads/ and in ( Songs of the London 'Prentices/ which has also been reprinted by the Percy Society. It is stated in Evans to be founded on a fact which happened on the May-eve of the year 1517, the 8th of Henry the Eighth's reign, of which he gives a detailed account, a summary of which will be found in tho note, p. 392. The reader of < The Fortunes of Nigel* will not fail to recognise in Jin Vin and his fellows the worthy successors of the London 'Prentices of ' HI May- Day.'] ERUSE the stories of this land, And with advisement mark the same ; And you shall justly understand How ill May-day first got the name. For when King Henry Eighth did reign, And ruPd our famous kingdom here ; His royal queen he had from Spain, "With whom he hVd full many a year. ILL MAY-DAT. Queen Katherine named, as stories tell, Sometime his elder brother's wife, By which unlawful marriage fell An endless trouble during life. But such kind love he still conceiVd Of his fair queen, and of her friends, Which being by Spain and France perceiv'd, Their journeys fast for England bends. And with good leave were suffered Within our kingdom here to stay ; Which multitudes made victuals dear, And all things else from day to day. For strangers then did so increase, By reason of King Henry's queen; And privilege in many a place To dwell, as was in London seen. Poor tradesmen had small dealing then, And who but strangers bore the bell? Which was a grief to Englishmen, To see them here in London dwell. Wherefore, God wot, upon May Eve, As prentices on maying went, Who made the magistrates believe At all to have no other intent. But such a May-game it was known, As like in London never were, For by the same full many a one, With loss of life did pay full dear. For thousands came with Bilboa blade, As with an army they could meet ; And such a bloody slaughter made, Of foreign strangers in the street. That all the channels ran down with blood In every street where they remain'd ; Yea, every one in danger stood, That any of their part maintain' d. The rich, the poor, the old, the young, Beyond the seas though born and bred, By prentices there suffered wrong, When armed thus they gathered head. 389 ILL MAY DAY. Such multitudes together went, No warlike troops could them withstand ; Nor yet by policy them prevent, What they by force thus took in hand : Till at the last King Henry's power This multitude encompass' d round, Where with the strength of London's tower, They were by force suppress' d and bound. And hundreds hang'd, by martial law, On sign-posts at their master's doors, By which the rest were kept in awe, And frighted from such loud uproars. And others which the fact repented; (Two thousand prentices at last), Were all unto the king presented, As mayors and magistrates thought best. With two and two together tied, Through Temple-Bar and Strand they go, To Westminster, there to be tried, With ropes about their necks also. But such a cry in every street Till then was never heard nor known, By mothers for their children sweet, Unhappily thus overthrown. Whose bitter moans and sad laments Possess the court with trembling fear; Whereat the queen herself relents, Though it concern'd her country dear. What if, quoth she, by Spanish blood Have London's stately streets been wet, Yet will I seek this country's good, A.nd pardon for these young men get. Or else the world will speak of me, And say Queen Katherine was unkind ; And judge me still the cause to be, These young men did these fortunes find. And so, disrob'd from rich attires, With hair hang'd down, she sadly hies, And of her gracious lord requires, A boon, which hardly he denies. " The lives," (quoth she), " of all the hlooms Yet budding green, these youths I crave ; 0, let them not have timeless tombs, For natuTe longer limits gave !" In saying so, the pearled tears Fell trickling from her princely eyes, "Whereat his gentle queen he cheers, And says, " Stand up, sweet lady, rise ! The lives of them I freely give, No means this kindness shall debar, Thou hast thy boon, and they may live To serve me in my Boulogne war." No sooner was this pardon given, But peals of joy rung through the hall, As though it thunder'd down from heaven, The queen's renown amongst them all. For which, (kind queen), with joyful heart, She gave to them both thanks and praise, And so from them did gently part, And hVd beloved all her* days : And when King Henry stood in need Of trusty soldiers at command, These prentices proVd men indeed, And fear'd no foes of warlike band. For at the siege of Tours, in France, They showed themselves brave Englishmen : At Boulogne too they did advance Saint George's lusty standard then. Let Tourenne, Tournay, and those towns That good King Henry nobly won, Tell London's prentices' renowns, And of their deeds by them were done. For ill May-day, and ill May-games, Perform' d in young and tender days, Can be no hindrance to their fames, Or strains of manhood any ways, But now it is ordain'd by law, We see on May-day's eve at night, To keep unruly youths in awe, By London's watch in armour bright. 391 ILL MAY-DAY. Still to prevent the like misdeed, Which once through headstrong young men came; And that's the cause that I do read, May-day doth get so ill a name. [The following is a summary of the account, mentioned in the Introductory Note as being given In EvanB'B ' Old Ballads/ of the * fact' upon which this ballad is founded. Two apprentices of London, playing in the streets about eleven o'clock on the May-eve of the year 1517, in contraven- tion of an order issued some time previously, requiring all persons to be within doors by nine at night, the alderman of the ward came to arrest them. The apprentices resisted, and by their cries brought so many of their fellows to their assistance, that the alderman was forced to fly. Encou- raged by this, and by the increase of their numbers, they hastened to the prisons, and delivered those who had been committed for abusing strangers ; many of whom were at that time settled in England, with particular privileges, to the injury, as was then thought, of the native inhabitants. The Lord Mayor and Sheriffs being unable to restrain them by persuasion or force, they made a furious rush to the house of a very rich foreigner, whom, as he was a great trader, they particu- larly hated, broke open his doors, killed every one they met with there, and rifled all the goods ; and in other places they committed divers outrages. At length the Earls of Shrewsbury and Surrey, with the assistance of the inns of court men , cleared the streets of the rioters, and took numbers of them prisoners. Two hundred and seventy-eight were found guilty ; but, through the intercession of Queen Katherine, not above twelve or fifteen suffered death, the remainder being ordered to appear before the King at Westminster, in white shirts, and halters about their necks ; whom the King eventually pardoned.] 392 Sfc* 58*to M ffiamwgo [From ' Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads.' Printed by the Percy Society, under the editorship of Mr. Dixon, 1815.] The bonny heir, and the weel-faur'd heir And the wearie heir o' Linne, Yonder he stands at his father's yetts, And naebody bids him come in. O! see for he gangs, an' see for he stands, The wearie heir o' Linne; 0! see for he stands on the cauld casey, And nae an' bids him come in. But if he had been his father's heir, Or yet the heir o' Linne; He woldna stand on the cauld casey, Some an' wad taen him in. Sing ower again that sang, nourice, The sang ye sang just noo; I never sang a sang i' my life, But I wad sing ower to you. O! see for he gangs, an' see for he stands, The weary heir o' Linne; O! see for he stands on the cauld casey, An' nae an' bids him come in. But if he had been his father's heir, Or yet the heir o' Linne ; He wadna stand on the cauld casye, Some ane wad taen him in. When his father's lands a sellin' were, His claise lay weel in fauld, But now he wanders on the shore, Baith hungry, weet, and cauld. As Willie he gaed down the toun, The gentlemen were drinkin'; Some bade gie Willie a glass, a glass, And some bade him gie nane; Some bade gie Willie a glass, a glass, The weary heir o' Linne. 393 THE HEIR OF LINNE. As Willie he cam' up the toun, The fishers were a sittin'; Some bade gie Willie a fish, a fish, Some bade gie him a fin; Some bade gie him a fish, a fish, And let the palmer gang. He turned him richt and roun' about, As will as a. woman's son; And taen his cane into his hand, And on his way to Linne. His nourrice at her window look'd, Beholding dale and down, And she beheld this distress'd young man Come walkin' to the town. Come here, come here, Willie, she said, [ And set yoursel' wi me; r I hae seen you in better days, And in jovial companie. Gie me a sheave o' your bread, nourrice, • And a bottle o' your wine, And I'll pay you it a' ower again, When I'm the laird o' Linne. Ye'se got a sheave o' my bread, Willie, And a bottle o' my wine, An' ye'll pay me when the sea's gang dry, But ye'll ne'er be heir o' Linne. Then he turned him richt and roun' about, As will as a woman's son; And aff he set, and'bent his way, And straightway came to Linne. But when he came to that castle. They were set down to dine;. A score o' nobles there he saw, Sat drinking a,t the wine. Then some bad' gie bjm beef, the beer, And some bad' gie him the bane; And some bad' -gie him naething at a', But let the palmer gang. ■■I THE HEIR OF LINNE. Then out it speake the new came laird, A saucie word spak' he; Put roun' the cup, gie my rival a sup, Lat him fare on his way. Then out it speaks Sir Ned Magnew, Ane o' young Willie's kin; This youth was ance a sprightlie boy As ever lived in Linne. He turned him richt and roun' about, As will as a woman's son; Then minded him on a little wee key, That his mither left to him. His mither left him this little wee' key A little before she deed; And bad' him keep this little wee kee Till he was in maist need. Then forth he went, an' these nobles left, A' drinkin' in the room; Wi' walkin' rod intill his land, He walked the castle roun'. There he found out a little door, For there the wee key slippit in; An' there he got as muckle red gowd As freed the lands o' Linne. Back through the nobles then he went, A saucie man was then; 111 tak' the cup frae this new-come laird, For he ne'er bad' me sit doun. Then out it speaks the new-come laird, He spak' wi' mock an' jeer, I'd gie a seat to the laird o' Linne^ Sae be that he were here. When the lands o' Linne a sellin' were, A' men said they were free; This lad shall hae them frae me this day If he'll gie the third pennie. I tak' ye witness, nobles a', Gude witnesses yell be; I'm promis'd the lands o' Linne this day, If I gie the third pennie. 395 THE HEIR OF LINNE. TeVe taen us witnesses, Willie, they said, Gude witnesses we'll be; Buy the lands o' Linne who likes, They'll ne'er be bought by thee. He's done him to a gamin' table, For it stood fair and clean ; There he tauld doun as much rich gowd As freed the lands o' Linne. Thus having done, he turn'd about, A saucie man was he; Tak' up your monie, my lad, he says, Tak' up your third pennie. Aft hae I gane wi' barefeet cauld, Likewise wi' legs fu' bare; And mony day walked at these yetts Wi' muckle dool an' care. But now my sorrow's past and gane, And joy's returned to me; And here I've gowd enough forbye, Ahin' this third pennie. As Willie he gaed doun the toun, There he craw'd wonderous crouse; He ca'd the may afore them a', The nourrice o' the house. Come here, come here, my nurse, he says, I'll pay your bread and wine; Seas ebb and flow as they wont to do, Yet I'm the laird o' Linne. An' he gaed up the Gallowgate port, His hose aboon his shoon; But lang ere he came down again Was convoyed by lords fifteen. 396 Ife SfftSMXlfctHfFs! ffisj&aisjg. IN THREE PARTS. First, giving an account of a gentleman's having a wild son, and who, foreseeing he would come to poverty, had a cottage built with one door to it, always kept fast ; and how, on his dying bed, he charged him not to open it till he was poor and slighted, which the young man promised he would perform. Secondly, of the young man's pawning bis estate to a vintner, who, when poor kicked him out of doors; when, thinking it time to see his legacy, he broke open the cottage door, where, instead of money, he found a gibbet and halter, which he put round his neck and jumping off the stool, the gibbet broke, and a thousand pou.ids came down upon his head, which lay hid in the ceiling. Thirdly, of his redeeming his estate, and fooling the vintaer out of two hundred pounds; who, for being jeered by his neighbours, cut bis own throat. And lasOy, of the young man's reformation. Very proper to be read by all who are civen to drunkenness. , - . [From • Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England.' Edited, for tha Percy Society, by J. H. Dixon, Esq.] Young people all, I pray draw near, And listen to my ditty here; Which subject shews that drunkenness Brings many mortals to distress. As, for example, now I can Tell you of one, a gentleman, Who had a very good estate, His earthly travails they were great. We understand he had one son Who a lewd wicked race did run; He daily spent his father's store, When moneyless, he came for more. The father, oftentimes with tears, Would this alarm sound in his ears; Son! thou dost all my comfort blast And thou wilt come to want at last. The son these words did little mind, To cards and dice he was inclined; Feeding his drunken appetite In taverns, which was his delight. The father, ere it was too late, He had a project in his pate, Before his aged days were run, To make provision for his son. gg? THE DRUNKARD'S LEGACY. Near to his house, we understand, He had a waste plat of land, Which did but little profit yield, On which he did a cottage build. The Wise-Man's Project was its name, There were few windows in the same; Only one door, substantial thing, Shut by a lock, went by a spring. Soon after he had played this trick, It was his lot for to fall sick; As on his bed he did lament, Then for his drunken son he sent. He shortly came to his bed-side; Seeing his son, he thus replied: I have sent for you to make my will, Which you must faithfully fulfil. In such a cottage is one door, Ne'er open it, do thou be sure, Until thou art so poor, that all Do then despise you, great and small. For, to my grief, I do perceive, When I am dead, this life you live Will soon melt all thou hast away; Do not forget these words, I pray. When thou hast made thy friends thy foes, Pawned all thy lands, and sold thy clothes; Break ope the door, and there depend To find something thy griefs to end. Thus having spoke, the son did say, Your dying words I will obey. Soon after this his father dear Did die, and buried was, we hear. PART H. Now, pray observe the second part, And you shall hear his sottish heart; He did the tavern so frequent, Till he three hundred pounds had spent. THE DRUNKARD'S LEGACY. This being done, we understand, He pawned the deeds of all his land Unto a tavern-keeper, who, When poor did him no favour shew. For to fulfil his father's will, He did command this cottage still: At length great sorrow was his share,, Quite moneyless, with garments bare. Being not able for to work, He in the tavern there did lurk; From box to box, among rich men, Who oftentimes reviled him then. To see him sneak so up and down, The vintner on him he did frown; And one night kicked him out of door, Charging him to come there no more. He in a stall did lie all night, In this most sad and wretched plight; Then thought it was high time to see His father's promised legacy. Next morning, then, opprest with woe, This young man got an iron crow, And, as in tears he did lament, Unto this little cottage went. When he the door had open got, This poor, distressed, drunken sot, Who did for store of money hope, He saw a gibbet and a rope. Under this rope was placed a stool, Which made him look just like a fool; Crying, Alas! what shall I do? Destruction now appears in view. As my father foresaw this thing, What sottishness to me would bring; As moneyless, and free of grace, His legacy I will embrace. So then, opprest with discontent, Upon the stool he sighing went, And then his precious life to check, Did place the rope about his neck. 399 THE DRUNKARD'S LEGACY. Crying, Thou God, who sitt'st on high, And on my sorrow casts an eye; Thou knowest that I've not done well, — Preserve my precious soul from hell. 'Tis true the slighting of thy grace, Has brought me to this wretched case; And as through folly I'm undone, I'll now eclipse my morning sun. When he with sighs these words had spoke, Jumped off, and down the gibbet broke; In falling, as it plain appears, Dropt down about this young man's ears, In shining gold, a thousand pound! Which made the blood his ears surround: Though in amaze, he cried, I'm sure This golden salve will cure the sore. Blest be my father, then, he cried, Who did this part for me so hide; And while I do alive remain, I never will get drunk again. PART m. Now, by the third part you shall hear, This young man, as it doth appear, With care he then secured his chink, And to this vintner's went to drink. When the proud vintner did him see, He frowned on him immediately, And said, Begone ! or else with speed, I'll kick thee out of doors, indeed. Smiling, the young man he did say, Thou cruel knave! tell me, I pray, As I have here consumed my store, How durst thou kick me out of door? To me thou hast been too severe; The deeds of eight- score pounds a-year, I pawned them for three hundred pounds, 400 That I spent here; — why make such frowns? THE DRUNKARD'S LEGACY. The vintner said unto him, Sirrah! Bring me one hundred pounds to-morrow, By nine o'clock, — take them again, So get you out of doors till then. He answered, If this chink I bring, I fear thou wilt do no such thing. He said, I'll give under my hand, A note that I to this will stand. Having the note, away he goes, And straightway went to one of those That made drink when moneyless, And did the truth to him confess. They both went to this heap of gold, And in a bag he fairly told A thousand pounds, in yellow-boys, And to the tavern went their ways. This bag they on the table set, Making the vintner for to fret, He said, Young man, this will not do, For I was but in jest with you. So then bespoke the young man's friend, Vintner! thou mayest sure depend, In law this note it will you cast, And he must have his land at last. This made the vintner to comply; He fetched the deeds immediately. He had one hundred pounds, and then The young man got his deeds again. At length the vintner 'gan to think How he was fooled out of his chink; Said, When 'tis found how I came off, My neighbours will me game and scoff. So to prevent their noise and clatter, The vintner he, to mend the matter, In two days after, it doth appear, He cut his throat from ear to ear. Thus he untimely left the world, That to this young man proved a churL Now he who followed drunkenness, Lives sober and doth lands possess. 2d 401 THE DRUNKARD'S LEGACY. Instead of wasting of his store As formerly, resolves no more To act the same, but does, indeed, Relieve all those that are in need. Let all young men, now, for my sake, Take care how they such havoc make; For drunkenness, you plain may see, Had like his ruin for to be. 3h® m©fe mir Edmm®, / li'" II life ■- #^S?° .-■<■ 'jJT^lJ 1&'\ 0< 4FB [This ballad is taken from " Songs and Ballads rela- tive to the London Prentices and Trades,' &c, edited for the Percy Society by Charles Mackay, Esq. ' It would appear/ says Mr. Mackay, ' to have been first published at Edinburgh, in 1683, in a small duodecimo tract of twenty-four pages, and has since been (very incorrectly; printed in the first volume of the Harleian Miscellany. The local allusions are interesting at this distance of time, and the satire is of such a character as never to be ont of date. The idea seems to have been suggested by Lydgate's ballad of ' London Lack- penny/ '] HAVE been quite through England wide With many a faint and weary stride, To see what people there abide That love me, Poor Robin Conscience is my name, Sore vex^d with reproach and blame, For all wherever yet I came Reprove me. 437 ROBIN CONSCIENCE. 438 Few now endure my presence here, I shall be banishd quite I fear, I am despised every where, And scorned, Tet is my fortune now and then To meet some good woman or man, "Who have, when they my woes did scan, Sore mourned. To think that Conscience is despised, Which ought to be most highly prized, This trick the devil hath devised To blind men, 'Cause Conscience tells them of their ways, Which are so wicked now-a-days, They stop their ears to what he says;— Unkind men! I first of all went to the court, Where lords and ladies did resort, My entertainment there was short; — Cold welcome! As soon as e'er my name they heard, They ran away full sore afeard, And thought some goblin had appeard, From hell come. •Conscience,' quoth one, 'begone with speed, The court few of thy name doth breed, We of thy presence have no need; — Be walking;— Thou tellst us of our pride and lust, Which spite of thee we follow must.' So out of court was Conscience thrust, No talking. Thus banished from the court, I went To Westminster incontinent, Where I, alas, was sorely shent For coming; The lawyers did against me plead; ' 'Twas no great matter,' some there said, 'If Conscience quite were knocked in th' head.' Then running EOBIN CONSCIENCE. From them I fled with winged haste; They did so threaten me to baste, Thought it was vain my breath to waste In counsel. For lawyers cannot me abide, Because for falsehood I them chide, And he that holds sot on their side Must down still. Unto the city hied I then, To try what welcome there tradesmen Would give poor Robin Conscience; when I came there, The shop-keepers that use deceit Did come about me and did threat, Unless I would begone, to beat Me lame there And every one, both high and low, Held Conscience as a mortal foe. Because he doth ill vices show Each minute. Therefore the city in uproar Against me rose, and me so tore That I'm resolved I'H never more Come in it. On Friday I to Smithfield went, Where being come, incontinent The horse-coursers with one consent Did chide me; They said that I was not myself, And said I was a pinching elf, And they could get more store of pelf, Beside me. I told them of a cheating trick Which makes the horses run and kick, By putting in an eel that's quick I'th' belly; Another which they use full aft To bear their lame jades' heads aloft, And beat their buttocks till they're soft As jelly. 439 ROBIN CONSCIENCE. I told them that their wealth would rot, That they by cheating men thus got, But they for this same tale would not Abide me, And charged me quickly to begone; Quoth they, ' Of Conscience we use none;' Those whom I follow with my mone Out- ride me. From thence I stept into Long Lane, Where many brokers did remain, To try how they would entertain Poor Conscience But my name when I to them told, The women did begin to scold, The men said they that word did hold But nonsense. For Conscience is so hard a word That scarce the broker can afford To read it, for his mouth is stored With lying; He knows not what this Conscience means, That is no cause unto his gains; Thus I was scorned for my pains; All crying, ' Away with Conscience from this lane, For we his presence do disdain:' — They said if I came there again Among them, They said they'd band me back and side; Being menaced, away I hied; Thus wordlings think that, when I chide, I wrong them. Among the butchers then went I: As soon as e'er they did me spy, They threatened me most spitefully To kill me; Quoth one, 'If Conscience here should dwelL We were not able to live well, Nor could we gain by the meat we sell; 440 Nor will we ROBIN CONSCIENCE. Be bound to follow Conscience nice, Which would confine us to a price; Robin, be ruled by my advice, (Quoth he then) And get thee to some other place; We hate to look thee in the face:' I, hearing this, from them a-pace Did flee then. To Newgate Market went I then, Where country-women, maids, and men, Were selling needful things; and when They saw me, At me the butter-woman rails, Whose butter weighd not down the scales; Another comes, and with her nails Did claw me. The bakers which stood in a row Began to brawl at me also, And charged me away to go, Because I Told them they did make lesser bread; — Did not the laws put them in dread; — There's some of them would wish them dead, Might laws die. Thus chid of them, my way I took Unto Pye-corner, where a cook Glanced at me as the devil did look O'er Lincoln. ' Conscience,' quoth he, ' thou shewst no wit In coming to this place unfit; TO run thee thorow with a spit; Then think on These words to thee which I have said, I cannot well live by my trade, If I should still require thy aid In selling: Sometimes one joint I must roast thrice, Ere I can sell it at my price; Then here's for thee, who art so nice, No dwelling.' 441 ROBIN CONSCIENCE. Perforce he drove me backward still, Until I came unto Snow -hill; The sale-men there, with voices shrill, Fell on me. I was so irksome in their sight, That they conjured me to flight, Or else they swore (such was their spiglht), They'd stone me. At Turn-again Lane the fish-wives there And wenches did so rail and swear, Quoth they, ' No Conscience shall come here. We hate him;' Their bodges which for half-pecks go, They vowed at my head to throw ; No Conscience they were bred to know, But prating. Away then frighted by these scolds, To Fleet Street straight my love it holds, Where men, whose tongues were made in moulds Of flattery, Did cry, ' What lack you, countryman?' But seeing me away they ran, As though the enemy had began His battery. One said to others, ' Sir, ill news, Here Conscience comes us to abuse, Let us his presence all refuse Together, And boldly (stand against him all; We ne'er had use of him, nor shall He live with us; — what chance did call Him hither?' The haberdashers that sell hats, Hit Robin Conscience many pats, And like a company of cats They scratcht him. Quoth they, ' Why comest thou unto us? We love not Conscience;' — rufing thus, They gave him words opprobious, And matcht him. 442 ROBIN CONSCIENCE. The mercers and silk-men also, That live in Paternoster Bow, Their hate against poor Conscience show, And when I Came to that place they all did set On me, 'cause I their gain would let, Who will both swear and lie to get One penny. From thence unto Cheapside I past, "Where words in vain I long did waste, Out of the place I soon was chased: Quoth one man, * Conscience, for thy presumption base, Intruding to this golden place, Thou death deservest, therefore a-pace Begone, man! Thinkst thou that we have so much gold Before our eyes still to behold, Will by this Conscience be controlled And curbed? 0, no! poor fellow, haste away, For if long in this place thou stay, Thou shalt be (111 be bold to say) Disturbed.' From thence I turned down Bread Street, A cheese-monger I there did meet, He hied away with winged feet To shun me; * How, now,' quoth I, ' why run ye so?' Quoth he, ' Because I well do know, That thou art Conscience, my old foe; Thou'st done me Great wrong: while I made use of thee, And dealt with all men honestly, A rich man I could never be; But since then I banisht have thy company, And used deceit with those that buy, I thrive; and therefore, Robin, hie Thee hence then.' 443 ROBIN CONSCIENCE. I left him with his bad intent, And unto Fish Street straight I went, Among those lads who wish that Lent Were all year. As soon as e'er they me espy'd, They all at once upon me cry'd, And swore that Conscience should not guide, A stall there. I seeing things thus seeming strange That all men did from goodness range, Did hie me straight to the Exchange. A merchant Was so affrighted when I came, That presently he blusht for shame, His countenance did show the same In searchant. Quoth he, ' Friend Robin, what dost thou Here among us merchants now? Our business will not allow To use thee; For we have traffic without thee, And thrice best if thou absent be; I for my part will utterly Refuse thee.' Now I, being thus abused below, Did walk up stairs, where on a row Brave shops of ware did make a show Most sumptuous. But when the shop-folk me did spy, They drew their dark light instantly, And said, in coming there, was I Presumptuous. The gallant girls that there sold knacks, Which ladies and brave women lacks, When they did see me, they did wax In choler. Quoth they, ' We ne'er knew Conscience yet, And, if he comes our gains to let, We'll banish him; he'll here not get 444 One scholar.' ROBIN CONSCIENCE. I, being jeered thus and scornd, Went down the stairs, and sorely mournd, To think that I should thus be turned A begging. To Grace-church Street I went along, Where dwell a great ungracious throng, That will deceive both old and young With cogging; As drapers, poulterers, and such, Who think they never get too much; The word Conscience to them is Dutch, Or Spanish; And harder too, for speech they'll learn, With all their heart, to save their turn, But Conscience, when they him discern, They banish. 1, seeing all the city given To use deceit, in spight of heaven, To leave their company I was driven, Perforce then; So over London Bridge in haste I, hisst and scoft of all men, past: Then I to Southwark took at last My course then. When I came there, I hoped to find Welcome according to my mind: But they are rather more unkind Than London. All sorts of men and women there Askt how I durst to them appear, And swore my presence they would clear Abandon. Then I, being sore athirst, did go Into an alehouse in the Row, Meaning a penny to bestow On strong beer. But, 'cause I for a quart did call, My hostess swore she'd bring me small, Or else I should have none at all. Thus wronged thers, US ROBIN CONSCIENCE. I bade her on her licence look, ' Sir,' quoth she, ' ye are mistook, I have a lesson without book Most perfect. If I my licence should observe, And not in any point to swerve, Both I and mine, alas! should starve, Not surfeit. UG Instead of a quart-pot of pewter, I fill small jugs, and need no tutor; I quart'ridge give to the geometer Most duly; And he will see, and yet be blind; A knave, made much of, will be kind; If you be one, sir, tell your mind Most truly. ' No, no,' quoth I, ' I am no knave, No fellowship with such I have; My name is Robin Conscience brave, That wander From place to place, in hope that some Will as a servant give me room; But all abuse me, where I come, With slander.' Now when my hostess heard me tell My name, she swore I should not dwell With her, for I would make her sell Full measure. She did conjure me to depart; ' Hang Conscience,' quoth she, ' give me art; I have not got by a penny a quart, My treasure.' — So out of doors I went with speed, And glad she was to be thus freed Of Conscience, that she thence might speed In frothing. To the King's Bench I needs would go; The jailer did me backward throw: Quoth he, 'For Conscience here ye know Is nothing.' ROBIN CONSCIENCE. Through Blackmail Street I went, where whores Stood gazing there at many doors; There two or three bawds against me roars Most loudly: And bade me to get thence apace, Or else they'd claw me by the face; They swore they scorned me and all graca Most proudly. I walkt into St. George's field, Where rooking rascals I beheld, That all the year their hopes did build On cheating; They were close playing at nine pins, — I came and told them of their sins: Then one among the rest begins, Intreating That I would not torment them so. — I told them that I would not go: • Why then,' quoth he, ' I'll let thee know We care not; And yet we'll banish thee perforce.' Then he began to swear and curse, And said, ' Prate on till thou art hoarse, And spare not.' I left them in their wickedness, And went along in great distress, Bewailing of my bad success And speed. A windmill standing there hard by, Towards the same then passed I; But wheh the miller did me spy, He cryed, • Away with Conscience, I'll none such, That dwell with honesty so much, I shall not quickly fill my hutch By due toll; But must for every bushel of meal A peck, if not three gallons, steal; Therefore with thee I will not deal, Thou true soul.' 447 ROBIN CONSCIENCE. Then leaving cities, skirts and all, Where my welcome it was but small, I went to try what would befall I' th' country. There thought I to be entertained, But I was likewise there disdained, As long as bootless I complained To th' gentry. And yet no service could I have; Yet, if I would have play'd the knave, I might have had maintainance brave Among them. Because that I was Conscience poor, Alas! they thrust me out of door, — For Conscience many of them swore Did wrong them. Then went I to the yeomanry, And farmers all of the countrey, Desiring them most heartily To take me: I told them I would sell their corn Unto the poor; but they did turn Me out of doors, and with great scorn Forsake me. One said, he had no use of me To sell his corn; ' for I,' quoth he, ' Must not be only ruled by thee In selling. If I shall Conscience entertain, He'd make me live in crossing grajn,— Here is for thee, I tell thee plain, No dwelling.' Thus from the rich men of the world Poor Conscience up and down is hurled; — Like angry cats at me they snarled, And checkt me. Alas! what shall I do, thought I. Poor Robin, must I starve and die? Aye, that I must, if nobody 448 Respect me. ROBIN CONSCIENCE. At last I to myself bethought Where I must go, and heaven brought Me to a place where poor folks wrought Most sorely; And there they entertained me well, With whom I ever mean to dwell, With them to stay it thus befel, Though poorly. Thus people that do labour hard, Have Robin Conscience in regard, For which they shall have their reward In heaven; For all their sorrows here on earth, They shall be filled with true mirth;- Crowns shall to them at second birth Be given. And all these caitiffs that denyM To entertain him for their guide, When they by Conscience shall be tried And judged, Then will they wish that they had used Poor Conscience, whom they have refused, Whose company they have abused And grudged. Thus Robin Conscience, that hath had Amongst most men a welcome bad, He now hath found to make him glad, Abiding 'Mong honest folks that hath no lands, But get their living with their hands, These are the friends that to him stands And 's guiding. These still keep Conscience from grim death, And ne'er gainsay whate'er he saith; These lead their lives so here beneath, That, dying, They may ascend from poverty To glory and great dignity, Where they shall live and never die; 2 „ While frying is beg'i His crime I'd not reveal : Which, for his seeming penitence, I promis'd to conceal. "■With treason, villainy, and wrong, My goodness he repay 'd : With jealous doubts he fill'd my lord, And me to woe betray' d. " He hid a slave within my bed, Then rais'd a bitter cry. My lord, possest with rage, condemn' d Me, all unheard, to dye. " But, 'cause I then was great with child, At length my life he spar'd : But bad me instant quit the realme, One trusty knight my guard. " Forth on my journey I depart, Opprest with grief and woe ; And tow'rds my brother's distant court, With breaking heart I goe. " Long time thro' sundry foreign lands We slowly pace along : At length, within a forest wild, I fell in labour strong. "And while the knight for succour sought, And left me there forlorn, My. childbed pains so fast increast, Two lovely boys were born. "The eldest feir, and smooth, as snow That tips the mountain hoar : The younger' s little body rough With hairs was cover' d o'er. "But here afresh begin my woes : While tender care J. took To shield my eldest from the cold, And wrap him in my cloak, " A prowling bear burst from the wood, And seized my younger son ; Affection lent my weakness wings, And after them I run. 487 " But all forewearied, weak, and spent, I quickly swooned away : And there beneath the greenwood shade Long time I lifeless lay. " At length the knight brought me relief, And rais'd me from the ground But neither of my pretty babes Could ever more be found. And while in search we wander'd far, We met that gyant grim ; Who ruthless slew my trusty knight, And bare me off with him. " But charm' d by heav'n, or else my griefs, He offer* d me no wrong ; Save that within these lonely walls I've been immur'd so long." Now, surely, said the youthful knight, You are lady Bellisance, Wife to the Grecian Emperor : Your brother's king of France. For in your royal brother's court Myself my breeding had ; Where oft the story of your woes Hath made my bosom sad. If so, know your accuser's dead, And dying own'd his crime ; And long your lord hath sought you Out, Thro' every foreign clime. And when no tidings he could learn Of his much-wronged wife ; He vow'd thenceforth within his court To lead a hermit's life. Now heaven is kind ; the lady said ; And dropt a joyful tear : Shall I once more behold my lord? That lord I love so dear ? But madam, said sir Valentine, And knelt upon his knee : Know you the cloak what wrapt your babe, 488 If you the same should see 1 VALENTINE AND URSINE. And pulling forth the cloak of gold, In which himself was found ; The lady gave a sudden shriek, And fainted on the ground. But by his pious care reviv'd, His tale she heard anon ; And soon by other tokens found He was indeed her son But who's this hairy youth ? she said : He much resembles thee : The bear devour'd my younger son, Or sure that son were he. Madam, this youth with bears was bred, And rear'd within their den. But recollect ye any mark To know your son again 1 Upon his little side, quoth she, Was stampt a bloody rose. Here, lady, see the crimson mark Upon his body grows! Then clasping both her newfound sons She bath'd their cheeks with tears : And soon towards her brother's court Her joyful course she steers. What pen can paint king Pepin's joy, His sister then restor'd I And soon a messenger was sent To chear her drooping lord. Who came in late with all his peers, To fetch her home to Greece ; Where many happy years they reign 'd In perfect lore and peace. To them sir Ursine did succeed And long the scepter bare, Sir Valentine he stay'd in Fra And was his uncle's heir. 480 Slfee V&ivtifa ®ff &ft» dgndtfgs. This ballad is taken from JPercy's 'Reliques.' ' It can. not be denied/ says the Doctor, ' but that a great partof it is modem.* 'It may be safely denied, however,* says Ritson, >' Ancient Songs and Ballads/ i. xxsl.) ' that the least part of it is ancient/ The (reader will probably agree with the critic, particularly as no mention is made by Dr. Percy of its existing, in any shape or form, in his Folio MB. 'The incidents/ he says, ' are -chiefly taken from the old story- book of the ' Seven Champions of Christendom,* written by ' one Richard Johnson, who lived in the reigns of Eliza- beth and James ; which, though now the plaything of chil- dren, was formerly in high repute.' As to St. George him- self, * whose martial history is allowed to be apocryphal/ his very existence has {been doubted. The reader who de- sires to investigate the matter, may consult Pettingal's' Dis- sertation on the Origin of the Equestrian Figure of the George and of the Garter/ London, 1753 ; and Milner'a 'Historical and Critical Enquiry into the Existence and Character of Saint George,' &c, Loudon 1*92/ ISTEN lords, in bower and hall, I sing the wonderous birth Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm Rid monsters from the earth. THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE. Distressed ladies to relieve He travell'd many a day, In honour of the Christian faith, Which shall endure for aye. In Coventry some time did dwell A knight of worthy fame, High steward of this noble realm e ; Lord Alb ret was his name. He had to wife a princely dame, Whose beauty did excell. This virtuous lady, being with child, In sudden sadness fell. For thirty nights no sooner sleep Had clos'd her wakeful eyes, But, lo ! a foul and fearful dream Her fancy would surprize ; She dreamt a dragon fierce and fell Conceiv'd within her womb ; Whose mortal fangs her body rent Ere he to life could come. All woe-begone, and sad was she ; She nourisht constant woe : Yet strove to hide it from her lord, Lest he should sorrow know. In vaine she strove ; her tender lord, Who watch' d her slightest look, Discover'd soon her secret pain, And soon that pain partook. And when to him the fearful cause She weeping did impart, With kindest speech he strove to heal The anguish of her heart. Be comforted, my lady dear, Those pearly drops refrain ; Betide me weal, betide me woe, I'll try to ease thy pain. And for this foul and fearful" dream, That eauseth all thy woe, Trust me I'll travel far away But I'll the meaning knowe, iiti THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE. Then giving many a fond embrace, And shedding many a teare, To the weird lady of the woods, He purpos'd to repaire. To the weird lady of the woods, Full long and many a day, Thro' lonely shades and thickets rough He winds his -weary way. At length he reach' d a dreary dell With dismal yews o'erhung ; Where cypress spred its mournful boughs, And poisonous nightshade sprung. No chearful gleams here pierc'd the gloom, He heard no chearful sound ; But shrill night-ravens' yelling scream, And serpents hissing round. The shriek of fiends and damned ghosts Ran howling thro' his ear; A chilling horror froze his heart, Tho' all unus'd to fear. Three times he strives to win his way, And pierce those sickly dews : Three times to bear his trembling corse His knocking knees refuse. At length upon his beating breast He signs the holy crosse ; And, rouzing up his wonted might, He treads th' unhalloVd mosse. Beneath a pendant craggy cliff, All vaulted like a grave, And opening in the solid rock, He found the inchanted cave. An iron gate clos'd up the mouth, All hideous and forlorne ; And, fasten' d by a silver chain, Near hung a brazed home. Their offering up 2 secret prayer, Three times he blowes amaine : Three times a deep and hollow sound * 92 Did answer him againe. THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE. " Sir Knight, thy lady beares a son, Who, like a dragon bright, Shall prove most dreadful to his foes, And terrible in fight. His name advanc'd in future times On banners shall be worn : But lo ! thy lady's life must passe Before he can be born." All sore opprest with fear and doubt Long time lord Albret stood ; At length he winds his doubtful way Back thro' the dreary wood. Eager to clasp his lovely dame Then fast he travels back : But when he reach' d his castle gate, His gate was hung with black. In every court and hall he found A sullen silence reigne ; Save where, amid the lonely towers, He heard her maidens' plaine ; And bitterly lament and weep, With many a grievous grone : Then sore his bleeding heart misgave, His lady's life was gone. With faultering step he enters in, Yet half afraid to goe ; With trembling voice asks why they grieve, Yet fears the cause to knowe. "Three times the sun hath rose and set ;" They said, then stopt to weep : " Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare In death's eternal sleep. " For, ah ! in travel sore she fell, So sore that she must dye ; Unless some shrewd and cunning leech Could ease her presentlye. But when a cunning leeche was fet, Too soon declared he, She, or her babe must lose its life ; Both saved could not be. 493 THE BTRTH OF ST. GEORGE. Now take my life, thy lady said, My little infant save : And O commend me to my lord, When I am laid in grave. O tell him how that precious babe Cost him a tender wife ; And teach my son to lisp her name, "Who died to save his life. Then calling still upon thy name, And praying still for thee ; Without repining or complain;, Her gentle soul did flee." What tongue can paint lord Albret's woe, The hitter tears he shed, The bitter pangs that wrung his heart, To find his lady dead? He beat his breast : he tore his hair ; And shedding many a tear, At length he askt to see his son ; The son that cost so dear. New sorrowe seiz*d the damsells all : At length they faultering say ; " Alas 1 my lord, how shall we tell ? Thy son is stoln away. Fair as the sweetest flower of spring, Such was his infant mien: And on his little body stampt Three wondrous marks were seen : A blood-red cross was on his arm ; A dragon on his breast ; A little garter all of gold Was round his leg exprest. Three carefull nurses we provide Our little lord to keep : One gave Mm sucke, one gave him food And one did lull to sleep. But lo I all in the dead of night, We heard a fearful sound : Loud thunder clapt ; the castle shook ; 494 And lightning flasht around. Dead with affright at first we lay ; But rousing up anon, We ran to see our little lord ; Our little lord was gone ! But how or where we could not tell ; For lying on the ground, In deep and magic slumbers laid, The nurses there we found . O grief on grief ! lord Albret said : No more his tongue cou'd say, "When falling in a deadly swoone, Long time he lifeless lay. At length restor'd to life and sense He nourisht endless woe, No future joy his heart could taste, No future comfort know. So withers on the mountain top A fair and stately oake, Whose vigorous arms are borne away By some rude thunder-stroke. At length the castle irksome grew, He loathes his wonted home ; His native country he forsakes, In foreign lands to roame. There up and downe he wandered far, Clad in a palmer's gown : Till his brown locks grew •white as wool, His beard as thistle down. At length, all wearied, down in death He laid his reverend bead. Meantime amid the lonely wilds His little son was bred. There the weird lady of the woods Had borne him far away, And train' d him up in feates of armes, And every martial play. 4 gg fFrom Motherwell's 'Minstrelsy.'] O hrard ye o' Sir James the Kose, The young heir o'Buleighan? For he has killed a gallant squire, And his friends are out to take him. Now he's gone to the house of Marr, Where the Nourice was his leman; To seek his dear he did repair, Thinking she would befriend him. * Where are ye going, Sir James?' she says; ' Or where now are you riding?' ' Oh, I am bound to a foreign land, For now I'm under hiding. Where shall I go, where shall I run, Where shall I go to hide me? For I have kill'd a gallant squire, And they're seeking to slay me.' ' O go ye down to yon ale-house And I'll there pay your lawin'; And if I be a maiden true, I'll meet you in the dawin'.' * I'll no go down to yon ale-house For you to pay my lawin'; There's forty shillings for one supper, I'll stay in't till the dawin'.' He turned him richt and round about, And rowed him in his brechan; And he has gone to tak' a sleep, In the lowlands o' Buleighan. He had not weel gone out o' sight, Nor was he past Milstrethen, Till four-and-twenty belted knights 496 Came riding ower the Lethan. SIR JAMES THE ROSE. • O have ye. seen Sir James the Rose, The young heir of Buleighan? For he has killed a gallant squire, And we're sent out to tak' him.' • O I have seen Sir James,' she says; ' For he passed by here on Monday; If the steed be swift that he rides on, He*s past the hichts o' Lundie.' As they rode on man after man, Then she cried out behind them, ' If you do seek Sir James the Rose, I'll tell you where you'll find him.' ' Seek ye the bank abune the mill, • In the lowlands of Buleighan; And there you'll find Sir James the Rose, Lying sleeping in his brechan. Ye must not awake him out of sleep, Nor yet must you affright him; Till you drive a dart quite through his heart, And through his body pierce him.' They sought the bank abune the mill, In the lowlands of Buleighan, And there they found Sir James the Rose, Lying sleeping in his brechan. Up then spake Sir John the Grssme, Who had the charge a-keeping, ' It shall ne'er be said, dear gentlemen, We killed him when a-sleeping.' They seized his broad sword and his targe, And closely him surrounded; And when he wakened out of sleep, His senses were confounded. 4 pardon, pardon, gentlemen — Have mercy now upon me.' 4 Such as you gave, such you shall have, And so we fall upon thee.' 4 Donald, my man, wait me upon, And I'll gie you my brechan: And if you stay here till I die, You'll get my trews of tartan. 497 U K SIR JAMES THE ROSE. There is fifty pounds in my pocket, Besides my trews and brechan, Ye'll get my watch and diamond ring, And take me to Loch Largan.' Now they've ta'en out his bleeding heart, And stuck it on a speir; Then took it to the house o' Marr, And gave it to his deir. But when she saw his bleeding heart, She was like one distracted, She wrung her hands, and tore her hair, Crying, ' O what have I acted! It's for your sake, Sir James the Rose, That my poor heart's a breaking; Cursed be the day I did thee betray, Thou brave knight o' Buleighan!' Then up she rose, and forth she goes; And in that fatal hour, She bodily was borne away, And never was seen more. But where she went was never kent j And so, to end the matter, A traitor's end you may depend Can never be no better. 498 Uto Stow&JSg tM M,®&®< [This ballad ' is said to have been written,' says Mr. Motherwell, ('Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,' Glasgow, 1827,) ' by Michael Bruce/ a young Scottish poet, who was orn at Kinnesswood, in Kinross-shire, in 1746, and died, of consumption, in 1 767) before he had completed hia 22nd year. This ' consumption * of his, says Sir Walter Scott, ( Life, by Lockhart, ch. 65,) ' has been the life of his verses.' His poems were first published in 177^, by his friend the Rev. John Logan author of the beautiful lines ' To the Cuckoo,* which, however, have been claimed by some of Bruce's relations and friends, as his. The present ballad is one of 'two modern ballads'— the other being 'Etfrida and Sir James of Perth/— which, according to Mr. Motherwell, ' have sprung out of an old one,' bearing the same name. ' It might be curious,' he says, ' to ascertain -which of these mournful ditties is the senior, were it for nothing else than perfectly to enjoy the cool impudence with which the grace- less youngster has appropriated to itself, without thanks or acknowledgment, all the best things which occur in (he other/ That ' Elfrida and Sir James of Perth,' is a ' mourn- ful ditty,' in more senses than one, few, probably, will be found to deny ; but whether Bruce's ballad deservei to be so characterised, may admit of doubt. F all the Scottish northern chiefs, Of high and warlike name, The bravest was Sir James the rlose, A knicht of meikle fame. 499 SIR JAMES THE ROSE. His growth was as the tufted fir, That crowns the mountain's brow ; And, waving o'er his shoulders broad, His locks of yellow flew. ! The chieftain of the brave clan Ross, A firm undaunted band ; Five hundred warriors drew their sword, Beneath his high command. In bloody fight thrice had he stood, Against the English keen, ; Ere two and twenty opening springs This blooming youth had seen. The fair Matilda dear he loved, A maid of beauty rare ; Ev'n Margaret on the Scottish throne Was never half so fair. j Lang had he wooed, lang she refused, "With seeming scorn and pride ; Yet aft her eyes confest the love Her fearful words denied. At last she blest his well-tried faith, Allowed his tender claim : She vowed to him her virgin heart And owned an equal flame. Her father, Buchan's cruel lord, Their passion disapproved -, And bade her wed Sir John the Graeme, And leave the youth she loved. Ae nicht they met, as they were wont, Deep in a shady wood, "Where, on a bank beside a burn, A blooming saugh-tree stood. Concealed among the underwood, The crafty Donald lay, The brother of Sir John the Graeme ; To hear what they would say. 600 When thus the maid began : " My sire Your passion disapproves, And bids me wed Sir John the Graeme ; So here must end our loves. SIR JAMES THE ROSE. " My father's will must be obeyed ; Nocht boots me to withstand ; Some fairer maid, in beauty's bloom, Must bless thee with her hand. " Matilda soon shall be forgot, And from thy mind effaced : But may that happiness be thine, "Which I can never taste." " What do I hear? Is this thy vow ? Sir James the Rose replied : " And will Matilda wed the Graeme, Though sworn to be my bride ? " His sword shall sooner pierce my heart Than reave me of thy charms." Then claspt her to his beating breast, Fast lockt into his arms. " I spake to try thy love," she said ", I'll ne'er wed man but thee : My grave shall be my bridal bed, Ere Graeme my husband be. " Take then, dear youth, this faithful kis . In witness of my troth ; And every plague become my lot, That day I break my oath ! " They parted thus : the sun Was set : Up hasty Donald flies ; And, " Turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth ! " He loud insulting cries. Soon turned about the fearless chief, And soon his sword he drew ; For Donald's blade, before his breast, Had pierced his tartans through. " This for my brother's slighted love ; His wrongs sit on my arm." Three paces back the youth retired, *■ And saved himself from harm. Returning swift, his hand he reared, Frae Donald's head above, And through the brain and crashing bones His sharp-edged weapon drove. 501 SIR JAMES THE ROSE. He staggering reeled, then tumbling down A lump of breathless clay : " So fall my foes !" quoth valiant Rose, And stately strode away. Through the green-wood he quickly hiea, Unto Lord Buchan's hall ; And at Matilda's window stood, And tfhus began to call : "Art thou asleep, Matilda dear? Awake, my love, awake ! Thy luckless lover on thee Galls, A long farewell to take. For I have slain fierce Donald Graeme ; His blood is on my sword : And distant are my faithful men, Nor can assist their lord. To Skye I'll now direct my way, Where my two brothers bide, And raise the valiant of the Isles, To combat by my side." " O do not so," the maid replies ; " With me till morning stay ; For dark and dreary is the night, And dangerous the way Ul night I'll watcn you in the park ; My faithful page I'll send, To run and raise the Ross's clan, Their master to defend." Beneatn a bush he laid him down, A.nd wrapt him in his plaid ; While, trembling for her lover's fate, At distance stood the maid. Swift van the page o'er hill and dale, Till, in a lonely glen, He met the furious Sir John Graeme, With twenty of his men. " Where goest thou, little page 1" he said " So late who did thee send V " I go to raise the Ross's clan, 602 Their master to defend : SIR JAMES THE ROSE. " For lie hath slain Sir Donald Graeme j His blood is on his sword : And far, far distant are his men, That should assist their lord." " And has he slain my brother dear 1" The furious Graeme replies; " Dishonour blast my name, but he By me, ere morning, dies ! " Tell me, where is Sir James the Rose ; I will thee well reward." "He sleeps into Lord Buchan's park ; Matilda is his guard." They spurred their steeds in furious mood, And scoured along the lee ; They reacht Lord Buchan's lofty towers, By dawning of the day. Matilda stood without the gate; To whom the Graeme did say, " Saw ye Sir James the Rose last night? Or did he pass this way 1" " Last day, at noon," Matilda said, " Sir James the Rose past by : He furious prickt his sweaty steed, And onward fast did hie. " By this he is at Edinburgh, If horse and man hold good." " Your page, then, lied, who said he was Now sleeping in the wood." She wrung her hands, and tore her hair ; " Brave Rose thou art betrayed ; And ruined by those means," she cried, " From whence I hoped thine aid !" By this the valiant knight awoke ; The virgin's shrieks he heard ; And up he rose and drew his sword, Whence the fierce band appeard. " Your sword last night my brother slew ; His blood yet dims its shine : And, ere the setting of the sun, Your blood shall reek on mine." SIR JAMES THE ROSE. *' You word it well," the chief replied ; " But deeds approve the man : Set by your band, and hand to hand, We'll try what valour can. " Oft boasting hides a coward's heart ; My weighty sword you fear, Which shone in front of Flodden-field, When you kept in the rear." With dauntless step he forward strode, And dared him to the fight : But Graeme gave back, and feared his arm ; For well he knew its might. Four of his men, the bravest four, Sank down beneath his sword : But still he scorned the poor revenge, And sought their haughty lord. Behind him basely came the Graeme, And pierced him in the side ; Out spouting came the purple tide, And all his tartans dyed. But yet his sword quat not the grip, Nor dropt he to the ground, Till through his enemy's heart his steel Had forced a mortal wound. Graeme, like a tree with wind o'erthrown, Fell breathless on the clay ; And down beside him sank the Rose, And faint and dying lay. The sad Matilda saw him fall ; " O ! spare his life !" she cried ; " Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life ; Let her not be denied !" Her well-known voice the hero heard ; He raised his death-closed eyes, And fixt them on the weeping maid, And weakly thus replies : " In vain Matilda begs the Hfe, By death's arrest denied : My race is run — adieu, my love" — 604 Then closed his eves and died. SIR JAMES THE ROSE. The sword, yet warm, from his left side "With frantic hand she drew : " I come. Sir James the Rose," she cried ; " I come to follow you ! " She leaned the hilt against the ground, And bared her snowy breast ; Then fell upon her lover's face, And sank to endless rest. §Pus fRwsmifr ®U ■■B^to?fttofiw43u [This ballad was written by Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop oi Dromore in Ireland; * a poet and a man of taste/ says Sir Walter Scott, (' Minstrelsy,* i. 44, &c) 'who, com- manding access to the individuals and institutions which could best afford him materials for executing the task of collecting and illustrating ancient popular poetry,g ave the public the result of his researches in a work entitled Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' (London, 1765); a work which must always be held among the first of its class in point of merit, and which the taBte with which the mate- rials were chosen, the extreme felicity with which they were >' illustrated, the display at once of antiquarian knowledge and classical reading which the collection indicated, render it difficult to imitate, and impossible to excel.* How deeply indebted to the * leartied and amiable prelate's, work the present collection is, the reader of it does not require to be reminded. It was not merely as a collector and illustrator, however, * a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff, ' that the doctor excelled : for ' in the actual imitation of the ancient ballad,' says the great authority already quoted, ' he was eminently successful. The l Hermit of Warkworth,' and other minstrel tales of his composition, must always be remembered with fondness by those who have perused them in that period of life when the feelings are strong, and the taste for poetry, especially of this simple nature, is keen and poignant.' The ballad was first published in 1 77' , under the title, .' The Hermit of Warkworth. A Northumberland Ballad. In three Fits or Cantos.' London ; 4to ; from which edition it is here taken. It was accompanied with an In- troduction and Notes, such parts of which as are necessary to the understanding, or pertinent in illustrating it, will he found in the Notes.] ARK was the night, and wild the storm, And loud the torrent's roar ; And loud the sea was heard to dash Against the distant shore. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Musing on man's weak hapless state, The lonely hermit lay, When, lo ! he heard a female voice Lament in sore dismay. With hospitable haste he rose, And waked his sleeping fire, And snatching up a lighted brand, Forth hied the reverend sire. All sad beneath a neighbouring tree A beauteous maid he found, Who beat her breast, and" with her tears Bedewed the mossy ground. O weep not, lady, weep not so, Nor let vain fears alarm ; My little cell shall shelter thee, And keep thee safe from harm. It is not for myself I weep, Nor for myself I fear, But for my dear and only friend, Who lately left me here : And while some sheltering bower he sought Within this.lonely wood, Ah ! sore I fear his wandering feet Have slipt in yonder flood. O ! trust in Heaven, the hermit said, And to my cell repair ; - Doubt not but I shall find thy friend, And ease thee of thy care. Then climbing up his rocky stairs, He scales the cliff so high, ' And calls' aloud and waves his light To guide the stranger's eye. Among the thickets long he winds, With careful steps and slow, At length a voice returned his call, Quick answering from below : O tell me, father, tell me true, If you have chanced to see . A gentle maid I lately, left t Beneath some neighbouring tree •■ ' THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. But either I have lost the place, Or she hath gone astray : And much I fear this fatal stream Hath snatcht her hence away. Praise Heaven, my son, the hermit said, The lady's safe and well : And soon he joined the wandering youth, And brought him to his cell. Then well was seen, these gentle friends They loved each other dear : The youth he prest her to his heart, The maid let fall a tear. Ah ! seldom had their host, I ween, Beheld so sweet a pair : The youth was tall with manly bloom ; She slender, soft, and fair. The youth was clad in forest green, "With bugle-horn so bright ; She in a silken robe and scarf, Snatcht up in hasty flight. Sit down, my children, says the sage Sweet rest your limbs require : Then heaps fresh fuel on the hearth, And mends his little fire. Partake, he said, my simple store, Dried fruits, and milk, and curds ; And spreading all upon the board, Invites with kindly words. Thanks, father, for thy bounteous fare, The youthful couple say ; Then freely ate, and made good cheer, And talkt their cares away. Now say, my children (for perchance My counsel may avail), What strange adventure brought you here Within this lonely dale ? First tell me, father, said the youth (Nor blame mine eager tongue,) What town is near ? What lands are these 7 508 And to what lord belong 1 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Alas ! my son, the hermit said, "Why do I live to say, The rightful lord of these domains Is banisht far attay 1 Ten winters now have shed their snows On this my lowly hall, Since valiant Hotspur (so the North Our youthful lord did call) Against Fourth Henry Bolingbroke Led up his northern powers, And stoutly fighting, lost his life Near proud. Salopia's towers. One son he left, a lovely bo)', His country's hope and heir ; And, oh ! to save him from his foes. It was his grahdsire's care. In Scotland safe he placed the child Beyond the reach of strife, Not long before the brave old earl At Bramham lost his life. And now the Percy name, so long Our northern pride and boast, Lies hid, alas! beneath a cloud ; Their honours reft and lost. No chieftain of that noble house Now leads our youth to arms ; The bordering Scots despoil our fields, And ravage all our farms. Their balls and castles, once so fair, Now moulder in decay ; Proud strangers now usurp their lands, And bear their wealth away. Not far from hence, where yon full stream Runs winding down the lea, Fair Warkworth lifts her lofty towers, And overlooks the sea. Those towers, alas ! now lie forlorn, With noisome weeds o'erspread, Where feasted lords and courtly dames, And where the poor were fed. - 09 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTK. Meantime, far off, 'mid Sccttish hills, The Percy lives unknown ; On stranger's bounty he depends, And may not claim his own. O might I with these aged eyes But live to see him here, Then should my soul depart in bliss ! — - He said, and dropt a tear. And is the Percy still so loved Of all his friends and thee ? Then bless me, father, said the youth, For I, thy guest, am he. Silent he gazed, then turned aside To wipe the tears he shed ; And lifting up his hands and eyes, Poured blessings on his head : Welcome, our dear and much-loved lord, Thy country's hope and care : But who may this young lady be, That is so wondrous fair ? Now, father, listen to my tale, And thou shalt know the truth ; And let thy sage advice direct My unexperienced youth. In Scotland I've been nobly bred Beneath the Regent's hand, In feats of arms, and every lore To fit me for command. ■ With fond impatience long I burned My native land to see ; Vt length I won my guardian friend To yield that boon to me. Then up and down, in hunter's garb, I wandered as in chase, Till, in the noble Neville's house, I gained a hunter's place. Sometime with him I lived unknown, Till I'd the hap so rare To please this young and gentle dame, 610 That baron's daughter fair. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Now, Percy, said the blushing maid. The truth Lmust reveal ; Souls great and generous, like to thine, Their noble deeds conceal. It happened on a summer's day, Led by the fragrant breeze, I wandered forth to take the air Among the greenwood trees. Sudden a band of rugged Scots, That near in ambush lay, Moss-troopers irom the border-side, There seized me for their prey. Mv shrieks had all been spent in vain ; But Heaven that saw my grief, Brought this brave youth within my call, "Who flew to my relief. With nothing but his hunting spear, And dagger in his hand, He sprung like lightning on my foes, And caused them soon to stand. He fought till more assistance came : The Scots were overthrown ; Thus freed me, captive, from their bands To make me more his own. D happy day ! the youth replied ; Blest were the wounds I bare ! From that fond hour she deigned to smile, And listen to my prayer. And when she knew my name and birth, She vowed to be my bride ; But oh ! we feared (alas, the while) Her princely mother's pride: Sister of haughty Bolingbrpke, Our house's ancient foe, To me I thought a banisht wight Could ne'er such favour show. Despairing then to gain consent, At length to fly .with me I won this lovely timorous maid ; To Scotland bound are we. 511 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. This evening, as the night drew on, Fearing we were pursued, We turned adown the right-hand path, And gained this lonely wood ; Then lighting from our weary steeds To shun the pelting shower, We met thy kind conducting hand, And reacht this friendly Bower. Now rest ye both, the hermit said ; Awhile your cares forego : Nor, lady, scorn my humble bed ; — We'll pass the night below. FIT II. Lovely smiled the blushing morn, And every storm was fled ; But lovelier far, with sweeter smile, Fair Eleanor left her bed. She found her Henry all alone, And cheered him with her sight : The youth, consulting with his friend, Had watcht the livelong night. What sweet surprise o'erpowered her breast, Her cheeks what blushes dyed, When fondly he besought her there To yield to be his bride ! Within this lonely hermitage There is a chapel meet ; Then grant, dear maid, my fond request, And make my bliss complete. O Henry, when thou deignst to sue, Can I thy suit withstand ? When thou, loved youth, hast won my heart, Can I refuse my hand ? For thee I left a father's smiles And mother's tender care ; And whether weal or woe betide, 612 Thy lot I mean to share. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. And wilt thou, then, O generous maid, Such matchless favour show, To share with me, a banisht wight, My peril, pain, or woe ? Now Heaven, I trust, hath joys in store To crown thy constant breast ; For, know, fond hope assures my heart That we shall soon be blest. Not far from hence stands Coquet Isle, Surrounded by the sea ; There dwells a holy friar, well known To all thy friends and thee : 'Tis Father Bernard, so revered For every worthy deed : To Raby Castle he shall go, And for us kindly plead. To fetch this good and holy man Our reverend host is gone ; And soon, I trust, his pious hands Will join us both in one. Thus they in sweet and tender talk The lingering hours beguile : At length they see the hoary sage Come from the neighbouring isle. With pious joy and wonder mixt He greets the noble pair, And glad consents to join their hands With many a fervent prayer. Then straight to Raby's distant walls He kindly wends his way : Meantime in love and dalliance sweet They spend the livelong day. And now, attended by their host, The hermitage they viewed, Deep-hewn within a craggy cliff, And overhung with wood. And near a flight of shapely steps, All cut with nicest skill, And piercing through a stony arch, Ran winding up the hill. C13 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 614 There, deckt with many a flower and herb, His little garden stands ; With fruitful trees in shady rows, All planted by his hands. Then, scoopt within the solid rock, Three sacred vaults he shows : The chief a chapel, neatly archt, On branching columns rose. Each proper ornament was there That should a chapel grace : The latice for confession framed, And holy-swater vase. O'er either door a sacred text Invites to godly fear ; A.nd in a little scutcheon hung The cross, and crown, and spear. Up to the altar's ample breadth Two easy steps ascend ; . . And near, a glimmering solemn light Two well-wrought windows lend Beside the altar rose a tomb, All in the living stone, On which a young and beauteous maid In goodly sculpture shone. A kneeling angej, fairly carved, Leaned hovering o'er her breast ; A weeping warrior at her feet, And near to these her crest. The cliff, the vault, but chief the tomb. Attract the wondering pair : Eager they ask, What hapless dame Lies sculptured here so fair ? The hermit sighed, the hermit wept, For sorrow scarce could speak, j At length he wiped the trickling tears That all bedewed his cheek :.- Alas ! my children, human life Is but a vale of woe j And very mournful is the tale Which ye so fain would know. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. THE HERMIT'S TALE. Young lord, thy grandsire had a friend In days of youthful fame; Yon distant hills were his domains; Sir Bertram was his name. Where'er the noble Percy fought, His friend was at his side; And many a skirmish with the Scots Their early valour tried. Young Bertram loved a beauteous maid, As fair as fair might be; The dew-drop on the lily's cheek Was not so fair as she. 515 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Fair Widdrington the maiden's name, Yon towers her dwelling-place ; Her sire an old Northumbrian chief, Devoted to thy race. Many a lord, and many a knight, To this fair damsel came ; But Bertram was her only choice ; For him she felt a flame. Lord Percy pleaded for his friend , Her father soon consents ; None but the beauteous maid herself His wishes now prevents. But she with studied fond delays Defers the blissful hour, And loves to try his constancy, And prove her maiden power. That heart, she said, is lightly prized Which is too lightly won, And long shall rue that easy maid, Who yields her love too soon. Lord Percy made a solemn feast In Alnwick's princely hall, And there came lords, and there came knights, His chiefs and barons all. With wassail, mirth, and revelry, The castle rung around : Lord Percy called for song and harp, And pipes of martial sound. The minstrels of thy noble house, All clad in robes of blue, With silver crescents on their arms, Attend in order due. The, great achievements of thy race They sung : their high command : " How valiant Mainfred o'er the seas First led his northern band. Brave Galfrid next to Normandy With venturous Rollo came ; And from his Norman castles won, 516 Assumed the Percy name. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. They sung how in the Conqueror's fleet Lord William shipt his powers, And gained a fair young Saxon bride With all her lands and towers. Then journeying to the Holy Land, There bravely fought and died : But first the silver crescent wan, Some Paynim Soldan's pride. They sung how Agnes, beauteous heir, The queen's own brother wed, Lord Josceline, sprung from Charlemagne, In princely Brabant bred. How he the Percy name revived, And how his noble line Still foremost in their country's cause With godlike ardour shine." With loud acclaims the listening crowd Applaud the master's song, And deeds of arms and war became The theme of every tongue. Now high heroic acts they tell, Their perils past recall : When lo ! a damsel young and fair Stept forward through the hall. She Bertram courteously addrest ; And kneeling on her knee — Sir knight, the lady of thy love Hath sent this gift to thee. Then forth she drew a glittering helme, Well-plated many a fold, The casque was wrought of tempered steel, The crest of burnisht gold. Sir knight, thy lady sends thee this, And yields to be thy bride, When thou hast proved this maiden gift Where sharpest blows are tried. Young Bertram took the shining helme, And thrice he kist the same : Trust me, I'll prove this precious casque With deeds of noblest feme- 517 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Lord Percy and his barons bold Then fix upon a day To scour the marches, late opprest, And Scottish wrongs repay. The knights assembled on the hills, A thousand horse and more : Brave Widdrington, though sunk in years The Percy standard bore. Tweed's limpid current soon they pass, And range the borders round : Down the green slopes of Tiviotdale Their bugle--horns resound. As when a lion in his den Hath heard the hunter's cries, And rushing forth to meet his foes, So did the Douglas rise. Attendant on their chief's command A thousand warriors wait : And now the fatal hour drew on Of cruel keen debate. A chosen troop of Scottish youths Advance before the rest ; Lord Percy markt their gallant mien, And thus his friend addrest. Now, Bertram, prove thy lady's helme, Attack yon forward band ; Dead or alive I'll rescue thee, Or perish by their hand. Young Bertram bowed, with glad assent, And spurred his eager steed, And calling on his lady's name, Rusht forth with whirlwind speed. As when a grove of sapling oaks The livid lightning rends, So fiercely 'mid the opposing ranks Sir Bertram's, sword, descends. This way and that he drives the steel, And keenly pierces through j And many a tall and comely knight 5 W With furious force he slew. ... THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. i 1 Now closing fast on every side, They hem Sir Bertram round ; But dauntless he repels their rage, And deals forth many a wound. The vigour of his single arm Had well-nigh won the field, When ponderous fell a Scottish axe, And clove his lifted shield. 1 Another hlow his temples took, And reft his" helme in twain — That beauteous helnie, his lady's gift !— His blood bedewed the plain. Lord Percy saw his champion fall Amid the unequal fight ; And now, my noble friends, he said, Let's save this gallant knight. Then rushing in, with stretcht-out shield He o'er the warrior hung, As some fierce eagle spreads her wing To guard her callow young. Three times they strove to seize their prey, Three times they quick retire : What force could stand his furious strokes, Or meet his martial fire ? Now, gathering round on every part, The battle raged amain ; And many a lady Wept her lord, That hour' untimely slain. Percy and Douglas, great in amis, There all their courage showed ; And all the field was strewed with dead, And all with crimson flowed. At length the glory of the day The Scots reluctant yield, And, after Wdfidef Bus valour shown, They slowly quit the field. All pale, extended on their shields, And weltering in his gore, Lord Percy's knights their bleeding, friend To Wark's fair castle bore. 519 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Well hast thou earned my daughter's love, Her father kindly said ; And she herself shall dress thy wounds, And tend thee in thy bed. A message went, no daughter came ; Fair Isabel ne'er appears ; Beshrew me, said the aged chief, Young maidens have their fears. Cheer up, my son, thou shalt her see So soon as thou canst ride, And she shall nurse thee in her bower, And she shall be thy bride. Sir Bertram at her name revived ; He blest the soothing sound ; Fond hope supplied the nurse's care, And healed his ghastly wound. FIT III. One early morn, while dewy drops. Hung trembling on the tree, Sir Bertram from his sick-bed rose, His bride he would go see, A brother he had in prime of youth, Of courage firm and keen, And he would tend him on the way, Because his wounds were green. All day o'er moss and moor they rode, By many a lonely tower ; And 'twas the dew-fall of the night Ere they drew near her bower. Most drear and dark the castle seemed, That wont to shine so bright ; And long and loud Sir Bertram called Ere he beheld a light. At length her aged nurse arose, With voice so shrill and clear : What wight is this that calls so loud, 520 And knocks so boldly here ? THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH, 'Tis Bertram calls, thy lady's love, Come from his bed of care : All day I've ridden o'er moor and moss. To see thy lady fair. N aw out, alas ! (she loudly shriek t) Alas! how may this be ? For six long days are gone and past Since she set out to thee. Sad terror seized Sir Bertram's heart, And oft he deeply sighed ; When now the drawbridge was let down, And gates set open wide. Six days, young knight, are past and gone Since she set out to thee, And sure, if no sad harm had hapt, Long since thou wouldst her see. For when she heard thy grievous chance, She tore her hair, and cried, Alas ! I've slain the comeliest knight All through my folly and pride ! And now to atone for my sad fault, And his dear health regain, I'll go myself, and nurse my love, And soothe his bed of pain. Then mounted she her milk-white steed One morn by break of day, And two tall yeomen went with her To guard her on the way. Sad terror smote Sir Bertram's heart, And grief o'erwhelmed his mind : Trust me, said he, I ne'er will rest Till I thy lady find. That night he spent in sorrow and care ; And with sad boding heart, Or ever the dawning of the day, His brother and he depart. Now, brother, we'll our ways divide,. O'er Scottish hills to range ; Do thou go north, and I'll go west, And all our dress we'll change. 521 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Some Scottish carle hath seized my love And borne her to his den, And ne'er will I tread English ground Till she is restored agen. The brothers straight their paths divide, O'er Scottish hills to range ; And hide themselves in quaint disguise, And oft their dress they change. Sir Bertram, clad in gown of gray, Most like a palmer poor, To halls and castles wanders round, And begs from door to door. Sometimes a minstrel's garb he wears, With pipes so sweet and shrill ; And wends to every tower and town, O'er every dale and hill. One day as he sat under a thorn, All sunk in deep despair, An aged pilgrim passed him by, "Who marked his face of care. All minstrels yet that ever I saw, Are full of game and glee : But thou art sad and wo-begone ; I marvel whence it be ! Father, I serve an aged lord, Whose grief afflicts my mind ; His only child is stolen away, And fain I would her find. Cheer up, my son ; perchance (he said) Some tidings I may bear ; For oft when human hopes have failed, Then heavenly comfort's near. Behind yon hills, so steep and higb, Down in the lowly glen, There stands a castle fair and strong, Far from th' abode of men. As late' T chanced to crave an alms, About this evening hour, Methought I heard a lady's voice Lamenting in the tower. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. And when 1 asked what harm had hap t, What lady sick there lay ? They rudely drove me from, the gate, And hade me wend away. These tidings caught Sir Bertram's ear ; He thanked him for his tale ; And soon he hasted o'er the hills, And soon he reacht the rale. Then drawing near those lonely towers, Which stood in dale so low, And sitting down beside the gate, His pipes he 'gan to blow. Sir porter, is thy lord at home To hear a minstrel's song? Or may I crave a lodging here, Without offence or wrong 1 My lord, he said, is not at home To hear a minstrel's song ; And should I lend thee lodging here, My life would not he long. He playd again so soft a strain, Such power sweet sounds impart, He won the ehurlish porter's ear, And moved his stubborn heart. Minstrel, he said, thou playst so sweet, Fair entrance thou shouldst win ; But, alas ! I'm sworn upon the rood To let no stranger in. Yet, minstrel, in yon .rising cliff Thou'lt find a sheltering cave ; And here thou shalt my supper share, And there thy lodging have. All day he sits beside the gate, And pipes both loud and clear : All night he watches round the walls. In hopes his love' to hear. The first night, as he silent watcht, All at the midnight hour, He plainly heard his lady's voice Lamenting in the tower. 523 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. The second night the moon shone clear, And gilt the spangled dew ; He saw his lady through the grate, But 'twas a transient view. The third night, wearied out, he slept Till near the morning tide, When, starting up, he seized his sword And to the castle hied. When lo ! he saw a ladder of ropes Depending from the wall ; And o'er the moat was newly laid A poplar strong and tall. And soon he saw his love descend, Wrapt in a tartan plaid, Assisted by a sturdy youth, In Highland garb y-clad. Amazed, confounded at the sight, He lay unseen and still ; And soon he saw them cross the stream,. And mount the neighbouring hill. Unheard, unknown of all within, The youthful couple fly ; But what can 'scape the lover's ken, Or shun his piercing eye 1 With silent step he follows close Behind the flying pair, And saw her hang upon his arm With fond familiar air. Thanks, gentle youth, she often said j My thanks thou well hast won : For me what wiles hast thou contrived 1 For me what dangers run ! And ever shall my grateful heart Thy services repay : — Sir Bertram would no farther hear, But cried,- Vile traitor, stay ! Vile traitor ! yield that lady up ! — And quick his sword he drew : The stranger turned in sudden rage, And at Sir Bertram flew. 524 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. "With mortal hate their vigorous arms Gave many a vengeful blow ; But Bertram's stronger hand prevailed, And laid the stranger low. Die, traitor, die ! — A deadly thrust Attends each furious word ; Ah ! then fair Isabel knew his voice, And rusht beneath his sword. stop, she cried ; O stop thy arm, Thou dost thy brother slay ! — And here the hermit paused and wept : His tongue no more could say. At length he cried, Ye lovely pair, How shall I tell the rest ? Ere I could stop my piercing sword, It fell, and stabbed, her breast. Wert thou thyself that hapless youth 1 Ah ! cruel fate ! they said. The hermit wept, and so did they : They sighed ; he hung his head. O ! blind and jealous rage, he cried, What evils from thee flow ? The hermit paused ; they silent mourned ; He wept, and they were woe. Ah ! when I heard my brother's name, And saw my lady bleed, 1 raved, I wept, I curst my arm, That wrought the fatal deed. In vain I claspt her to my breast, And closed the ghastly wound ; In vain I prest his bleeding corpse, And raised it from the ground. My brother, alas ! spake never more ; His precious life was flown ; She kindly strove to soothe my pain, Regardless of her own. Bertram, she said, be comforted, And live to think on me : May we in heaven that union prove, Which here was not to be ! ,«, , THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Bertram, she said, I still was true ; Thou only hadst my heart : May we hereafter meet in bliss ! We now, alas ! must part. For thee I left my father's hall, And flew to thy relief ; When, lo ! near Chiviot's fatal hills I met a Scottish chief, Lord Malcolm's son, whose proffered love I had refused with scorn ; He slew my guards, and seized on me Upon that fatal morn. And in these dreary hated walls He kept me close confined, And fondly sued and warmly prest To win me to his mind. Each rising morn increased my pain, Each night increased my fear : When wandering in this northern garb, Thy brother found me here. He quickly formed his brave design To set me captive free ; And on the moor his horses wait, Tied to a neighbouring tree. Then haste, my love, escape awayi And for thyself provide, And sometime fondly think on her Who should have been thy bride. Thus pouring comfort on my soul Even with her latest breath, She gave one parting fond embrace, And closed her eyes in death. In wild amaze, in speechless woe, . Devoid of sense I lay : Then sudden all in frantic mood I meant myself to slay z And rising up in furious haste, I seized the bloody brand : A sturdy arm here interposed, 526 And wrencht it from my hand. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. A crowd, that from the castle came, Had mist their lovely ward, And seizing me, to prison bare, And deep in dungeon barred. It chanced that on that very morn Their chief was prisoner ta'en : Lord Percy had us soon exchanged, And strove to soothe my pain. And soon those honoured dear remains To England were conveyed, And there within their silent tombs With holy rites were laid. For me, I loathed my wretched life, And oft to end it sought ; Till time, and thought, and holy men, Had better counsels taught. They raised my he#rt to that pure source Whence heavenly comfort flows : They taught me to despise the world, And calmly bear its woes. No more the slave of human pride, Vain hope, and sordid care, I meekly vowed to spend my life In penitence and prayer. The bold Sir Bertram now no more, Impetuous, haughty, wild, But poor and humble Benedict, Now lowly, patient, mild. My lands I gave to feed the poor, And sacred altars raise, And here, a lonely anchoret, I came to end my days. This sweet sequestered vale I chose, These rocks, and hanging grove j For oft beside that murmuring stream My love was wont to rove. My -noble friend approved my choice ; This, blest retreat he gave ; And here I carved her beauteous form, And scoopt this holy cave. 52 ^ THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. Full fifty winters, all forlorn, My life I've lingered here ; And daily o'er this sculptured saint I drop the pensive tear. \nd thou, dear brother of my heart, So faithful and so true, The sad remembrance of thy fate Still makes my bosom rue ! Yet not unpitied passed my life, Forsaken, or forgot, The Percy and his noble son Would grace my lowly cot. Oft the great earl, from toils of state And cumbrous pomp of power, Would gladly seek my little cell To spend the tranquil hour. But length of life is length of woe ; I lived to mourn his fall : I lived to mourn his godlike son, Their friends and followers all. But thou the honours of thy race, Loved youth, shalt now restore, And raise again the Percy name More glorious than before. He ceased, and on the lovely pair His choicest blessings laid, While they with thanks and pitying tears His mournful tale repaid. And now what present course to take, They ask the good old sire, And, guided by his sage advice, To Scotland they retire. Meantime their suit such favour found At Raby's stately hall, Earl Neville and his princely spous • Now gladly pardon all. She, suppliant at her nephew's throne, The royal grace implored : To all the honours of his race 628 The Percy was restored. THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. The youthful earl still more and more Admired his beauteous dame : Nine noble sons to him she bore, All worthy of their name. . [Warkworth Castle, in Northumberland, stands very boldly on a neck of land near the sea-shore, almost surrounded by the river Coquet, (called by our old Latin historians Coqueda,) which runs with a clear rapid stream, but when swollen with rain becomes violent and dangerous. About a mile from the Castle, in a deep romantic valley, are the remains of an Hermitage ; of which the chapel is still entire. This is hollowed with great elegance in a cliff near the river, as are also two adjoining apartments, which probably served for the sacristy and vestry, or were ap- propriated to some other sacred uses: for the former of these, which runs parallel with the chapel, is thought to have bad an altar in it, at which mass was occasionally celebrated, as well as in the chapel itself. Each of these apartments is extremely small ; for that which was the principal chapel does not in length exceed eighteen feet ; nor is more than seven feet and a half in breadth and height ; it is, however, very beautifully designed and executed in the solid rock ; and has all the decorations of a complete gothic Church, or Cathedral in miniature. But what principally distinguishes the chapel, is a small tomb or monument, on the south side of the altar ; on the top of which lies a female figure, extended in the manner that effigies are usually exhibited, praying on ancient tombs. This figure, which is very delicately designed, some have ignorantly called an image of the Virgin Mary ; though it has not the least resemblance to the manner in which she is represented in the Romish churches, who is usually erect, as the object of adoration, and never in a prostrate or recumbent posture. Indeed the real image of the blessed Virgin probably stood in a small nich, still visible be- hind the altar; whereas the figure of a Bull's Head, which is rudely carved at this Lady's feet, the usual place for the crest in old monuments, plainly proves her to have been a very different per- sonage. About the tomb are several other figures ; which, as well as the principal one above-mentioned, are cut in the natural rock, in the same manner as the little chapel itself, with all its ornaments, and the two adjoining apartments. What slight traditions are scattered through the country con- cerning the origin and foundation of this hermitage, tomb, &c , are delivered to the reader in the preceding rhymes. It is universally agreed, that the founder was one of the Bertram family, which had once consi- derable possessions in Northumberland, and were anciently Lords of Bothel Castle, situate about ten miles from Warkworth ; he has been thought to be the same Bertram that endowed Brink burn Priory, and built Brenkshaugh Chapel, which both stand in the same winding valley higher up the river. But Brinkburn Priory was founded in the reign of King Henry I., whereas the form of the C othic windows in this chapel, especially of those near the altar, is found rather to resemble the style of architecture that prevailed about the reign of King Edward III. And indeed that the sculpture in this chapel cannot be much older, appears from the crest which is placed at the Lady's feet on the tomb ; for Camden informs us, that armorial crests did not become hereditary till about the reign of King Edward II. These appearances, still extant, strongly confirm the account given in the poem, and plainly prove that the Hermit of Warkworth was not the same person that.founded Brinkburn Priory in the twelfth century, but rather one of the Bertram family who lived at a later period. It will, perhaps, gratify the curious reader to be informed, that from a word or two formerly legible over one of the chapel doors, it is believed that the text there inscribed was that Latin verse of the Psalmist, which is in our translation, (Ps. xlii. 3.) MY TEARS HAVE BEEN MY MEAT T>AY AND NlGHT. It is also certain, that the memory of the first Hermit was held in such regard and veneration by the Percy family, that they afterwards maintained a Chantry Priest, to reside in the Hermitage, and celebrate Mass in the chapel, whose allowance, uncommonly liberal and munificent, was con- tinued down to the dissolution of the monasteries ; and then the whole salary, together with the Hermitage and all its dependencies, reverted back to the family, having never been endowed in Mortmain. St. 54. Adjoining to the Cliff, which contains the Chapel of the Hermitage, are the remains of a small building, in which the Hermit dwelt. This consisted of one lower apartment, with a little bed-chamber over it, and is now in ruins: whereas the Chapel, cut in the solid rock, is still very entire and perfect. St. 63. In the little island of Coquet, near Warkworth, are still seen the ruins of a Cell, which belonged to the Benedictine Monks of Tinemouth- Abbey. St. 77. This is a Bull's Head, the crest of the Widdrington family. All the figures, &c. here described are still visible, only somewhat effaced with length of time. St. 93. In Lower Normandy are three places of the name of Percy: whence the family took the surname De Percy. St. 123. Wark Castle, a fortress belonging to the English, and of great note in ancient times, stood on the southern bank of the river Tweed, a little to the east of Tiviotdale, and not far from Kelso. It is now entirely destroyed. — Percy. 2 IS. 529 OB. THE ©ITOH ©IF §an eHAKLEJ H5AW MM. [This ballad was written by the * marvellous boy,* Thomas Chatterton, who died, by his own hand, it would seem, in 1770, aged seventeen years, nine months, and some days. It is one of the ' Poems' which he gave to the world as having been written by Thomas Rowley, ' parish preeste of St. John's, in the city of Bristol, in the fifteenth century;' and found by himself among some parchments taken by his father, — whose uncle was the sexton,— from the Muniment Room of St. Mary Redcliffe church, at Bristol. The literary controversy to which these poems gave rise is well known. Probably, how- ever, it would be difficult now-a-days to find a be- liever in ( Rowley the priest.' When and where the Ballad first appeared is a matter upon which editors and biographers seem one and all to be ignorant. It is here taken from the edition of 1777 (Lond. 8vo.), where it is stated to be * re- printed from the copy printed at London in 1772, with a few corrections from a copy made by Mr. Catcott, from one in Chatter ton's handwriting.' In all probability, however, it was first published in Chatterton's life-time, having been given by him to Mr. Oatcott. The person here celebrated under the name of Sir Charles Bawdin, was probably Sir Baldewyn Fulford, Knt., a zealous Lancastrian, who was executed at Bristol in the latter end of 1461, the first year of Edward the Fourth.] HE featherd songster chaunticleer Han wounde hys bugle-home, And tolde the earlie villager The commynge of the morne. THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streak es Of lyghte eclypse the greie, And herde the raven's croakynge throte Proclayme the fated daie. 4 Thou'rt ryght,' quod hee, ' for by the Godde That syttes enthron'd on hyghe! Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, To-daie shall surelie die.' Thenne wythe ajugge of nappy ale Hys knyghts dydd onne hymm waite; * Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie Hee leaves thys mortall state.' Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, Wythe harte brymmfulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the castle-gate, And to Syr Charles dydd goe. But whenne hee came, hys children twaine, And eke hys lovynge wyfe, Wyth brinie tears dydd wett the floore, For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. ' O goode Syr Charles!' sayd Canterlone, ' Badde tydings I doe brynge." ' Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr Charles; * Whatte says thie traytor kynge?' , ' I greeve to telle; before yonne sonne Does fromme the welkin flye, Hee hathe uponne hys honnour sworn, Thatt thou shalt surelie die.' ' Wee all must die,' quod brave Syr Charles ; ' Of thatte I'm not affearde; Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? Thanke Jesii, I'm prepard: Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, I'de sooner die to-daie, Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie.' Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out, To tell the maior straite, To gett all thynges ynne reddyness For goode Syr Charles's fate. 531 THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kyngp And felle down onne hys knee; • I'm come,' quod hee, ' unto your grace, To move your clemencye.' ' Thenne,' quod the king, ' youre tale speke out, You have been much oure friend; Whatever youre request may bee, Wee wylle to ytte attende.' • My nobile leige! alle my request Ys for a nobile knyghte, Who, tho' mayhap hee has donne wrong Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte. Hee has a spouse and children twaine; Alle rewynd are for aie, Yf thatt you are resolvd to lett Charles Bawdin die to-daie.' ' Speke nott of such a traytour vile,' The kynge ynne furie sayd; 4 Before the evening starre doth sheenc, Bawdin shall loose hys hedde. Justice does loudlie for hym call, And hee shalle have hys meede; Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else Ait present doe you neede':' • My nobile leige!' goode Canynge sayde, ' Leave justice to our Godde, And laye the yronne rule asyde; Be thyne the olyve rodde. Was Godde to searche our hertes and reines The best were synners grete; Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne, Ynne alle thys mortall state. Lette mercie rule thyne infante reigne, 'T'wylle faste thye crowne fulle sure ; From race to race thy familie Alle sov'reigns shall endure: But yffe withe bloode and slaughter thou Begiime thy infante reigne, Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows 632 Wylle never long remayne.' THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, « Canynge, awaie! Thys tray tour vile Has scorn'd my power and mee; Howe canst thou thenne for such a mann Intreate my clemencye?' * Mie nobile leige! the trulie brave Wylle val'rous actions prize; Respect a brave and nobile mynde Altho' ynne enemies.' • Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n, Thatte dydd mee being gyve, I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade, Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve! Bie Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n, Thys sunne shall be hys laste!' Thenne Canynge droppt a brinie teare. And from the presence paste. Wyth herte brymfulle of gnawyng grief, Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe, And satt hymm downe uponne a stooie, And teares beganne to flowe. « Wee alle must die,' quod brave Syr Chane^, Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne? Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate, Of alle wee mortall menne. Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul Runns overr att thyne eye; Is ytte for my most welcome doome, Thatt thou doste child-lyke crye?' Quod godlie Canynge, ' I doe weepe, Thatt thou soe soone must dye, And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; 'Tys thys that wettes myne eye.' ' Thenne drie the teares that out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge; Dethe I despise, and alle the power Of Edwarde, traytor kynge. Whan through the tyrant's welcom means I shall resigne my lyfe, The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe. 633 THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mee; Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee? Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, Whan thousands dy'd arounde; Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde: • Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte That cutte the airie waie, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my herte, And close myne eyes for aie? And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, Looke wanne and bee dysmay'd? Ne! fromme my herte flie childishe feere, Bee alle the manne display'd.' « Ah, goddelike Henrie! Godde forfende And guarde thee and thie sonne, Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott, Why, thenne hys wylle bee donne.' ' My honest friende, my faulte has beene To serve Godde and mye prynce; And thatt I no tyme-server am, My dethe wylle soone convynce Ynne London citye was I borne. Of parents of grete note; My fadre dyd a nobile armes Emblazon onne hys cote; I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone Where soone I hope to goe, Where wee for ever shall bee blest. From oute the reech of woe. Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite; And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe The wronge cause fromme the ryghte: Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande To feede the hungrie-poore, Ne lette mie servants dryve aw aie, S34 The hungrie fromme my doore: THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, And none can say butt alle mye lyfe I have hys wordyes kept: And summ'd the actyonns of the daie Eache nyghte before I slept. I have a spouse, goe aske of her Yffldefyl'dherbedde? I have a kynge, and none can laie Blacke treason onne my hedde. i'nne Lent and onne the holie eve, Fromme fleshe I dydd refrayne; Whie should I thenne appeare dismay a To leave thys worlde of payne? Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce I shalle ne see thie dethe; Moste willynglie ynne thye juste cause Doe I resign my brethe. Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe! Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; "Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, Thye brookes wyth bloude wylle flowe. Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, And godlie Henrie's reigne, Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies For those of bloude and payne? Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne And mangled by a hynde, I doe defye the traytor's power, Hee can ne harm my mynde: Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole, Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, And ne ryche monument of brasse Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; Yette ynne the holie booke above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the servants of the Lorde Mye name shall lyve for aie, Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortal! lyfe: Farewelle vayne worlde, and alle that's deare, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe! THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes As e'er the moneth of Maie; Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, Wyth my dere wyfe to stale.' Quod Canynge, ' 'Tys a goodlie thynge, To bee prepared to die; And from thys world of peyne and greefe To Godde ynne heav'n to flie.' And nowe the bell beganne to tolle, And claryonnes to sounde; Syr Charles hee herde the horses' feeto A-prauncing onne the grounde. And just before the officers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe "Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. ' Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Ynne quiet lett mee die; Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christian soule Maye looke onne dethe as I. Sweet Florence! why these brinie teeres? I Theye washe my soule awaie, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, Wythe thee, sweete dame, to staie. 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Untoe the lande of blysse; Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love Receive thys holie kysse.' Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, Tremblynge these -wordes spoke: Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! My herte ys welle nyghe broke. Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.' And nowe the officers came ynne, To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe 538 And thus to her dydd saie: THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, ' I goe to lyfe, and not to dethe, Truste thou ynne Godde above, And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde, And ynne theyre hertes hym love. Teache them to runne the nobile race Thatt I theyre fader runne, Florence! shou'd dethe thee take — adieu! Yee officers leade onne.' Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere; 'Oh staie, mie husbande, lorde, and lyfe 1 Syr Charles thenne droppt a tere. ' Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud, Shee fellen onne the flore ; Syr Charles exerted alle hys inyghte, And march'd fromme oute the dore. Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete,- Lookes that enshone ne more concern Thanne anie ynne the strete. Before hym went the council-menne. Ynne scarlett robes and golde, And tassils spanglyng ynne the sunne, Muche glorious to beholde : The freers of Seincte Augustyne nex* Appeared to the syght, Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes, Of godlie monkysh plyght. Ynne diff'rent partes a godlie psaulme. Most sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyr backe syx my nstrelles cam c. Who tuned the strunge bataunt. Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came; Eachone the bowe dydd bende, From rescue of Kynge Henrie's friends. Syr Charles forr to defend. Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde, Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde. g 3 y THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe Of archers stronge and stoute, Wythe bended bowe eachone ynne hande, Marched ynne goodlie rout. Seincte Jameses freers marched next, Eachone hys parte dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tuned the strunge bataunt. Then came the maior and eldermenne, Ynne clothe of Scarlett deckt; And theyre attendyng menne eachone Lyke easterne princes trickt. And after them a multitude Of citizenns dydd thronge; The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, As hee dydd passe alonge. And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, ' O thou thatt savest marine fromme sinne, Washe mye soule clean thys daie.' At the grete mynsterr wyndowe sate, The kynge ynne myckle state, To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge To hys most welcom fate. Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, Thatt Edwarde, hee myghte here, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, And thus hys words declare : * Thou seest me, Edward! tray tour vile! Exposed to infamie; Butt bee assured, disloyall manne, I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee. Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, Thou wearest nowe a crowne; And hast appoynted mee to dye, By power nott thyne owne. Thou thynkest I shall dye to daie; I have beene dede till nowe, And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne For aie uponne my browe; THE BEISTOWE TBAGEDIE; OR, Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares, Shalt rule thys fyckle Jande, To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande; Thye power unjust, thou traytour slave! Shall falle onne thye owne hedde — ' Fromme out of hearyng of the kynge, Departed thenne the sledde. Kynge Edwardes soule rush'd to hys face, Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie, And to hys broder Gloucester Hee thus dydd speke and sale,: ' To hyin that soe-much-dreaded dethe Ne ghastlie terrors brynge; Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe; Hee's greater thanne a kynge!' ' Soe lett hym die!' Duke Richard sayde; ' And maye eachone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe, And feede the carryon crowes.' And nowe the horses gentlie drewe Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; The axe dyd glysterr ynne the sunne, Hys pretious bloude to spylle. Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffolde goe, As uppe a gilded carre Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre. And to the people hee dydd sale: ' Beholde you see mee dye, For servynge loyally mye kynge, My kynge most rightfullie. As long as Edwarde rules thys land, Ne quiet you wylle knowe; Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slaine, And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, Whenne ynn adversitye; Lyke mee, untoe the true cause styck; And for the true cause dye.' 039 THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. Thenne hee, wythe preestes, uponne hys knees, A prayer to Godde dydd make, Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe, Hys partynge soule to take. Thenne kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde, Most seemlie onne the blocke; Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once The able heddesmanne stroke: And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, And rounde the scaffolde twyne; And teares. enow to wasn't awaie, Dydd flowe fromme each manne's eyne. The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre Ynto foure parties cutte; And everye parte and eke hys hedde, Uponne a pole was putte. One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, One onne the mynster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen dydd devoure. The other onne Seincte Poules goode-gate, A dreery spectacle; Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse, Ynne hyghe streete most nobile. Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate; Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And grante hee maye wythe Bawdin's soule, Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie syng! 640 1 f^-yl Q: [This ballad, — so well known by the beautiful glee for which it has furnished words, — was first published in Evans's ' Old Ballads, Historical and Narrative, with some of modern date;' the first edition of which appeared in I777» in two volumes, and a second, in four volumes, in 1 784. It is understood, as Sir Walter Scott observes, (Introd. Rem. on Pop. Poetry,) to have been the produc- tion of William Julius Mickle, translator of the Lusiad, though never claimed by him, nor received among his works. ' His facility of versification,' says Sir Walter, ' was so great, that, being a printer by profession, he frequently put his lines into types without taking the trouble previously to put them into writing;' and, as, with this facility, 'he united a power of verbal melody which might have been envied by bards of much greater renown, he must be con- sidered as very successful in these efforts, if his ballads be regarded as avowedly modern productions. If they are to be judged of as accurate imitations of ancient poetry, they have less merit ; the deception being only maintained by a huge store of double consonants, strewed at random into ordinary words, resembling the real fashion of antiquity as little as the niches, turrets and tracery of plaster stuck upon a modern front' Upon this hint from so high an authority, we have ventured to avoid the incongruity against which it is directed-] LOW, warder ! blow thy sounding horn, And thy banner wave on high ; For theChristians have fought in the holy land, And have won the victory ! ' Loud, loud the warder blew his horn, And his banner waved on high : ' Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, And the feast eat merrily.' THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. Then bright the castle banners shone On every tower on high, And all the minstrels sang aloud For the Christian's victory : And loud the warder blew his horn, On every turret high, — ' Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, And the feast eat merrily. The warder he lookt from the tower on high, As far as he could see : ' I see a bold Knight ! and by his red cross, He comes from the East country.' Then loud that warder blew his horn ; And called, till he was hoarse, ' There comes a bold Knight, and on his shield bright He beareth a flaming cross.' Then down the lord of the castle came The Red-cross Knight to meet, And when the Red- cross Knight he spied, Right loving he did him greet : * Thou'rt welcome here, Sir Red-cross Knight, For thy fame's well known to me ! And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, And we'll feast right merrily.' ' O ! I am come from the holy land, Where Christ did live and die ; Behold the device I bear on my shield, The Red-cross Knight am I : And we have fought in the holy land, And we've won the victory ; For with valiant might did the Christians fight, And made the proud Pagans fly.' ' Thou'rt welcome here, dear Red-cross Knight ! Come, lay thy armour by ; And, for the good tidings thou dost bring, We'll feast us merrily : For all in my castle shall rejoice, That we've won the victory ; And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, 642 And the feast eat merrily ! ' THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. ' O, I cannot stay,' cried the Red-cross Knight, * But must go to my own country ; Where manors and castles ■will he my reward, And all for my bravery.' ' O ! say not so, thou Red-cross Knight ! But if you'll bide with me, With manors so wide, and castles beside, I'll honour thy bravery.' ' I cannot stay,' cried the Red-cross Knight, ' Nor can I bide with thee ; But I must haste to my king and his knights, Who're waiting to feast with me.' ' O ! mind them not, dear Red-cross Knight ! But stay and feast with me ; And the mass shall be sung, and the bells be rung, And we'll banquet merrily.' ' I cannot stay,' cried the Red-cross Knight, ' Nor can I feast with thee ; But I must haste to a pleasant bower, Where a lady's waiting for me ! ' ' O say not so, dear Red-cross Knight, Nor heed that fond lady ; For she can't compare with my daughter so rare, And she shall attend on thee.' ' Now must I go,' said the Red-cross Knight, ' For that lady I'm to wed, And the feast-guests and bride-maids all are met, And prepared the bridal bed ! ' ' Now nay, now nay, thou Red-cross Knight, My daughter shall wed with thee ; And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, And we'll feast right merrily ! ' And now the silver lute's sweet sound, Re-echoed through the hall, And in that lord's fair daughter came, With her ladies clad in pall ; That lady was deckt in costly robes, And shone as bright as day, And with courtesy sweet, the knight she did greet, And prest him for to stay. 543 THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. * Right welcome, brave Sir Red-cross Knight ! Right welcome unto me : And here I hope long time thou'lt stay, And bear us company ; And for thy exploits in the holy land, That hath gained us the victory, The mass shall be sung, and the bells be rung, And we'll feast right merrily.' ' Though ever thou press me, lady fair ! I cannot stay with thee.' That lady frowned, to hear that knight So slight her courtesy. ' It grieves me much, thou lady fair, That here I cannot stay, For a beauteous lady is waiting for me, Whom I've not seen many a day.' ' Now fie on thee, uncourteous knight, Thou shouldst not say me nay ; As for the lady that's waiting for thee, Go see her another day. So say no more, but stay, brave knight, And bear us company ; And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, And we'll feast right merrily.' PART II. And, as the lady prest the knight, With her ladies clad in pall ; O ! then bespake a pilgrim-boy, As he stood in the hall, ' Now Christ thee save, Sir Red-cross Knight, I'm come from the north country ; Where a lady is laid all on her death bed, And evermore calls for thee.' ' Alas ! alas ! thou pilgrim-boy, Sad news thou tellest me ; Now must I ride full hastily, To comfort that dear lady ! ' ' — heed him not ! ' the ladies cried, ' But send a page to see ; While the mass is sung, and the bells are rung, Sa And we feast merrily.' THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. Again bespake the pilgrim-boy, * Ye need not send to see : For know, Sir Knight, that lady's dead, And died for love* of thee ! ' O ! then the Red-cross Knight was pale, And not a word could say ! But his heart did swell, and his tears down fell, And he almost swooned away. ' Now fie on thee, thou weakly knight, To weep for a lady dead : Were I a noble knight like thee, I'd find another to wed. So, come cheer and comfort thy heart, .And be good company ; And the mass shall be sung, and the bells be rung, And we'll feast thee merrily.' In vain that wily lady strove, The sorrowing knight to cheer, Each word he answered with a groan, Each soothing with a tear. ' And now farewell thou noble lord, And farewell lady fair ! In pleasure and joy your hours employ, Nor think of my despair.' * And where is her grave ? * cried the Red-cross Knight, The grave where she doth lay ! ' O, I know it well,' cried the pilgrim-boy, ' And I'll show thee on the way.' The knight was sad, the pilgrim sighed, While the warder loud did cry, Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, And the feast eat merrily. Meanwhile arose the lord's daughter, And to her ladies did call, O ! what shall we say, to stay the knight, For he must not leave the hall ! For much that lady was in love, With the gallant Red-cross Knight, And ere many a day, with this knight so jjay. Had hoped her troth to plight. Bi5 2n THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. ' O ! ' then bespake these ladies gay As they stood clad in pall, ' O ! we'll devise how to make this knigh Stay in the castle hall.' ' Now that's well said, my ladies dear ; And if he'll stay with me, Then the mass shall be sung, and the bells be rung-, And we'll feast right merrily.' 546 Then softly spake those ladies fair, Low whispering at the wall, ' O, we've devised how to keep the knight, In thy fair castle hall : Now, lady, command the warder blithe, To come from yon tower high, With tidings to say to inveigle away Yon wily pilgrim-boy ! ' Go, run ! go, run, my foot-page dear, To the warder take thy way, And one of my ladies shall go with thee, To tell thee what to say : And now if we can but compel the knight, To stay in the castle with me, Then the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, And we'll all feast merrily,' The warder came, and blew his horn, And thus aloud did cry, ' Ho ! is there a pilgrim in the hall, Come from the north country ? For there's a foot-page waits without, To speak with him alone.' Thus the warder did call till out of the hall The pilgrim-boy is gone; Meanwhile bespake the ladies gay, As they stood clad in pall, * Right gladi brave knightj we welcome thee Unto our castle hall.' But the knight he heeded not their talk, Although they cried with glee, Let the. mass be sung, and the bells be rung, And feast thee merrily. THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. ' Bat where's the pilgrim-boy,' he cried, ' To show me my lady's grave 1 ' That he should be sought for throughout the place, The knight full oft did crave. Then loud replied the ladies gay, ' Now foul that knave befall ; For lucre he hath beguiled thee, And now hath fled the hall. And now, Sir Knight, do not give heed To what he said to thee, But send a page to the north country, That lady fair to see ; And, while he's gone to comfort her, O ! thou shalt share our glee ; While the mass is sung, and the bells are rung, And the feast eat merrily. But while those ladies, blithe and gay, Attuned their lutes to joy, The knight was sad, and searcht around, To find the pilgrim-boy : He searcht the castle all about, Through every turn and wind, But all in vain his toil and pain, The pilgrim-boy to find. In vain the lord's fair daughter sent Her messengers to call The knight, he would not heed their words, Nor enter the castle hall. In vain the wanton ladies sung, And clamorous warders cry, — Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung, And the feast eat merrily. O ! then bespake those ladies gay, As they stood clad in pall, ' Weep not, weep not, dear lady, Though he'll not enter the hall ; But send to the warder from the tower, To bring the pilgrim-boy, Whom we'll persuade to lend his aid, This proud knight to decoy. - - » 5i "? THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. We'll make that boy, on pain of death, The Red-cross Knight deceive; So that no more on his, account, The fair young knight shall grieve, And then we'll keep the Red-cross Knight, To bear us company ; And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be: rung, And we will feast merrily.' PART III. And now 'twas night, all dark and drear, And cold cold blew the wind, While the Red-cross Knight sought all about, The pilgrim-boy to find. And still he wept, and still he sighed, „ .,„/ As he mourned his lady dear ! — * And where' s the feast ; and where' s the guest Thy bridal bed to cheer ?' „>« ' > ■ * ■ 'i- , ' Again he sighed ; and wept forlorn, .,„.-, For his lady that was dead ! — ' Lady, how sad thy wedding-tide! How cold thy bridal bed !' Thus the Rsd-cross Knight roamed sore and sad, While all around did cry, i Let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, And the feast be eat merrily.' And now the gentle moon around Her silver lustre shed, Brightened each ancient wall and tower, And distant mountain's head ; By whose sweet light the knight perceived, (A sight which gave him joy !) From a dungeon dread, the warder led The faithful pilgrim-boy! In vain the warder strove to hide The pilgrim-boy from him ; The knight he ran and claspt the youth, In spite of the warder grim. The warder, though wrath, his banner waved: And still aloud did cry, Let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, 5i8 And the feast eat merrily. THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT: ' I'm glad I've found thee, pilgrim-boy, And thou shalt go with me ; And thou shalt lead to my lady s grave, And great thy reward shall be. 1 The affrighted pilgrim wrung his hands, And shed full many a tear : ' Her grave !' he cried, and mournful sig hed, ' I dread's — not far from here!' ' The knight he led the pilgrim-boy, Into the castle hall, Where sat the lord, and his daughter fair, And the ladies clad in pall. ' I go !' he cried, ' with the pilgrim-boy, So think no more of me, But let your minstrels sing, and your bells all ring, And feast ye merrily.' Up then arose the lord's daughter, And called to the pilgrim-boy — * O come to me ! for I've that to say Will give to thee much joy.' Full loth the pilgrim was to go, Full loth from the knight to part : And, lo ! out of spite, with a dagger bright She hath stabbed him to the heart. ' Why art thou pale, thou pilgrim-boy V The knight, all wondering cried, ' Why dost thou faint thou pilgrim-boy, When I am by thy side V ' Oh ! I am stabbed, dear Red-cross Knight, Yet grieve not thou for me ; But let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, And feast thee merrily.' The knight he ran and claspt the youth, And oped his pilgrim-vest ; And, lo ! it was his lady fair, His lady dear, he prest ! Her lovely- breast, like ermine white, Was panting with the fright; Her dear heart's blood, in crimson flood, Ran pouring in his sight. fl49 ' Grieve not for me, my faithful knight !' The lady, faint, did cry ; ' I'm well content, my faithful knight, Since in thy arms I die ! Then comfort thee, my constant love ! Nor think thee more of me ; But let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, A.nd feast thee merrily. Like pilgrim-boy I've followed thee, In truth full cheerfully ; Resolved, if thou shouldst come to ill, Dear knight ! to die with thee : And much I feared, some wily fair Would keep thee from my sight ; And, by her bright charms, lure from my arms, My dear loved Red-cross Knight ! ' ' Heaven forfend !' the knight replied, That thou shouldst die for me ; But if so hapless is thy fate, Thy knight will die with thee !' 'O say not so ! for, well my knight Hath proved his love for me ! But let the minstrels sing, and the bells 'yring, And feast thee merrily.' The knight he prest her to his heart, And bitterly he sighed : The lovely lady strove to cheer, Till, in his arms, she died ! The knight he laid her corpse adowi And Ms deadly sword drew forth ; Then lookt he around and grimly frowned, All woe-begone with wrath. O then bespake the ladies fair, As they stood clad in pall, ' ! this will be our burial-place That was our castle hall. — No more, to our silver lute's sweet sound, Shall we dance with revelry ; "Nor the mass be sung, nor the bells be rung, g5() Nor the feast be eat merrily.' THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. Then up arose the lord's daughter, And never a word spake she. But quick upon the knight's drawn sword She flung her franticly : The knight to his own dear lady turned, And laid him by her side, With tears embraced her bleeding corpse, Sighed her dear name — and died ! . O ! then bespake the affrighted lord, And full of woe spake he, ' Foul fall the hour this Red-cross knight Did come to visit me ! For now no more will my daughter fair, Rejoice my guests and me, Nor the mass be sung, nor the bells be rung, Nor the feast held merrily.' And then he spake to the ladies fair, As they stood clad in pall, ' Lo ! this thy lady's burial place, That was her castle hall ! O then be warned, from her sad fate, And hate the wanton love ; But in him confide who for thee died And now sits throned above. •Warder, no more resound thy horn, Nor thy banner wave on high ; Nor the mass be sung, nor the bells be rung, Nor the feast eat merrily.' — No more the warder blows his horn, Nor his banner waves on high, Nor the mass is sung, nor the bells 'yrung. Nor the feast eat merrily. 551 (EsrtfWtt. r [This ballad was written by Dr. John Langhorne, (born 1735, died 1779,) author of the well-known ' Letters of Theodosius and Cons tan tia,' and of ' A Translation of Plutarch's Lives,' written in conjunction with his brother 'which/ says Mr. Campbell, ('Specimens of the British Poets,' London' 1841,) ' might be reckoned a real service to the bulk of the reading community ;' and which, it may he added, still keeps its place as the translation of Plutarch - * Owen of Carron' was first published in 1778, 4to, from which edition it is here taken, and was according to Mr. Campbell, 'the last of the author's works- It will not,' he says, ' be much to the advantage of this story to compare it with the simple and affecting ballad of ' Gil Maurice/ (Supra, Vol. I., p. 188,) from which it is drawn. Yet having read ' Owen of Carron' with delight when I was a boy, I am still so far a slave to early associations as to retain some predilection for it.' In this feeling, probably, many readers of the ' Pictorial Balladist ' will participate ; while those who cannot refer any ' predilection ' they may have for it to * early associations,' may find a reason for likiner it in the ballad itself] N Carron's side the primrose pale "Why does it wear a purple hue ? Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,* Why stream your eyes with pity's dewf OWEN OF CARRON. "Tis all with gentle Owen's blood That purple grows the primrose pale j That pity pours the tender flood From each fair eye in Marlivale. The evening star sat in his eye, The sun his golden tresses gave, The north's pure morn her orient dye/ To him who rests in yonder grave ', Beneath no high, historic stone, Though nobly born, is Owen laid ; Stretchy 0& the greenwood's lap alone } He sleeps beneath the waving shade. There many a flowery race hath sprung, And fled before the mountain gale, Since first his ample dirge he sung ; Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! Yet still, when May with fragrant feet Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, That dirgre I hear so simply sweet Far echoed from each evening fold. II. 'Twas in the pride of William's day, When Scotland's honours flour isht still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway, Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill. And far for him their fruitful store The fairer plains of Carron spread ; In fortune rich, in offspring poor, An only daughter crown' d his bed. O ! write not poor — the wealth that flows In waves of gold round India's throne, All in her shining breast that glows, To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone. For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd, The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave, And smoother Italy applied, And many an English baron brave. In vain by foreign arts assail' d No foreign loves her breast beguile, And England's honest valour fail'd, Paid with a cold, but courteous smile. 553 OWEN OF CARRON. ' Ah ! woe to thee, young Nitbisdale, That o'er thy cheek those roses stray" d, Thy breath, the violet of the vale, Thy voice, the music of the shade ! Ah ! woe to thee, that Ellen's love Alone to thy soft tale would yield ! For soon those gentle arms shall prove, The conflict of a ruder field.' 'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke, And cast a rueful glance behind, As from her dim wood-glen she broke, And mounted on the moaning wind. She spoke and vanisht — more unmoved Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest, The valiant youth by Ellen loved, With aught that fear or fate suggest. For love, methinks, hath power to raise The soul beyond a vulgar state ; Th' unconquer'd banners he displays Control our fears and fix our fate. III. 'Twas when, on summer's softest eve, Of clouds that wander' d west away, Twilight with gentle hand did weave Her fairy robe of night and day ; When all the mountain-gales were still, And the waves slept against the shore, And the sun, sunk beneath the hill, Left his last smile on Lemmermore ; Led by those waking dreams of thought That warm the young unpractised breast, Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought, And Carron murmur' d near, and sooth'd her into rest. IV. There is some kind and courtly sprite That o'er, the realm of fancy reigns, Throws sunshine on the mask of night, And smiles at slumber's powerless chains : 'Tis told, and I believe the tale, At this soft hour that sprite was there, And spread with fairer flowers the vale, 5S * And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air. OWEN OF CARBON. A bower he framed (for he could frame What long might weary mortal wigh Swift as the lightning's rapid flame Darts on the unsuspecting sight.) . Such bower he framed with magic hand, As well that wizard bard hath wove, In scenes where fair Armida's wand Waved all the witcheries of love. Yet was it wrought in simple show ; Nor Indian mines nor orient shores Had lent their glories here to glow, Or yielded here their shining stores. All round a poplar's trembling arms The wild rose wound her damask flower ; The woodbine lent her spicy charms, That loves to weave the lover's bower. The ash, that courts the mountain-air, In all her painted blooms array' d, The wilding's blossom blushing fair, Combined to form the flowery shade. With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast,, The cowslip's sweet reclining head, The violet of sky-woven vest, Was all the fairy ground bespread. But who is he, whose locks so fair Adown his manly shoulders flow ? Beside him lies the hunter's spear, Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow. He bends to Ellen — (gentle sprite ! Thy sweet seductive arts forbear) He courts her arms with fond delight, And instant vanishes in air. V. Hast thou not found in early dawn Some soft ideas melt away, If o'er sweet vale, or flowery lawn, The sprite of dreams hath bid. thee stray 1 Hast thou not some fair object seen, And, when the fleeting form was past, Still on thy memory found its mien, And felt the fond idea last ! 555 Thou hast — and oft the pictured view, Seen in some vision counted vain, Has struck thy wondering eye anew, And brought the long-lost dream again. With warrior bow, with hunter's spear, With locks adown his shoulder spread, Young Nithisdale is ranging near — He's ranging near yon mountain's head. Scarce had one pale moon past away, And fill'd her silver urn again, When in the devious chase to stray, Afar from all his woodland train, To Carron's banks his fate consign'd, And, all to shun the fervid hour, He sought some friendly shade to find, And found the visionary bower. VI. Led by the golden star of love. Sweet Ellen took her wonted; way, And in the deep-defending grove Sought refuge from the fervid day — O ! who is lie whose ringlets fair Disorder'd o'er lis green vest flow, ■> Keclined in rest — whose sunny hair Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow ? 'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest, (Ah me ! that sprites can fate control !) That lives still imaged on her breast, , That lives still pictured in her soul. As when some gentle spirit fled From earth to breathe- Ely sian air, And, in the train whom we call dead, Perceives its long-loved partner there ; Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er, Resistless, o'er its airy' frame, To find its future fate restore The object of its former flame : So Ellen stood — less power to move Had he, who,, bound in slumber's chain, Seem'd haply o'er his hills to rove, 566 And wind his woodland chase again. OWEN OF CARRON. She stood, but trembled — mingled fear, And fond delight, and melting love, Seized all ber soul ; sbe came not near, She came not near that fated grove. She strives to fly — from wizard's wand As well might powerless captive fly — The new-cropt flower falls from her hand,— Ah ! fall not with that flower to die ! yn. Hast thou not seen some azure gleam Smile in the morning's orient eye, And skirt the reddening cloud's soft beam What time the sun was hasting nign ? Thou hast — and thou canst fancy well. • As any IStuse that meets thine ear,: The soul-set eye of Nithisdale, When, waked, it fixed on Ellen near. Silent they gazed — that silence broke ; * Hail, goddess of these groves/ he cried ' O let me wear thy gentle yoke I O let me in thy service bide ! For thee I'll climb the mountain steep, Unwea-ied chase the destined prey ; For thee I'll pierce the wild wood deep, And part the sprays that vex thy way. For thee ' — * O stranger, cease,' she said. And swift awky, like Daphne, flew ; But Daphne's flight was not delayed ,rDt ,!"; * ; .. By aught that to her bosom grew. . J u It,'' " 'Iwas Atalanta's golden fruit, The fond idea that confined Fair Ellen's steps, and blest his suit, Who was not far, not far behind. VIII. O love ! within those golden vales, Those genial airs where thou wast born, Where nature, listening thy soft tales, Leans on the rosy breast of morn ; Where the sweet smiles, the graces dwell, And tender sighs the heart emove, in silent eloquence to tell Thy tale, O soul-subduing love ! §gy OWEN OF CARBON. Ah ! wherefore should grim rage be nigh, And dark distrust, with changeful face, And jealousy's reverted eye Be near thy fair, thy favour'd place ? IX. Earl Barnard was of high degree, And lord of many a lowland hind ; And long for Ellen love had he, Had love, but not of gentle kind. From Moray's halls her absent hour He watcht with all a miser's care ; The wide domain, the princely dower Made Ellen more than Ellen fair. Ah wretch ! to think the liberal soul May thus with fair affection part I Though Lothian's vales thy sway control, Know, Lothian is not worth one heart. Studious he marks her absent hour, And, winding far where Carron flows, Sudden he sees the fated bower, And red rage on his dark brow glows. For who is he ? — "lis Nithisdale ! And that fair form with arm reclined On his ?— 'Tis Ellen of the vale, "Tis she (O powers of vengeance !) kind. Should he that vengeance swift pursue ? No — that would all his hopes destroy ; Moray would vanish from his view, And rob him of a miser's joy. Unseen to Moray's halls he hies — He calls his slaves, his ruffian band, And, ' Haste to yonder groves,' he cries, 'And ambusht lie by Carron' s strand. A* ■•!:: I I ' What time ye mark from bower or glen A gentle lady take her way, To distance due, and far from ken, Allow her length of time to stray. Then ransack straight that range of grove With hunter's spear, and vest of green, If chance a rosy stripling roves, — Ye well can aim your arrows keen.' OWEN OF CARBON. And now the ruffian slaves are nigh, And Ellen takes her homeward way ; Though stay'd by many a tender sigh, She can no longer, longer stay. Pensive, against yon poplar pale The lover leans his gentle heart, Revolving many a tender tale, And wondring still how they could part. Three arrows pierced the desert air, Ere yet his tender dreams depart ; . And one struck deep his forehead fair, And one went through his gentle heart. Love's waking dream is lost in sleep — He lies beneath yon poplar pale ; Ah ! could we marvel ye should weep, Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! X. When all the mountain gales were still, And the wave slept against the shore, And the sun, sunk beneath the hill, Left his last smile on Lemmermore ; Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way Along the fairy-featured vale ; Bright o'er his wave does Carron play, And soon she'll meet her Nithisdale. She'll meet him soon — for, at her sight, Swift as the mountain deer he sped ; The evening shades will sink in night — Where art thou, loitering lover, fled ? O ! she will chide thy trifling stay, E'en now the soft reproach she frames : ' Can lovers brook such long delay ? Lovers that boast of ardent flames ! ' He comes not — weary with the chase, Soft slumber o'er his eyelids throws Her veil— we'll steal one dear embrace, We'll gently steal on his repose. This is the bower — we'll softly tread — He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale — Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled, Thy heart will far forego my tale ! 359 OWEN OF CARBON. XI. Ellen is not in princely bower, She's not in Moray's splendid train j Their mistress dear, at midnight hour, Her weeping maidens seek in vain. Her pillow swells not deep with down ; For her no balms their sweets exhale : Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown, Prest by her lovely cheek as pale. On that fair cheek, that flowing hair, The broom its yellow leaf hath shed, And the chill mountain's early air Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head. As the soft star of orient day, When clouds involve his rosy light, Darts through the gloom a transient ray, And leaves the world once more to night, Beturning hfe illumes her eye, And slow fee languid orb unfolds, — What are thost oloody arrows nigh ? Sure, bloody arrows she beholds ! What was that form so ghastly pale, That low beneath the poplar lay ? 'Twas some poor youth — " Ah Nithisdale '.' She said, and silent sunk away. XII. The morn is on the mountains spread, The woodlark trills his liquid strain — Can morn's sweet music rouse the dead ? Give the set eye its soul again ? A shepherd of that gentler mind Which nature not profusely yields, Seeks in these lonely shades to find Some wanderer from his little fields. Aghast he stands — and simple fear O'er all his paly visage glides — * Ah me ! what means this misery here ? What fate this lady fair betides V He bears her to his friendly home, When life, he finds, has but retired ;— With haste he frames the lover's tomb, S6G For his is quite, is quite expired ! OWEN OF CARRON. XIII. ' O hide me in the humble bower,' Returning late to life,' she said ; • I'll bind thy crook with many a flower ; With many a rosy wreath thy head. Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove, And if my love asleep is laid, O ! wake him not; but softly move Some pillow to that gentle head. Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain, Thou knowst the sunrise o'er the sea — But O ! no lamb in all thy train Was e'er so mild, so mild as he.' * His head is on the wood-moss laid ; I did not wake his slumber deep^- Sweet sings the red-breast o'er the shade — Why, gentle lady, would you weep? ' As flowers that fade in burning day, At evening find the dew-drop dear, But fiercer feel, the noontide ray, When softened by the nightly tear ; Returning in the flowing tear, This lovely flower, more sweet than they, Found her fair soul, and, wandering near, The stranger, reason, crost her way. Found her fair soul — Ah ! so to find Was but more dreadful grief to know ! Ah ! sure the privilege of mind, Cannot be worth the wish of woe ! XIV. On melancholy's silent urn, A softer shade of sorrow falls, But Ellen can no more return, No more return to Moray's halls. Beneath the low and lonely shade, The slow-consuming hour she'll weep, Till nature seeks her last-left aid, In the sad sombrous arms of sleep. ' These jewels, all unmeet for me, Shalt thou,' she said, ' good shepherd take ■ These gems will purchase gold for thee, And these be thine for Ellen's sake. 561 2o OWEN OF CARRON. ' So fail thou not, at eve or morn, The rosemary's pale hough to bring — Thou knowst where I was found forlorn, Where thou hast heard the red-breast sing. " Heedful I'll tend thy flocks the while, Or aid thy shepherdess's care, For I will share her humble toil, And I her friendly roof will share.' XV. And now two longsome years are past In luxury of lonely pain — The lovely mourner, found at last, To Moray's halls is borne again. Yet Jias she left one object dear, That wears love's sunny eye of joy Is Nithisdale reviving here ? Or is it but a shepherd's boy ? By Carron's side, a shepherd's boy, He binds his vale-flowers with the reed ; She wears love's sunny eye of joy, And birth he little seems to heed. . XVI. But ah ! no more his infant sleep Closes beneath a mother's smile, Who, only when it clqsed, would weep, f, a / • And yield to tender woe the while. , w n ' No more, with, fond attention dear, l 9 *< 9 d .'■* She seeks th' unspoken wish to find ; No more shall she,, with pleasure's tear, See the eoul waxing into mind. xvii. ^ C ir r Does nature bear a tyrant's breast? Is she the fiend of stern control ? Wears she the despot's. purple vest? ■ °)'- Or fetters she the free-born soul ? Where, worst of tyrant's, is thy claim In chains £hy children's breasts to bind ? Gavest thou the Promethean flame ? The incommunicable mind ? Thy offspring are great nature.' s^free,. . And of her fair dominion heirs ; Each privilege she gives to thee ; 562 Know, that each privilege is theirs. OWEN OF CARK.ON. They have thy feature, wear thine eye, Perhaps some feelings of thy heart ; And wilt thou their loved hearts deny To act their fair,, their proper part t XVIII. The lord of Lothian's fertile vale> Ill-fated Ellen, claims thy hand ; Thou know'st not that thy Nithisdale Was low laid by his ruffian band. And Moray, with unfajther'd eyes, Fixt on fair Lothian's fertile dale, Attends his human sacrifice, Without the Grecian painter's veil. O married love ! thy bard shall own, Where two congenial souls, unite, Thy golden chain inlaid with down, Thy lamp with heaven's own splendour bright. But if no radiant star of love, O Hymen ! smile on thy fair rite, Thy chain a wretched weight shall prov$ Thy lamp a sad sepulchral light. XIX. And now has time's slow wandering wing Borne many a year unmark'd with speed — Where is the boy by Carron's spring,: Who bound his valerflowers with , the reed ? Ah me ! those flowers he binds no more : No early charm returns again ; The parent, nature, Lseps in store Hep best) joys for her little train. No longer- heed the sunbeam bright That plays on Carron's breast he can,. > Reason has lent her quivering light, And shown the chequer'd field of man. XX. As the first human heir of earth With pensive eye himself survey' d, And, all unconscious of his birth, Sat thoughtful of 't in Eden's shade ; fi63 OWEN OF CARRON. In pensive thought so Owen stray* d Wild Carron's lonely woods among, And once within their greenest glade, He fondly framed this simple song : XXI. 'Why is this crook adorn' d with gold ? Why am I tales of ladies told ? Why does no labour me employ, If I am but a shepherd's boy? A silken vest like mine so green In shepherd's hut I have not seen — Why should I in such vesture joy, If lam but a shepherd's boy 1 I know it is no shepherd's art His written meaning to impart — They teach me sure an idle toy, If I am but a shepherd's boy. This bracelet bright that binds my arm — It could not come from shepherd's farm ; It only would that arm annoy, If I were but a shepherd's boy. And O thou silent picture fair, That lovest to smile upon me there, O say, and fill my heart with joy, That I am not a shepherd's boy.' XXII. Ah, lovely youth ! thy tender lay May not thy gentle life prolong ; Seest thou yon nightingale a prey 1 The fierce hawk hovering o'er his song ? His little heart is large with love ; He sweetly hails his evening star ; And fate's more pointed arrows move, Insidious, from his eye afar. XXIII. The shepherdess, whose kindly care Had watcht o'er Owen's infant breath, Must now their silent mansions share, 5f t Whom time leads calmly down to death. OWEN OF CARRON, ' O tell me, parent if thou art, What is this lovely picture dear ? Why wounds its mournful eye my heart ? Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear ? ' • jVh, youth ! to leave thee loth am I, Though I be not thy parent dear ; And wouldst thou wish, or ere I die, The glory of thy birth to hear ? But it will make thee much bewail, And it will make thy fair eye swell,' She said, and told the woesome tale, As sooth as shepherdess might tell. XXIV. The heart that, sorrow doomed to share, Has worn the frequent seal of woe, Its sad impressions learns to bear, And finds full oft its ruin slow. But when that seal is first imprest, When the young heart its pain shall try, From the soft, yielding, trembling breast, Oft seems the startled soul to fly. Yet fled not Owen's — wild amaze In paleness clothed, and lifted hands, And horror's dread unmeaning gaze, Mark the poor statue as it stands. The simple guardian of his life Lookt wistful for the tear to glide ; But, when she saw his tearless strife, Silent, she lent him one— and died. XXV. ' No, I am not a shepherd's boy,' ; Awaking from his dream, he said : •' Ah, where is now the promised joy, Of this ?— for ever, ever fled ! O picture dear ! — for her loved sake How fondly could my heart bewail ! My friendly shepherdess, O wake, And tell me more of this sad tale : O tell me more of this sad tale — No : thou enjoy thy gentle sleep 1 And I will go to Lothian's vale, And more than all her waters weep.' 565 OWEN OF CARBON. 50'} XXVI. Owen to Lothian's vale is fled — Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear — ' O art thou there ? ' the full heart said, ' O art thou there, my parent dear ? * Yes, she is there : from idle state Oft has she stole her hour to \ve:'p ; Think how she ' by thy cradle sat,' And how she 'fondly saw thee sleep.' Now tries his trembling hand to frame Full many a tender line of love ; And still he blots the parent's name, For that, he fears, might fatal prove. XXVII. O'er a. fair fountain's smiling side Reclined a dim tower, clad with moss, Where every bird was wont to bide, That languisht for its partner's loss. This scene he chose, this scene assign' d, A parent's first embrace to wait, And many a soft fear fill'd his mind, Anxious for his fond letter's fate. The hand that bore those lines of love, The well-informing bracelet bore — Ah ! may they not unprosperous prove ! Ah ! s-ifely pass yon dangerous door ! XXVIII. ' She comes not ; can she then delay ? ' Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear — * Whatever filial love could say, To her I said, and call'd her dear. She comes,— ! no— encircled round, 'Tis some rude clrief with many a spear. My hapless tale that earl has found — Ah me ! my heart ! — for her I fear.' His tender tale that earl had read, Or ere it reacht his lady's eye ; His dark brow wears a cloud of red, In rage he deems a rival nigh. XXIX. 'Tis o'er — those locks that waved in gold, That waved adown those cheeks so fair, Wreathed in the gloomy tyrant's hold, Hang from the sever'd head in air ! That streaming head he joys to bear In horrid guise to Lothian's halls ! Bids his grim ruffians place it there, Erect upon the frowning walls. The fatal tokens forth he drew — * Knowst thou these— Ellen of the vale ? ' The pictured bracelet soon she knew, And soon her lovely cheek grew pale. The trembling victim straight he led, Ere yet her soul's first fear was o'er : He pointed to the ghastly head — She saw — and sunk to rise no more. v. ., 567 [This ballad was written by Mrs. Mary Robinson,— better known perhaps to some readers by the sobriquet of 'Perdita,' — who was born at Bristol in what in her •Autobiography,' she calls the 'tempestuous night' of the 27th November, 1758 ; and died, after a somewhat eventful career, in the year 1800, at the comparatively early age of 42. When and where it first appeared we are unable, after a pretty diligent search, to discover. Probably, however, it was in one of the periodicals of her day, in which many of her poetical pieces were first published, with one or other of the signatures, Laura, Laura Maria, Julia, Daphne, Oberon, Echo, and Louisa. After her death, her poems were collected and published in 3 vols. 12mo. (London, 1806,) edited by her daughter. This is now a very scarce work ; there is no copy of it in the British Museum ; nor have we been fortunate enough to meet with one elsewhere. The present version is taken from an edition of her Poetical "Works published by Jones and Co., London, 1826.] ATCH no more the twinkling stars; Watch no more the chalky bourne; Lady! from the holy wars Never will thy love return ! Cease to watch, and cease to mourn, Thy lover never will return ! THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. " Watch no more the yellow moon. Peering o'er the mountain's head ; Rosy day, returning soon, Will see thy lover pale and dead ! Cease to weep, and cease to mourn, Thy lover will no more return ! " Lady, in the holy wars, Fighting for the Cross, he died ; Low he lies, and many scars Mark his cold and mangled side ; In his winding sheet he lies, Lady ! check those rending sighs. " Hark ! the hollow sounding gale Seems to sweep in murmurs by, Sinking slowly down the vale ; Wherefore, gentle lady, sigh 1 Wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh ? Lady, all that live must die. " Now the stars are fading fast : Swift their brilliant course are run ; Soon shall dreary night be past : Soon shall rise the cheering sun ! The sun will rise to gladden thee : Lady, lady, cheerful be." So spake a voice ! While sad and lone, Upon a lofty tower, reclined, A lady sat : the pale moon shone, And sweetly blew the summer wind ; Yet still disconsolate in mind, The lovely lady sat reclined. The lofty tower was ivy clad ; And round a dreary forest rose ; The midnight bell was tolling sad — 'Twas tolling for a soul's repose ! The lady heard the gates unclose, And from her seat in terror rose. The summer moon shone bright and clear ; She saw the castle gates unclose ; And now she saw four monks appear, Loud chaunting for a soul's repose. Forbear, oh, lady ! look no more — They past — a livid corpse they bore. fi69 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. They past, and all was silent now ; The hreeze upon the forest slept ; The moon stole o'er the mountain's brow ; Again the lady: sigh'd and wept : She watcht the holy fathers go Along the forest path below. And now the dawn was bright, the dew Upon the yellow heath was seen ; The clouds were of a rosy hue, The sunny lustre shone between : The lady to the chapel ran, While the slow matin prayer began. And then, once more, the fathers grey She markt employ* d in holy prayer : Her heart was full, she could not pray, For love and fear were masters there. Ah, lady ! thou wilt pray ere long To sleep those lonely aisles .among ! And now the matin prayers were o'er ; The barefoot monks of order grey, Were thronging to the chapel door, When there the lady stopt the way : "Tell me," she cried, " whose corpse so pale, Last night ye bore along the vale 1" " Oh, lady ! question us no more : No corpse did we bear down the dale !" The lady sunk upon the floor, Her quivering lip was deathly pale. The bare-foot monks now whisper 1 d, sad, " God grant our lady be not mad." The monks departing, one by one, The chapel gates in silence close ; When from the altar-steps of stone, The trembling lady feebly goes : While morning sheds a ruby light, The painted windows glowing bright. And now she heard a hollow sound ; It seem'd to come from: graves below ; And now again she lookt around, A voice came murmuring sad and slow ; And now she heard it feebly cry, 570 " Lady ! all that live must die ! THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. " Watch no more from yonder tower, Watch no more the star of day ! Watch no more the dawning hour, That chases sullen night away ! Gease to watch, and cease to mourn, Toy frver will no more return !" She lookt around, and now she view'd, Clad in a doublet gold and green, A youthful knight : he frowning stood, And nohle was his mournful mien ; And now he said, with -heaving sigh, " Lady, all that live must die !" She rose to quit the altar's stone, She cast a look to heaven and sigh'd, When lo ! the youthful knight was gone ; And, scowling by the lady's side, With sightless skull and bony hand, She saw a giant spectre stand ! His flowing robe was long and clear, His ribs were white as drifted snow : The lady's heart was chill'd with fear : She rose, but scarce had power to go : The spectre grinn'd a dreadful smile, And walkt beside her down the aisle. And now he waved his rattling nand ; And now they reacht the chapel door, And there the spectre took his stand ; While, rising from the marble floor, A hollow voice was heard to cry, " Lady, all that live must die ! " Watch no more the evening star ! Watch no more the glimpse of morn ! Never from the : holy war, Lady, will thy- love return ! See this bloody cross ; and see His Woody scarf he sends to thee 1" And now again the youthful knight Stood smiling by the lady's side ; His helmet shone with crimson light, His sword with drops of blood was dyed : And now a soft and mournful song Stole the chapel aisles among. 671 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. Now from the spectre's paley cheek The flesh began to waste away ; The vaulted doors were heard to creak, And dark became the summer day ! The spectre's eyes were sunk, but he Seem'd with their sockets still to see ! The second bell is heard to ring : Four barefoot monks of orders grey, Again their holy service sing ; And round the chapel altar pray : The lady counted o'er and o'er, And shudder' d while she counted — four ! " Oh ! fathers, who was he, so gay, That stood, beside the chapel door ? Oh ! tell me, fathers, tell me pray." The monks replied, " We fathers four, Lady, no other have we seen, Since in this holy place we've been ! " PART SECOND. Now the merry bugle horn Through the forest sounded far ; When on the lofty tower, forlorn, The lady watcht the evening star ; The evening star that seem'd to be Rising from the darken' d sea ! The summer sea was dark and still, The sky was streakt with lines of gold, The mist rose grey above the hill, And low the clouds of amber roll'd : The lady on the lofty tower Watcht the calm and silent hour. And, while she watcht, she saw advance A ship, with painted streamers gay ; She saw it on the green wave dance, And plunge amid the silver spray ; While from the forest's haunts, forlorn, Again she heard the bugle horn. The sails were full ; the breezes rose ; The billows curl'd along. the shore ; And now the day began to close ; — The bugle horn was heard no more, 5 72 But, rising from the watery way, An airy voice was heard to say : THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. " Watch no more the evening star ; Watch no more the billowy sea ; Lady, from the holy war Thy lover hastes to comfort thee : Lady, lady, cease to mourn ; Soon thy lover will return." Now she hastens to the bay ; Now the rising storm she hears ; Now the smiling sailors say, " Lady, lady, check your fears : Trust us lady ; we will be Tour pilots o'er the stormy sea." Now the little bark she vieVd, Moor'd beside the flinty steep ; And now upon the foamy flood, The tranquil breezes seem'd to sleep. The moon arose ; her silver ray Seem'd on the silent deep to play. Now music stole across the main : It was a sweet but mournful tone ! It came a slow and dulcet strain ; It came from where the pale moon shone : And, while it pass'd across the sea, More soft, and soft, it seem'd to be. Now on the deck the lady stands ; The vessel steers across the main ; It steers towards the holy land, Never to return again ; Still the sailors cry, "We'll be Your pilots o'er the stormy sea." Now she hears a low voice say, " Deeper, deeper, deeper still ; Hark ! the black'ning billows play ; Hark ! the waves the vessel fill : Lower, lower, down we go ; All is dark and still below." Now a flash of vivid light On the rolling deep was seen ! And now the lady saw the knight, With doublet rich of gold and green : From the sockets of his eyes, A pale and streaming light she spies ! 573 THE LADY OF THE BLACK. TOWER. And now his form transparent stood, Smiling with a ghastly mien;^- And now the calm and boundless flood Was like- the emerald, bright and green ; And now 'twas of a troubled! hue, While, " Deeper, deeper," sang the crew. Slow advanced the morning light, Slow they plough' d the wavy tide ; When, on a cliff of dreadful height, A castle's lofty towers they spied : The lady heard the sailor-band Cry, "Lady, this is holy land. " Watch no more the glittering spray ; Watch no more the weedy sand ; Watch no more the star of day ; Lady, this is holy land : This castle's lord shall welcome thee ; Then, lady* lady, cheerful be." Now the castle gates they pass ; Now across the spacious square, Cover'd high with dewy grass, rremblmgrsleals the lady fair : And now the castle's lord was seen, Clad in a doublet gold -and green. He led her through thegothic hall, With bones arid skulls encircled round ; "Oh, let not this thy soul appafT' He cried, " for tjrig Is holy ground." He led her through the chambers lone, 'Mid many a shriek and many a groan. Now to the banquet-room they came : Around a table of black stone She markt a faint and vapoury flame ; Upon the horrid feast it shone — And there, to close the maddening sight, Unnumber'd spectres met the light. Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright ; Their eyes were blue as sapphire clear ; Their bones were of a polisht white ; Gigantic did their ribs appear ! — 574 And now the knight the lady 'ed, And placed her at the table'" nead! — THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. Just now the lady woke : — for she Had slept upon the lofty tower, And dreams of dreadful phantasie Had fill'd the lonely moon-light hour ; Her pillow was the turret-stone, And on her breast the pale moon shone. But now a real voice she hears : It was her lover's voice ; — for he, To calm her bosom's rending fears, That night had cross' d the stormy sea : " I come," said he, " from Palestine, To prove myself, sweet lady, thine." 5 uli'f/ . ^wW^sS^^S HSS^ i V-vJjv.-ni ill . r i.".oig B \asifi. baa 43nng -i It' • 'j *. ', ,9rafi3 \otii n.:k« ijiij' ■ .ujot '* ■' sn^i , ■ ft* "■■ •)•'. : ■ hiwmP.. «,;,ioii Ji JiB'it .'-(*•.•■:;• -.»{!» >"'l f rf>i-. sranwbi rn. 'jiti jdofo cs t j"idt lur/ ,.llW.i \«iij IS!.": S'}'l1'J-Xjr- i)'1'H((|[! IL ; i l !'i:' ; Til' *»li ! ■ ■ ,( ; ' '>"3i[T , ihiIo ■-.>(! ;.ji-- . ■«. 'Juki ,■• .• ■■■■'•iifT — ! icoqqfi ■.!,-■ i .; : h .1 ,ht' (luii ' . •'- jj,- — '.i.iflf? >'*>l('Bt V|l» lli'l •■-! ;• .'-..' ; 'i it/ ■Ji. J k :>#■!%- [This ' second part ' of ' Hardyknute ' was first pub. lished in the work mentioned in the note on page 4 7 8, entitled, ' Scottish Tragic Ballads,' London, 1781. The editor professed, in his ' Dissertation on the Tragic Ballad,' prefixed to the work, to be ' indebted, for most of the stanzas recovered, to the memory of a lady in Lanarkshire. 1 He subsequently however admitted that they were his own composition. To Mr. Pinkerton, therefore, the reader is indebted for a ' continuation,' which,' unlike the generality of such productions, is little, if at all, inferior to the original fragment.] PART THE SECOND. ETURN, return, ye men of bluid, And bring me back my chylde ! " A dolefu voice frae mid the ha Reculd, wi echoes wylde. Bestraught wi dule and dreid, na pouir )) Had Hardyknute at a ; Full thrise he raught his ported speir, And thrise he let it fa. HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) ",0 haly God, for Ms deir sake, *Wha savd us on the rude — He tint his praier, and drew his glaive, Yet reid wi Norland blind. " Brayd on, brayd on, my stalwart sons, Grit cause we ha to feir ; But aye the canny ferce contemn The hap they canna veir." ' Return, return, ye men of bluid, And bring me back my chylde !' The dolefu voice frae mid. the ha Reculd, wi echoes wylde. The storm grew rife, tnrouch a the lift The rattling thunder rang, The black rain shour'd, and lichtning glent Their harnisine alang. What feir possest their boding breests Whan, by the gloomy glour, The castle ditch wi deed bodies They saw was filled out owr ! Quoth Hardyknute " I wold to Chryste The Norse had wan the day, Sae I had keipt at hame but anes, Thilk bluidy feats to stay." Wi speid .they past, and sune they recht The base-courts sounding bound, Deip groans sith heard, and throuch the mirk Lukd wistfully around. The moon, frae hind a sable cloud, Wi sudden twinkle shane, Whan, on the cauldrif eard, they fand The gude Sir Mordac layn. Besprent wi gore, fra helm to spur, <, Was the trew-heartit knicht ; Swith frae bis steid sprang Hardyknute MuVd wi the heavy sicht. " O say thy master's shield in weir, His sawman in the ha, What hatefu chance cold ha the pouir To lay thy eild sae law 1" 877 HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) To his complaint the bleiding knicht Returnd a piteous mane, And recht his hand, whilk Hardyknute Claucht streitly in his ain. * Gjn eir ye see Lord Hardyknute Frae Mordac ye maun say, Lord Draffan's treasonn to confute He usd his steddiest fay. He micht na mair, for cruel dethe Forbad him to proceid : " I row to God, I winna sleip Till I see Draffan bleid. My sons your sister was owr fair : But bruik he sail na lang His gude betide ; my last forbode He'll trow belyve na sang. Bown ye my eydent frienas to kyth To me your luve sae deir ; The Norse' defeat mote weil persuade Nae riever ye neid feir." The speirmen, wi a michty shout, Cryd ' Save our master deir ! While he dow beir the sway bot care Nae reiver we sail feir.' ' Return, return, ye men of bluid And bring me back my chylde !' The dolefu voice frae mid the ha Reculd wi echoes wylde. " I am to wyte my valiant friends :" And to the ha they ran, The stately dore full streitly steiked Wi iron boltis thrie they fand. The stately dore, thouch streitly steiked Wi waddin iron boltis thrie, Richt sune his micht can eithly gar Frae aif it's hinges flie. " Whar ha ye tane my dochter deir ? Mair wold I see her deid Than see her in your bridal bed, 578 For a your portly meid. HARDYKNTJTE— (SECOND PART.) What thoucli my gude and valiant lord Lye strecht on the cauld clay ? My sons the dethe may ablins spair To wreak their sisters wae. O my leil lord, cold I but ken Where thy dear corse is layn, Fra gurly weil, and warping blast I'd shield it wi my ain ! Dreir dethe richt sune will end my dule, Ye riever ferce and vile, But thouch ye slay me, frae my heart His luve ye'll neir exile." Sae did she crime wi heavy cheir, Hyt luiks, and bleirit eyne ; Then teirs first wet his manly cheik And snawy baird bedeene. 'Na rie^er here, my dame sae deir, .But your leil lord you see ; May West harm betide his life Wha brocht sic harm to thee ! Gin anes ye may believe my word, Nor am I usd to lie, By day-prime he or Hardyknute The bluidy dethe shall die." The ha, whar late the linkis bricht Sae gladsum shind at een, Whar penants gleit a gowden bleise Our knichts and ladys shene, Was now sae mirk, that, throuch the bound, Nocht mote they wein to see, Alse throuch the southern port the moon Let fa a blinkand glie. " Are ye in smth. my deir luvd lord ? " Nae mair she doucht to say, But swounit on his harnest neck Wi joy and tender fay. To see her in sic balefu sort Revived his selcouth feirs ; But sune she raisd her comely luik, And saw his faing teirs. 579 HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PAET.) " Ye are nae wont to greit wi wreuch, Grit cause ye ha I dreid ; Hae a our sons their lives redemd Frae furth the dowie feid?" ' Saif are our valiant sons, ye see, But lack their sister deir; When she's awa, bot any doubt, "We ha grit cause to feir.' " Of a our wrangs, and her depart, Whan ye the suith sail heir, Na marvel that ye ha mair cause, Than ye yit weit, to feir. O wharefore heir yon feignand knicht Wi Mordac did ye send? Ye suner wald ha perced his heart -£'.„; Had ye his ettling kend." " What may ye mein, my peirles dame? That knicht did muve my ruthe We balefu mane; I did na dout His curtesie and truthe. He maun ha tint wi sma renown His life in this fell rief ; Eicht fair it grieves me that he heir Met sic an ill relief." Quoth she, wi teirs that down her cheiks Ban like a silver shouir, " May ill befa the tide that brocht That fause knicht to our touir ; Ken'd ye na Draffan's lordly port, Thouch cled in knichtly graith? Tho hidden was his liautie luik The visor black benethe?" '* Now, as I am a knicht of weir, I thocht his seeming trew; But, that he sae deceived my ruthe, Full fairly he sail rue." " Sir Mordac to the sounding ha Came wi his cative fere ;" ' My syre has sent this wounded knicht To pruve your kyndlie care. HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) Your sell maun watch him a the day, Your maids at deid of nicht ; And Fairly fair his heart maun cheir As she stands in his sicht.' " Nae suner was Sir Mordac gane, Than up the featour sprang ;" ' The luve alse o your dochter deir I feil na ither pang. Tho Hardy knute lord Draffan' s suit Refus'd wi mickle pryde ; By his gude dame and Fairly fair Let him not be deny'd.' " Nocht muvit wi the captive's speech, Nor wi his stern command ; I treasoun ! cryd, and Kenneth's blade Was glisterand in his hand. My son lord Draffan heir you see, Whs means your sister's fay To win by guile, when Hardyknute Strives in the irie fray." * Turn thee ! thou riever Baron, turn ! * " Bauld Kenneth cryd aloud ; But, sune as Draffan spent his glaive, My son lay in his bluid." ' I did nocht grein that bluming face That dethe sae sune sold pale ; Far less that my trew luve, throuch me, Her brother's dethe sold wail. But syne ye sey our force to prive, Our force we sail you shaw ! ' " Syne the shrill-sounding horn bedeen He tuik frae down the wa. Ere the portculie cold be flung, His kyth the base-court fand ; "Whan scantly o their count a teind Their entrie micht gainstand. Richt sune the raging rievers stude At their fause master's syde, Wha, by the haly maiden, sware Na harm sold us betide. ssi HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) What syne befell ye weil may guess, Reft o our eilds delicht." ' We sail na lang be reft, by morne Sail Fairly glad your sicht. Let us be gane my sons, or now Our meny chide our stay ; Fareweil my dame j your dochter's luve Will sune cheir your eft-ay.' Then pale pale grew her teirfu cheik ; ' Let ane o my sons thrie Alane gyde this emprize, your eild May ill sic travel drie. O whar were I, were my deir lord, And a my sons, to bleid ! Better to bruik the wrang than sae To wreak the hie misdede. The gallant Rothsay rose bedeen His richt of age to pleid ; And Thomas shawd his strenthy speir ; And Malcolm mein'd his speid. * My sons your stryfe I gladly see, But it sail neir be sayne, That Hardyknute sat in his ha, And heird his son was slayne. My lady deir, ye neid na feir ; The richt is on our syde :' Syne rising with richt frawart haste Nae parly wald he byde. The lady sat in heavy mude, Their tunefu march to heir, While, far ayont her ken, the sound Na mair mote roun her eir. O ha ye sein sum glitterand touir, Wi mirrie archers crownd, Wha vaunt to see their trembling fae Kept frae their countrie's bound? Sic ausum strenth shawd Hardyknute ; Sic seimd his stately meid, Sic pryde he to his meny bald, 5g2 Sic feir his fees he gied. HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) Wi glie they past our mountains nide, Our muirs and mosses weit ; Sune as they saw the rising sun, On Draffan's touirs it gleit. O Fairly bricht I marvel sair, That featour eer ye lued, "Whase treasoun wrocht your father's bale, And shed your blither's blude The ward ran to his youthfu lord, Wha sleipd his bouir intill : * Nae time for sleuth, your raging faes Fare down the westlin hill. And, by the libbard's gowden low In his blue banner braid, That Hardyknute his docbter seiks And Draffan's dethe, I rede.' " Say to my bands of matchless micht, Wha camp law in the dale, To busk their arrows for the fecht, And streitly gird their mail. Syne meit me here, and wein to find Nae just or turney play ; Whan Hardyknute braids to the field, War bruiks na lang delay." His halbrick bricht he braced bedeen ; Fra ilka skaith and harm Securit by a warloc auld, Wi mony a fairy charm. A seimly knicht cam to the ha ; ' Lord Draffan I thee braive, Frae Hardyknute my worthy lord, To fecht wi speir or glaive.' " Your hautie lord me braives in vain ALane his micht to prive, For wha, in single feat of weir, Wi Hardyknute may strive ? But sith he meins our strehth to sey, On case he sune will find, That thouch his bands ieave mine in ire, In force they're far behind. 583 HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) 584 Yet cold I wete that he wald yield To what bruiks nae remeid, I for his dochter wald nae hain To ae half o my steid." . Sad Hardyknute apart frae a Leand on his birnist speir; And, whan he on his Fairly deimd, He spar'd nae sich nor teir. " What meins the felon cative vile? Bruiks this reif na remeid? I scorn his gylefu vows ein thoucht They recht to a his steid." Bownd was lord Draffan for the fecht, Whan lo! his Fairly deir Ran frae her hie bouir to the ha Wi a the speid of feir. Ein as the rudie star of morne Peirs throuch a cloud of dew, Sae did she seim, as round his neck Her snawy arms she threw. ' O why, why, did Fairly wair On thee her thouchtles luve? Whase cruel heart can ettle aye Her father'* dethe to pruve!' And first he kissd her bluming cheik, And syne her bosom deir ; Than sadly strade athwart the ha, And drapd ae tendir teir. " My meiny heid my words wi care, Gin ony weit to slay Lord Hardyknute, by hevin I sweir Wi lyfe he sail nae gae." ' My maidens bring my bridal gowne, I little trewd yestrene, To rise frae bonny Draffan's bed, His bluidy dethe to sene.' Syne up to the He baconie She has gane wi a her train, And sune she saw her stalwart lord Attein the bleising plain. HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) Owr Nethan's weily streim he fared Wi seeming ire and pryde ; His blason, glisterand owr his helm, Bare Allan by his syde. Richt sune the bugils blew, and lang And bludy was the fray ; Eir hour of nune, that elnc tyde, Had hundreds tint their day. Like beacon bricht at deid of nicht, The michty chief muvd on ; His basnet, bleising to the sun, "Wi deidly lichtning shone. Draffan he socht, wi him at anes To end the cruel stryfe ! But aye his speirmen thranging round Forfend their leider's lyfe. The winding Clyde wi valiant bluid Ran reiVing mony a mile ; Few stude the faucht, yet dethe alane Cold end their irie toil. * Wha flie, I vow, sail frae my speir Receive the dethe they dreid !' Cryd Draffan, as alang the plain He spurd his bluid-red steid. Up to him sune a knicht can prance, A graith'd in silver mail : "Lang have I socht thee throuch the field, This lance will tell my tale." Rude was the fray, till Draffan's skill Oercame his youthfn micht ; Perc'd throuch the visor to the eie Was slayne the comly knicht. The visor on the speir was deft, And Draffan Malcolm spied ; •Ye should your vaunted speid this day, And not your strenth, ha seyd.' " Cative, awa ye maun na flie," Stout Rothsay cry'd bedeen, "Till, frae my glaive, ye wi ye beir 6 - 5 The wound ye fein'd yestrene." HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) * Mair o your kins bluid ha I spilt Than I dooht evir grein ; See Rothsay whar your brither lyes In dethe afore your eyne, Scant Rothsay stapt the faing teir ; " O hatefu cursed deid ! Sae Draffan seiks our sister's hwe, Nor feirs far ither meid !" Swith on the word an arrow earn Frae ane o Rothsay' s band, And smote on Draffan's lifted targe, Syne Rothsays splent it land. Perc'd throuch the knie to his ferce steid, Wha pranc'd wi egre pain, The chief was forcd to quit the stryfe, And seik the nether plain. His miristrals there wi dolefu care The bludy shaft withdrew ; But that hs sae was bar'd the fecht Sair did the leider rue. * Cheir ye my mime men,' Draffan cryd, Wi meikle pryde and glie ; ' The prise is ours ; nae chieftan bides Wi us to bate the grie.' That hautie boast heard Hardyknute, Whar he lein'd on his speir, Sair weiried wi the nune-tide heat, And toilsum deids of weir. The first sicht, whan he past the thrang, Was Malcolm on the swaird : " Wold hevin that dethe my eild had tane, And thy youtheid had spard ! " Draffan I ken thy ire, but now Thy rnicht I mein to see ! " But eir he strak the deidly dint The syre was on his knie. ' Lord Hardyknute stryke gif ye may, I neir will stryve wi thee ; 58 „ Forfend your dochter see you slayne Frae whar she sits on hie ! HARDYKNUTE— (SECOND PART.) Yestrene the priest in haly band Me joind wi Fairly deir ; For her sake let us part in peace, And neir meet mair in weir.' " Oh. king of hevin, what seimly speech A featour's lips can send ! And art thou he wha baith my sons Brocht to a bluidy end ? Haste, mount thy steid, or I sail licht And meit thee on the plain ; For by my forbere's saul we neir Sail part till ane be slayne." " Now mind thy aith,' syne Draffan stout To Allan leudly cryd, Wha drew the shynand blade bot dreid And perc'd his masters syde. Law to the bleiding eard he fell, And dethe sune clos'd his eyne. " Draffan, till now I did na ken Thy dethe cold muve my tein. I wold to Chryste thou valiant youth, Thou wert in life again ; May ill befa my ruthles wrauth That brocht thee to sic pain ! Fairly, anes a my joy and pryde, Now a my grief and bale, Ye maun wi haly maidens byde Your deidly faut to wail. To Icolm beir ye Draffan's corse, And dochter anes sae deir, Whar she may pay his heidles hive Wi mony a mournfu teir.'' 587 588 J [* The Diverting History of John Gilpin, show- ing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again,' was written, as prohably every reader knows, by William Cowper. The story was related to him by Lady Austen, who had heard it in her childhood, and made so vivid an impression upon the poet, that the next morning he told her the ludicrous incident had kept him awake with laughter during the night, and that he had converted it into a ballad. It first appeared, anonymously, in the * Public Advertiser,' 1782 ; and, with the help of the public recitations given of it by Henderson the comedian, with all the humour his comic powers could throw into it, speedily obtained, and has ever since enjoyed, unrivalled popularity. It was first published, as Cowper's avowed pro- duction, in the second volume of his * Poems." j OHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town. JOHN GILPIN. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair. My sister, and my sister's child, ' Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride On horseback after we. He soon replied, I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear; Therefore it shall be done. I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go. Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well saidj And for that wine is dear, We will he furnisht with our own, Which is both bright and clear. John Gilpin kist his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. 689 JOHN GILPIN. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized' fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride ; But soon came down again; For saddle-tree scarce reacht had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down' he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss- of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind; When Betty screaming came down stairs, ' The wine is left behind!' Good lack! quoth he — yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise. Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul, Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And' keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipt from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brusht and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones With" caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, fi90 Which galled him in his seat. JOHN GILPIN. So, fair and softly, John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He graspt the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, which never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his- back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt when he set out Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both^ At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin— rwho but he? His fame soon spread around; He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound! And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow. 591 JOHN GILPIN. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay. And there he threw the Wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's the house- They all aloud did cry; The dinner waits, and we are tired: Said Gilpin — So am I! But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there ; Y For why? his owner had a house Full ten miles off at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. The calender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 592 And thus accosted him: JOHN GILPIN. What news? what news? your tidings tell — Tell me you must and shall — Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all? Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke : I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here — They are upon the road. The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in. Whence straight he came with hat and wig A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit, My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit- But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case. Said John, It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware. So turning to his horse, he said, I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine. Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; •2. tj 593 JOHN GILPIN. Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallopt off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away "Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first; For why? — they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half-a-crown; And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well. The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away j Went post-boy at his heels, j The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:->- Stop thief ! stop thief! a highwayman! Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The tollmen thinking as before 694 That Gilpin rode a race. JOHN GILPIN. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopt till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he; And, when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see! tin Hone's ' Table Book,' ii. 79, the three following stanzas are stated to have been 'found, in the handwriting of Cowper, among the papers of Mrs. Unwin.' In the opinion of Mr. Hone's correspondent ' they evidently formed part of an intended episode to the Diverting History of John Gilpin.' They are not given in any edition of the poet's works.] Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly said Unto her children three, ' 111 clamber o'er this style so high; And you climb after me.' But having climbed unto the top, She could no farther go, But sate, to every passer by, A spectacle and show : Who said, * Tour spouse and you this day Both show your horsemanship, And if you stay till he comes back Tour horse will need no whip.' 595 596 OH'.AYJ" fl [This ballad is printed from three copies; two in broadside, printed respectively by T. Cheney, Banbury,' and the late celebrated Mr. Pitts, for the use of which the editor is indebted to the kindness of Mr. Fillinham, and Mr. Dixon ; and one in a chap-book, printed at Glasgow, by J. and M. Robertson, 1805, with which he has been favoured by Mr. Wright. Of these, the first, being appa- rently the oldest, has been adopted as the text ; while, as the ballad is not known to exist in any other form, and is by no means common, the more important various read^ ings of the other two, which are numerous and consider- able, are given in the Notes. This course will, it is hoped, be thought better than making up a text from the three. The broadside, printed at Banbury gives the title of the ballad as follows : — ' Cat skin's Garland ; or, the Wander- ing Young Gentlewoman. In Five Farts. 1. Of a rich 'Squire's Daughter, near London, who was forced from home by her cruel Father ; how she made herself a gar- ment of catskins, and wandered up and down. 2. How she came one morning to a Knight's Door, and begged to lie in the Stables, which was soon granted, and how she was entertained after. 3. How he discovered Catskin in rich attire, that she had brought from home. How he fell in love with her, and married her. 4. How her mother and sister died, and her father came disguised like a beggar to her gate. 5. How he gave her ten thou- sand pounds.' Of the ballad itself little appears to be known. It may, however, be safely asserted to be much older than the oldest of the copies from which it is here taken. As to the story of it, see the Note, p. £04.] PART I OU fathers and mothers and children also, Come near unto me, and soon you shall know. The sense of my ditty, for I dare to say, The like hasn't been heard of this many long day. CATSKESrS GARLAND. This subject which to you I am to relate, It is of a 'squire who had a large estate; And the first dear infant his wife she did bare, "Was a young daughter, a beauty most fair. He said to his wife, ' Had this but been a boy, It would please me better, and increase my joy; If the next be of the same sort, I declare, Of what I am possessed it shall have no share.' In twelve months after, this woman, we hear, Had another daughter, of beauty most clear; And when her father knew 'twas a female, In-to a bitter passion he presently fell. Saying, ' Since this is of the same sort as the first, In my habitation she shall not be nurs'd; Pray let it be sent into the country, For where I am, truly this child shall not be.' With tears his dear wife unto him did say, ' My dear, be contented, I'll send her away.' Then into the country this child she did send, For to be brought up by an intimate friend. Altho' that her father hated her so, He good education on her did bestow, And with a gold locket, and robes of the best, This slighted young damsel was commonly drest. But when unto stature this damsel was grown, And found from her father she had no love shewn, She cried, ' Before I will lie under his frown, I am fully resolv'd to range the world round.' PART n. But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest, In what a strange manner this female was drest; Catskins into a garment she made, I declare, The which for her clothing she daily did wear: Her own rich attire, and jewels beside,. They up in a bundle together were ty'd; And to seek her fortune she wander'd away And when she had wander'd a cold winter's day. 597 CATSKIN'S GARLAND. 698 In the evening-tide she came to a town, Where at a knight's door she sat herself down, For to rest herself, who was weary for sure. This noble knight's lady then came to the door, And seeing this creature in such sort of dress, The lady unto her these words did express, • From whence came you, or what will you have?" She said, ' A nights rest in your stable I crave.' The lady said to her, ' I grant thy desire, Come into the kitchen and stand by the fire;' Then she thank'd the lady, and went in with haste, Where she was gaz'd on from biggest to the least. And, being warm'd, her hunger was great, They gave her a plate of good food for to eat; And then to an outhouse this damsel was led, Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed. And when in the morning the day-light she saw, Her rich robes and jewels she hid in the straw; And being very cold, she then did retire, And went into the kitchen, and stood by the fire. The cook said, * My lady promis'd that thee Shouldest be a scullion to wait upon me: What sajr'st thou, girl, art thou willing to bide?' ' With all my heart,' then she to her reply'd. To work at her needle she could very well, And raising of paste few could her excel; She being so handy, the cook's heart did win, And then she was call'd by the name of Catskin. PART 111. This knight had a son both comely and tall. Who often times used to be at a ball, A mile out of town, and one evening tide, To see a fine dancing away he did ride. Catskin said to his mother, ' Madam, let me Go after your son, this ball for to see.' WitK that, in a passion this lady she grew, And struck her with a ladle, and broke it in two. CATSKIN'S GARLAND. Being thus served, she then got away, And in her rich garments herself did array, Then to see this ball she then did retire, Where she danc'd so fine all did her admire. The sport being done, this young squire did say, ' Young lady, where do you live, tell me, I pray?' Her answer to him was, ' Sir, that I will tell, At the sign of the broken ladle I dwell.' She being very nimble, got home first 'tis said, And with her cat skin robes she soon was arrayed; Then into the kitchen again she did go, But where she had been none of them did know. Next night the young 'squire, himself to content, To see the ball acted, away then he went. She said, ' Let me go this ball for to view;' She struck her with a skimmer, and broke it in two. Then out of doors she ran, being full of heaviness, And with her rich garments herself she did dress, For to see this ball she ran away with speed, And to see her dancing all wonder'd indeed. The ball being ended, the 'squire said then, ' Pray where do you live?' She answered him, ' Sir, because you ask me, account I will give, At the sign of the broken skimmer I live.' Being dark, she left him, and home did hie, And in her catskin robes she was drest presently, And into the kitchen among them she went, But where she had been they were all innocent. The 'squire came home and found Catskin there, He was in amaze, and began for to swear, ' For two nights at the ball has been a lady, The sweetest of beauties that e'er I did see. She was the best dancer in all the whole place, And very much like our Catskin in the face; Had she not been drest in that costly degree, I would have sworn it was Catskin's body.' Next night he went to see this ball once more; Then she ask'd his mother to g_0 as before, Who having a bason of water in hand, She threw it at Catskin, as I understand. 599 CATSKIN'S GARLAND. Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run, And dressed herself when this thing she had done; To see this ball acted she then run her ways, To see her fine dancing all gave her the praise. And having concluded, the young squire he Said, ' From whence do you come, pray now tell me?* Her answer was, ' Sir, you shall know the same, From the sign of the bason of water I came.' Then homeward she hurried, as fast as might be, This young 'squire then was resolved to see Whereto she belong'd, then follow'd Catskin, Into an old straw-house he saw her creep in. He said, ' O brave Catskin, I find it is thee, "Who these three nights together has so charmed me, Thou'rt the sweetest creature my eyes e'er beheld, With joy and comfort my heart it is fill'd. Thou art the cook's scullion, but as I have life, Grant me thy love and I'll make thee my wife, And you shall have maids to wait at your call.' ' Sir, that cannot be, I've no portion at all.' ' Thy beauty is portion, my joy and my dear, I prize it far better than thousands a year, And to gain my friends' consent, I've got a trick, I'll go to my bed and feign myself sick. There's none shall attend me but thee, I protest, And some day or other in thy richest dress Thou shalt be drest; if my parents come nigh, I'll tell them that for thee sick I do he.' PART IV. Having thus consulted, this couple parted; Next day this young 'squire took to his bed, When his dear parents this thing perceiv'd, For fear of his death they were heartily griev'd. To tend him they sent for a nurse presently, He said, ' None but Catskin my nurse now shall be.' His parents said, ' No.' He said, ' But she shall, 600 O r else I'll have none for to nurse me at all.' CATSKIN'S GARLAND. His parents both wonder'd to hear him say thus, That no one but Catskin must be his nurse; So then his dear parents their son to content, Up into the chamber poor Catskin they sent. Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepar'd, Which betwixt this young couple was equally shar'd; And when all alone, they in each other's arms, Enjoy'd one another in love's pleasant charms. At length on a time poor Catskin, 'tis said, In her rich attire she then was array'd; And when his mother the chamber drew near, Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear. Which caus'd her to startle, and thus she did say, ' What young lady's this, son, tell me I pray?' He said, ' It is Catskin, for whom I sick lie, And without I have her with speed I shall die.' His mother ran down for to call the old knight, Who ran up to see this amazing great sight; He said, ' Is this Catskin we hold so in scorn? I ne'er saw a finer dame since I was born.' The old knight said to her, ' I pry'thee tell me, From whence dost thou come, and of what family.' Then who was her parents she gave them to know, And what was the cause of her wandering so. The young 'squire said, ' If you will save my life, Pray grant this young creature may be my wife.' His father reply'd, ' Your life for to save, If you are agreed my consent you shall have.' Next day, with great triumph and joy as we hear, There were many coaches came far and near; She much like a goddess drest in great array, Catskin to the 'squire was married that day. For several days this great wedding did last, Where was many topping and gallant rich guests; And for joy the bells rung all over the town, And bottles of claret went merrily round. When Catskin was married, her fame to raise, To see her modest carriage all gave her the praise; Thus her charming beauty the squire did win, And who lives so great as he and Catskin. sol CATSKINS GARLAND. PART V. Now in the fifth part I'll endeavour to shew, How things with her parents and sister did go; Her mother and sister of life bereft, And all alone the old knight he was left. And hearing his daughter being married so brave, He said, ' In my noddle a fancy I have; Drest like a poor man a journey I'll make, And see if on me some pity she'll take.' Then drest like a beggar he goes to the gate, Where stood his daughter, who appear'd very great; He said, ' Noble lady, a poor man I be, And am now forced to crave charity.' With a blush she asked him from whence he came; With that then he told her, and also his name; She said, ' I'm your daughter, whom you slighted so, Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I'll shew. Thro' mercy the Lord hath provided for me: Now, father, come in and sit down,' then said she. Then the best of provisions' the house could afford, For to make him welcome was set on the board. She said, ' Thou art welcome, feed hearty, I pray; And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay, So long as you live.' Then he made this reply, ' I am only come thy love for to try. Thro' mercy, my child, I am rich, and not poor, I have gold and silver enough now in store; And for the love that at thy house I have found, For a portion I'll give thee ten thousand pounds.' So in a few days after, as I understand, This man he went home and sold off his land; And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give, And now altogether in love they do live. [In the following list of various readings, P. denotes Mr Pitts' edition, and G the Glasgow chap-book.] PAST 1 St. 1, line 2. * Come' ; Draw, P. ; Come draw, G. Line 4 ' heard of;' printed. P., and G. St. 2, line 2. ' Sqaire' j young squire, P. ; Squire's son, G. Line 4. ' fair' ; rare, G. St. 3, line I. but' ; child. P., and G. Line 4. ' it' : be, P. , she, G. 602 CATSKIN'S GARLAND. St. 4, line 3. ' father* ; husband. Line 4. strong bitter, G., omitting ' presently 1 . St. 6, line 2. 'my dear* ; husband, P., and G. Line 3. * this child she*; with speed her, P. , it, G. Line 4. 'an intimate' ; one who was her, P., and G. St. 7, line 4. 'damsel'; female, P. St. 8. line 2. * her father* ; him. Line 4. * range the world* ; travel the country. P. PART II. St. 1, line 1. G. omits ' mark*. Line 2. « a strange* ; sort of. P., and G. ; ' female' ; creature, P.; lady, G. Line 3. With Catskin* she made a robe I declare; line 4. •clothing' | covering, P., and G. St. 2, line 1. 'own'; new, G. Line 2. 'they 1 ; then, P., and G. ' together* ; by her way they. P. ; by her then, G. Line 4. ' wandered' ; travelled, P., and G. * cold' ; whole, G. St. 3, line 1. P. omits ■ tide* ; line 2. * where', and * herself 1 . Line 3. • weary for sure* ; tired, Bore, P. ; tired to be sure, G. St. 4, line 1 . fair creature ; line 3. Whence earnest thou girl, and what wouldst thou have ? P. Line 4. * said* ; cry*d ; * rest' ; quarters, G. St. 5, line 4. * biggest* ; highest, P. St- 6, line 1. * Well warmed' ; P., and G. Line 2. * plate' ; piece, P. ; dish, G. ; • food' ; meat, G. Line 3. ' damsel' ; fair creature, P. ; creature, G. ; ' led*, had, P. St. 7, line 2. * rich robes' ; riches, P. Line 4. To the kitchen and stand, P. ; to go to the, G . St. 8, line 1. hath promised that thou; line 2. Shalt be as $ £-<■* £V [This ballad is printed from a broadside, for the use of which the editor has again to acknowledge his obligation to Mr. Fillinham. No other edition, in any form whatever, has come under the editor's notice. There is no copy of the ballad in either of the two great collections in the British Museum. Other copies, however, are doubtless in exist- ence, it being scarcely supposable that a ballad of the nature of the present should not have been constantly reprinted. With regard to the authorship of it, there does not appear to be anything known. It may, however, be safely affirmed to be comparatively modern ; not older, perhaps, than the latter part of the last century. And there can be little doubt that it is a genuine English ballad. If in a literary point of view it should be thought not very valuable, its apparent rarity may perhaps be accepted as a reason for its insertion here. The title, as given by the broadside from which it is taken, is as follows : — * The Unnatural Father ; or, the Dutiful Son's Reward. In Three Parts. •' PART L ERE is a looking glass for children dear, A looking glass, I say, therefore draw near, Andview the mercieswhich theLord extends To those that are obedient to their friends. 611 THE UNNATURAL FATHER. If parents do the thing that is not right, Setting their hearts, their love, and whole delight Upon one child, and eke the other wrong, Trust in the Lord, whose arm and hand is strong. In his due time he will these things redress; He never leaves his servant comfortless, As by this time relation you may find, If you his works of providence will mind. In Dorsetshire a wealthy man of late, Two sons he had; likewise a vast estate; The one he loved with affection pure, The other one he never could endure; But kept him meaner than their meanest slave, And often wish'd him in the silent grave, As they at each time then at variance fell, But for what reason none alive can tell. A more obedient son was seldom seen, Modest in carriage, of a genteel mien, Yet nevertheless his father did him slight, And never could endure him in his sight; Or if he did, he'd frown upon him still, No peace, no joy, no love, or kind good will Could he receive from his father's hand, Who strove to cut him off from all his lands. Many a stroke and heavy blow he felt, Which often caus'd his youthful eye to melt Into a flood of sad, lamenting tears; Thus he with patience suffer'd many years. The darling son was clothed in rich array, And often did his gaudy plumes display, Making his father's gold and silver fly Like summer's dust in jovial company. While he was thus supported in his pride, The other son was scorned and villify'd, And by his father often spurn'd and beat, Who seemed then to grudge the bread he eat. Father, said he, what is the cause of this? If I have acted anything amiss, Tell me my fault, and I will surely mend, 612 ^" or ^ ot ^ ^ am mv P arents t0 offend. THE UNNATURAL FATHER. At this his father's wrath increased more, And with these words he thrust him out of doors. Go take your lot beyond the ocean main, And never let me see your face again. The son he little said, but did depart From friends and father with a heavy heart, Encompass'd round with sorrow, grief, and care, To seek his fortune, but he knew not where. Poor heart, when this unhappy chance did fall, He nothing had then to subsist at all; Yet carefully he travelled all the day, And then at night upon cold earth he lay. Next morning, sleeping on the rural plain, He was awaken'd by a shepherd swain, Who came that way, and having heard his grief. Out of his scrip he gave him some relief. This done, in humble part he took his leave, With many thanks for what he did receive, And so went on to famous London town, Where for a time he wander'd up and down. And wanting friends, on board he went at last, Over the roaring ocean wide he past; Where we will leave him to God's providence, And shew the other brother's insolence. PART n. > When parents doat upon a certain child, He often proves reverse, stubborn, and wild, And brings them to the greatest sorrow here, As from this late account it will appear. One of his sons thus gone beyond the seas, The other with [his] parents lived at ease, Until by fruits of sinful wantonness His family was brought to great distress, As you shall hear; for many pounds he spent Among the taverns which he did frequent; Where, for a harlot's sake, a man he kill'd, And therefore was in chains and fetters held g 13 THE UNNATURAL FATHER. 614 At Dorchester,. in order to be try'd. His father hearing of the news reply'd, He shall not die, and go down to the grave, If all that e'er I haye his life can save. To one in town he mortag'd all his land, Raising five hundred pounds then out of hand, To keep his darling son from dismal thrall; And yet, dear loving friends, this is not all. For he once more did violate the laws, And was transported for that very cause, From Dorchester, over the raging main, Never to see his native land again. His aged father did jn tears lament, His land was mortgag'd, and [his] money spent Upon their wicked child, which grieved them sore; Besides he ow'd two hundred pounds or more, For which he could no satisfaction make, Wherefore to jail they did his body take. In tears he wept, beseeching for relief; His chief companion that he had was grief. His downy beds were turn'd to bed of straw; No comfortable friend alive he saw; For want of food he daily did repine, And tears of woe did serve instead of wine. With wringing hands he said, What have I done? How have I wrong'd my well heloved son ! My son that was endowed with Christian grace. To succour him that brought me to disgrace. With these, and many more lamenting cries, Distilled tears did trickle down his eyes; Where we will leave him in that sad distress, To show the slighted son's true happiness. PART III. Now, having treated of his grief and woe, As he from time to time did undergo, I come to shew you how God's blessed hand Eestor'd him from a prison to his land. THE UNNATURAL FATHER. Behold that sou, so scorn'd and slighted here, In his distress kind Providence did steer From London city to the Golden shore, Where God for him a blessing had in store. In process of time, behold he found A wealthy fortune, worth ten thousand poundj A virtuous wife, both beautiful and fair, And had some thoughts to live and settle there. But each night he was so disturb'd in mind, No ease or satisfaction could he find; But still he dream'd most of his friends were dead, And that his aged father begg'd his bread. Being disturb'd with his nocturnal thought, His loving wife, with all his wealth, he brought Over the ocean to fair Weymouth town, Appearing like some persons of renown. Then to his father's house he did repair; And finding nothing else but strangers there, Concern'd he was, as was his lady gay, Supposing that his former dreams were true; When meeting with an ancient gentleman, He said, Kind Sir, do tell me if you can, What is become of such a gentleman. Fetching a heaving sigh, he did reply, His darling son, whom he did so adore, Has brought his aged father to be poor By his unparalleled villanies, And now for debt in Dorset jail he lies* At this sad news his eyes did overflow, And said, My loving lady, let us go, And see my aged father in distress; Alas! I cannot leave him comfortless. Then coming to the prison, he beheld His aged father dear, with sorrow fill'd, Cloathed in rags, lean, thin, and hollow eyes, Having no food his hunger to suffice. The young man's bowels yearn'd, his heart did bleed. Said he, Old father, tell me now with speed, How long have you been clos'd confined here In this sad place of sorrow so severe? 615 THE UNNATURAL FATHER. Right worthy sir, the aged man reply'd, Your kind request shall soon be satisfy'd. So he began, and told him of all his grief, And how his son had been the cause in chief. Had you no other son, said he, I pray. Yes, sir, I had; but him I sent away: One that was loving, courteous, and kind, No father could enjoy a sweeter child. But in my sorrow here I must confess, I loved him that brought me to distress; The other I would not one smile allow, And so the hand of God is on me now. And is the mother of your son alive? No, no, [kind] sir; she did not long survive, After the sad disaster of the first; With utmost grief her tender heart did burst; For having sought her son both far and near, And [when she] could of him no tidings hear, Home she return 'd, with tears took to her bed, And never after would be comforted. The young man's heart was full, he could not speak, Therefore he did a private corner take, To weep his fill and ease his soul of care; Which done, in jail he did a feast prepare, And call'd his aged father to the same, Who cring'd and bow'd before him as he came. The young man said, Sure this may not be done; Be cover'd, father, for I am your son — That very son whom you [so] forc'd away. Your lands I will redeem, your debts I'll pay, And prove a blessing to your ancient days: Dry up your tears, your fainting spirits raise. Art thou my son, whom I so long withstood? Art thou alive to do thy father good? Blessed be God! this news doth cheer my heart, Thy duty is much more than my desert. O say not so, my aged father dear; Who serve the Lord with religious fear Must honour parents dear, for conscience' sake, Or sure I am a great command they break. 616 THE UNNATURAL FATHER. 1 have oeen harsh and most severe to thee, And turned thee out in thy misery To seek thy fortune, this I must confess; How can you pity me in my distress? In duty, father, I can all forgive, And farther, while I have a day to live, What I have promis'd I will surely do ; The Lord hath prosper'd me to comfort you. Soon after this they from the prison go; He clothed his father from the top to toe, And plac'd him in his happy state once more, For which he gain'd the love of rich and poor. 017 EM @fe ®§ M&i%t UaiflMft* 618 [This ballad was written by Walter Scott, 'at Mertoun- house, the beautiful seat of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden, in the autumn of 1799,' (Life, by Lockhart c. ix.) and first appeared in Lewis' * Tales of Wonder.' ' The catastrophe,' says Sir Walter, (' Minstrelsy,' iv. 68,) ' is founded upon a well known Irish tradition. The incidents, except the hints alluded to in the notes, are entirely imaginary ; but the scene was that of my early childhood, and seemed to claim from me this attempt to celebrate them in a Border tale. Some idle persons had, during the proprietor's ab- sence, torn the iron-grated door of Smailholm Tower from jts hinges, and thrown it down the rock. I was an earnest suitor to my friend and kinsman, Mr. Scott of Harden, that the dilapidation might be put a stop to, and the mischief repaired. This was readily promised, on condition that I should make a ballad, of which the scene should be at Smailholm Tower, and among the crags where it is situated/ The ballad thus ' made ' was the Eve of St. John, in which, says Mr. Lockhart, ' he re-peoples the tower of Smailholm, and touches the one superstition which can still be appealed to with full and perfect effect ; the only one which lingers in minds long since weaned from all sympathy with the machinery of witches and goblins. And surely that mys- tery was never touched with more thrilling skill than in this noble ballad.'] HE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, He spurred his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way That leads to Brotherstone. THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN. He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear ; He went not 'gainst the English yew To lift the Scottish spear. Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore ; At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more. The Baron return' d in three days' space, And his looks were sad and sour, And weary was his courser's pace As he reached his rocky tower. He came not from where Ancram Moor Ran red with English blood, Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen Lord I vers stood ; Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, His acton pierc'd and tore ; His axe and his dagger with blood embrued, But it was not English gore. He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still, And he whistled twice for his little foot page His name was English "Will. " Come thou hither, my little foot page, Come hither to my knee ; Though thou art young, and tender of age, I think thou art true to me. Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true ; Since I from Smaylho'me Tower have been, What did thy Lady do ? " " My Lady each night, sought the lonely light, That burns on the wild Watchfold ; For from height to height, the beacons bright. Of the English foemen told. The bittern clamour'd from the moss, The wind blew loud and shrill, Yet the craggy pathway she did cross To the eiry beacon hill. 6] THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. I watch' d her steps, and silent came Where she sat her on a stone ; No watchman stood by the dreary flame, It burned all alone. The second night I kept her in sight, Till to the fire she came ; And by Mary's might, an armed knight Stood by the lonely flame. And many a word that warlike lord Did speak to my Lady there, But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, And I heard not what they were. Tho third night there the sky was fair, And the mountain blast was still, As again I watch 'd the secret pair, On the lonesome beacon hill ; And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve ; And say, come that night to thy Lady's bower ; Ask no bold Baron's leave. ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch, His Lady is alone ; The door she'll undo, to her knight so true, On the eve of good St. John.' ' I cannot come, I must not come, I dare not come to thee ; On the eve of St. John I must wander alone, In thy bower I may not be.' * Now out on thee, faint-hearted knight ! Thou shouldst not say me nay, For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, Is worth the whole summer's day. And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strew* d on the stair ; So by the rood stone, and by holy St. John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there.' « Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, And my footstep he would know.' THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. ' O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east, For to Dryhurgh the way he has ta'en ; And there to say mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a knight that is slayne.' He turn'd him around, and grimly he frown' d, Then he laugh' d right scornfully — 'He who says the mass rite, for the soul of that knight, May as well say mass for me. At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, In thy chamber will I be.' With that he was gone, and my Lady left alone, And no more did I see." Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow, From dark to blood-red high. " Now tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, For by Mary he shall die !" " His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light, His plume it was scarlet and blue ; On his shield was a hound in a silver leash bound, And his crest was a branch of the yew." " Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot page, Loud dost thou he to me ; For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, All under the Eildon tree." " Yet hear but my word, my noble Lord, For I heard her name his name ; And that Lady bright she called the knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame." The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow, From high blood-red to pale. " The grave is deep and dark, and the corpse is stiff and stark So I may not trust thy tale. " Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, That gallant knight was slain. " The varying light deceiVd thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the name, For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks they sing For Sir Richard of Coldinghame." 6iJ1 THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower grate, •And he mounted the narrow stair, To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, He found his Lady fair. That Lady sat in mournful mood, Look'd over hill and vale, Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood And all down Tiviotdale. " Now hail ! now hail ! thou Lady bright !" " Now hail ! thou Baron true ! What news, what news, from Ancram fight 1 What news from the bold Buccleuch 1" " The Ancram Moor is red with gore, For many a Southron Ml ; And Buccleuch has charged us evermore, To watch our beacons well." The Lady blush'd red, but nothing she said, Nor added the Baron a word ; Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody Lord. In sleep the Lady mourn' d, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said, " The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep. It cannot give up the dead." It was near the ringing of matin bell, The night was well nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St. John. The Lady look'd through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame, And she was aware of a knight stood there, Sir Richard of Coldinghame. "Alas! away! away!" she cried, " For the holy Virgin's sake." " Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side ; But, Lady, he will not awake. " By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain ; The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, 62 2 But, Lady, they're said in vain. THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. " By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain I fell, And my restless sprite on the beacon height For a space is doom'd to dwell. " At our trysting-place, for a certain space, I must wander to and fro ; But I had not had power to come to thy bower Had'st thou not conjured me so." Love master'd fear — her brow she cross'd : " How, Richard, hast thou sped 1 And art thou saved, or art thou lost ?" The vision shook his head ! " Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life ;, So bid thy Lord believe : And lawless love is guilt above ; This awful sign receive." He laid his left hand on an oaken stand, His right hand on her arm : The Lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For the touch was fiery warm. The sable score of fingers four Remain on that board impress' d, And for evermore that Lady wore A covering on her wrist. There is a nun in Melrose bower Ne'er looks upon the sun ; There is a monk in Dry burgh tower, He speaketh word to none. That nun who ne'er beholds the day, That monk who speaks to none, That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron. * C The circumstance of the nun, ' who never saw the day,' is not entirely imaginary. About fifty years ago, an unfortunate female wanderer took up her residence in a dark vault, among the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which, during the day, she never quitted. When night fell, she issued from this miserable habitation, and went to the house of Mr. Haliburton, of Newmains, or to that ef Mr. Erskine, of Sheilfield, two gentlemen of the neighbourhood. From their charity she obtained such necessaries as she could be prevailed on to accept. At twelve each night, she lighted her candle, and returned to her vault, assuring her friendly neighbours that, during her absence, her habitation was arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the uncouth name of Fatlips ; describing him as a little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with which he trampledthe clay floor of the vault,' to dispel the damps. The cause of her adopting this extraordinary mode of life she would never, explain. It was, however, believed to have been occasioned by a vow, that, during the »bsence of a man to whom she was attached, she would never look upon the sun. Her lover never returned. lie fell during the civil war of 1745-6, and she never more would behold the light of du>.' — Evor.-.j 623 OB. 624 — [This ballad, ' the first original poem he ventured to compose,' was written by Sir— then Mr.— Wal- ter Scott, ' with a design that it should be supposed a translation from the Gaelic,' and first appeared in Lewis' ' Tales of Wonder,' (1801.) ' The simple tradition,' he says, 'upon which it is founded, runs thus :— While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy, (a hut built for the purpose of hunting,) and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beau- tiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself par- ticularly to him, to leave the hut ; the other re- mained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, con- tinued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Search- ing in the forest, he found the bones of his un- fortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women.'] HONE a rie! O hone a rie! The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fallen Glenartney's stateliesttree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! GLENFINLAS; OR, 0, sprung from great Macgillianore, The chief that never feard a foe, How matchless was thy broad claymore* How deadly thine unerring bow ! Well can the Saxon widows tell How, on the Teith's resounding shore, The boldest Lowland warriors fell, As down from Lenny's pass you bore. But o'er his hills, on festal day, How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane tree; While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced with Highland glee. Cheerd by the strength of Ronald's shell, E'en age forgot his tresses hoar; But now the loud lament we swell, O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more! From distant isles a chieftain came, The joys of Ronald's halls to find, And chase with him the dark-brown game That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle The Seer's prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrel's fire the while, He waked his harp's harmonious sound. Full many a spell to him was known, Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone, Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud That shall the future corpse enfold. so it fell, that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den, The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scourd the deep Glenfinlas glen. No vassals wait their sports to aid, To watch their safety, deck their board; Their simple dress, the Highland plaid; Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. 2 3 626 LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still, when dewy evening fell, The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Olenfinlas' deepest nook The solitary cabin stood, Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steept heathy bank and mossy stone. The moon, half hid in silvery flakes, Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, And testing on Benledi's head. Now in their hut, in social guise, Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy, And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. ' What lack we here to crown our bliss, While thus the pulse of joy beats high? What but fair woman's yielding kiss, Her panting breath, and melting eye? ' To chase the deer of yonder shades, This morning left their father's pile The fairest of our mountain maids, The daughters of the proud Glengyle. ' Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, And dropt the tear, and heaved the sigh; But vain the lover's wily art, Beneath a sister's watchful eye. ' But thou mayst teach that guardian fair, While far with Mary I am flown, Of other hearts to cease her care, And find it hard to guard her own. • Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle, Unmindful of her charge and me, 626 Hang on thy notes 'twixt tear and smile. GLENFINLAS; OE, * Or if she choose a melting tale, All underneath the greenwood bough, Will good St. Oran's rule prevail, Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?' — ' Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath, Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. * E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, I bade my harp's wild waitings flow, On me the Seer's sad spirit came. ' The last dread curse of angry Heaven, With ghastly sights, and sounds of woe, To dash each glimpse of joy, was given The gift, the future ill to know. * The bark thou sawst, yon summer morn, So gaily part from Oban's bay, My eye beheld her dasht and torn Par on the rocky Colonsay. ■' The Fergus, too — thy sister's son, Thou sawst with pride the gallant's power, As, marching 'gainst the Laird of Downe, He left the skirts of huge Benmore. * Thou only sawst their tartans wave, As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, Heardst but the pibroch, answering brave To many a target clanking round. * I heard the groans, I markt the tears, I saw the wound his bosom bore, When on the serried Saxon spears He pourd his clan's resistless roar. ' And thou who bidst me think of bliss, And bidst my heart awake to glee, And court, like thee, the wanton kiss,— That heart, Ronald, bleeds for thee! * I see the death-damps chill thy brow, I hear thy warning spirit cry; The corpse-lights dance— they're gone, and now .... I No more is given to gifted eye!'-— ■ LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 628 ' Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, Sad prophet of the evil hour! Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, Because to-morrow's storm may lour? ' Or sooth or false thy words of woe, Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear; His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, Though doomd to stain the Saxon spear, ' E'en now, to meet me in yon dell, My Mary's buskins brush the dew.' He spol^e, nor bade the chief farewell, But calld his dogs, and' gay withdrew. Within an hour returnd each hound, In rusht the rousers of the deer; They howld in melancholy sound, Then closely coucht beside the Seer. No Ronald yet — though midnight came, And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, As, bending o'er the dying flame, He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. Sudden the hounds erect their ears, And sudden cease their moaning howl; Close prest to Moy, they mark their fears By shivering limbs, and stifled growl. Untoucht the harp began to ring, As softly, slowly, oped the door; And shook responsive every string, As light a footstep prest the floor. And by the watch-fire's glimmering light, Close by the Minstrel's side was seen An huntress maid, in beauty bright, All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem, Chilld was her cheek, her bosom bare, As, bending o'er the dying gleam, She wrung the moisture frdm her hair. With maiden blush she softly said, ' O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, In deep Glenfinlas' moon-light glade, A. lovely maid in vest of green: GLENFINLAS; OR, ' With her a chief in Highland pride; His shoulders bear the hunter's bow; The mountain dirk adorns his side, Far on the wind his tartans flow?' ' And who art thou; and who are they?' All ghastly gazing, Moy replied; 4 And why,. beneath the moon's pale ray, Dare ye thus roam Glenflnlas' side?' ' Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, Our father's towers o'erhang her side, The castle of the bold Glengyle. ' To chase the dun Glenflnlas deer, . Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here, The son of great Macgillianore. ' O aid me, then, to seek the pair, Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; Alone I dare not venture there, Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost' • Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; Then, first, my own sad -vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight. prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep.' ' O first, for pity's gentle sake, Guide a lone wanderer on her way! For I must cross the haunted brake, And reach my father's towers ere day.' ' First, three times tell each Ave-bead, And thrice a Pater-noster say, Then kiss with me the holy reed, So shall we safely wind our way.' ' O shame to knighthood, strange and foul! Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, Which best befits thy sullen vow. ' Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, .Thy heart was froze to love and joy, When gaily rung thy raptured lyre, To wanton Morna's melting eye.' g 2 9 LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame, And high his sable locks arose, And quick his colour went and came, As fear and rage alternate rose. ' And thou! when by the blazing oak I lay, to her and love resignd, Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, Or saild ye on the midnight wind? ' Not thine a race of mortal blood, Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood, Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.' He mutterd thrice St. Oran's rhyme, And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer; Then turnd him to the eastern clime, And sternly shook his coal-black hair: And, bending o'er his harp, he flung His wildest witch-notes on the wind, And loud, and high, and strange, they rung, As many a magic change they find. Tall waxt the Spirit's altering form, Till to the roof her stature grew ; Then, mingling with the rising storm, "With one wild yell away she flew. Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear, The slender hut in fragments flew, But not a lock of Moy's loose hair Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale, Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise, High o'er the Minstrel's head they sail, And die amid the northern skies. The voiee of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell, And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell. Next dropt from high a mangled arm, The fingers straind an half-drawn blade: And last, the life-blood streaming warm, 630 Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. GLENFINLAS. Oft o'er that head, in battling field, Stream d the proud crest of high Benmore; That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. "Woe to Moneira's sullen rills! "Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen! There never son of Albin's hjlls Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen! E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet At noon shall shun that sheltering den, Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet The wayward Ladies of the Glen. And we — behind the chieftain's shield No more shall we in safety dwell; None leads the people to the field — And we the loud lament must swelL O hone a rie! O hone a rie! The pride of Albin's line is o'er; And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! [Stanza 1. hone a rie signifies ' Alas for the prince, or chief. 1 Stanza 4. The fires lighted by the Highlanders on the first of May, in compliance with a custom derived from the Pagan times, are so called. It is a festival celebrated, with various superstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales. Stanza 22. St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. Columba, and was buried in Icolmkill. In memory of his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted to pay her de- votions, or be buried, in the chapel, or the cemetery, called, after him, Reilig Ouran. This is the ' rule 1 alluded to in the poem. Stanza 55. St. Fillan has given his name to many chapels, holy fountains, &c, in. Scotland Scott.} 631 %m^ MmMgo ? [This ballad, like the preceding, was written by Dr. Leyden, and first published in ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 1 The hero, according to Sir Walter Scott, was William, Lord Soulis, a powerful baron, descended from Alexander II. Local tradition represents him 'as a cruel tyrant and sorcerer ; constantly employed in oppressing his vassals, harassing his neighbours, and fortifying his castle of Hermitage against the King of Scotland, for which purpose he employed all means, human and infernal j invoking the fiends, by his incantations, and forcing his va«sals to drag materials, like beasts of burden. Tradition proceeds to relate, that the Scottish king, irritated by reiterated complaints, peevishly exclaimed to the peti- tioners, ' Boil him, if you please, but let me hear no more of him.* Satisfied with this answer, they proceeded with the utmost haste to execute the commission ; which they accomplished, by boiling him alive on the Nine-stane Rig, in a cauldron, said to have been long preserved at Skelf- hill, a hamlet betwixt Hawick and the Hermitage. Messengers, it is said, were immediately despatched by the king, to prevent the effects of such a hasty declaration, but they only arrived in time to witness the conclusion of the ceremony. The Nine-stane Rig is a declivity about one mile in breadth, and four in length, descending upon the Water of Hermitage from the range of hills which separate Liddesdale and Teviotdale. It derives its name from one of those circles of large stones, which are termed Druidical, nine of which remained till a late period. Five of these stones are still visible, and two are particularly pointed out, as those which supported the iron bar, upon which the fatal cauldron was suspended. Redcap is a popular appellation of that class of spirits which haunt old castles. Every ruined tower in the south of Scotland is supposed to have an inhabitant of this species.'] ORD SOULIS he sat in Hermitage castle, And beside him Old Redcap sly; — ' Now, tell me, thou sprite who art meikle of might, The death that I must die?' LORD SOULIS. « While thou shalt bear a charmed life, And hold that life of me, 'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife, I shall thy warrant be. Nor forged steel, nor hempen band, Shall e'er thy limbs confine, Till threefold ropes of sifted sand Around thy body twine. If danger press fast, knock thrice on the chest, With rusty padlocks bound; Turn away your eyes, when the lid shall rise, And listen to the sound.' Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle, And Redcap was not by; And he called in a page, who was witty and sage, To go to the barmkin high. ' And look thou east, and look thou west, And quickly come tell to me, What troopers haste along the waste, And what may their livery be.' He looked o'er fell, and he looked o'er flat, But nothing, I wist, he saw, Save a pyot on a turret that sat Beside a corby craw. The page he lookt at the skrieh of day,' But nothing, I wist, he saw, Till a horseman gay, in the royal array, Bode down the fiazel-shaw. ' Say, why do you cross o'er muir and moss?' So loudly cried the page: ' I tidings bring, from Scotland's king, To Soulis of Hermitage. He bids me tell that bloody warden, Oppressor of low and high, Ji ever again his lieges complain, The cruel Soulis shall die.' By traitorous sleight they seized the knight, Before he rode or ran, And through the key-stone of the vault They plunged him, horse and man. g33 LORD SOULIS. O May she came, and May she gaed, By Goranberry green; And May she was the fairest maid That ever yet was seen. O May she came, and May she gaed, By Goranberry tower; And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis, That carried her from her bower. He brought her to his castle gray, By Hermitage's side; Says, ' Be content, my lovely May, For thou shalt be my bride.' With her yellow hair, that glittered fair, She dried the trickling tear; She sighed the name of Branxholme's heir, The youth that loved her dear. . ' Now, be content, my bonnie May, And take it for your hame; Or ever and aye shall ye rue the day, You heard young Branxholme's name. O'er Branxholme tower, ere the morring hour, When the lift is like lead so blue, The smoke shall roll white on the weary night, And the flame shine dimly through.' Syne he's ca'd on him Eingan Bed, A sturdy kemp was he; From friend or foe, in border feid. Who never a foot would flee. Red Ringan sped, and the spearmen led, Up Goranberry Slack; Aye, many a wight, unmatcht in fight, Who never more came back. And bloody set the westering sun, And bloody rose he up; But little thought young Branxholme's ucu Where he that night should sup. He shot the roe-buck on the lee, The dun deer on the law; The glamour sure was in his ee, 634 When Ringan nigh did draw. LORD SOULIS. O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge, He sped till day was set; And he thought it was his merry men true, When he the spearmen met. Far from relief, they seized the chief; His men were far away; Through Hermitage Slack they sent him back To Soulis' castle gray; Syne onward fine for Branxholme tower, Where all his merry men lay. ' Now, welcome, noble Branxholme's heir! Thrice welcome,' quoth Soulis, 'to me! Say, dost thou repair to my castle fair, My wedding guest to be? And lovely May deserves, per fay, A brideman such as thee!' And broad and bloody rose the sun, And on the barmkin shone; When the page was aware of Red Ringan there, Who came riding all alone. To the gate of the tower Lord Soulis he speeds, As he lighted at the wall, Says, * Where did ye stable my stalwart steeds, And where do they tarry all?' ' We stabled them sure on the Tarras Muir; We stabled them sure,' quoth he: ' Before we could cross that quaking moss, They all were lost but me.' He clencht his fist, and he knockt on the chest, And he heard a stifled groan; And, at the third knock, each rusty lock Did open one by one. He turnd away his eyes, as the lid did rise, And he listend silentlie ; And he heard, breathed slow, in murmurs low, ' Beware of a coming tree!' In muttering sound the rest was drownd; No other word heard he; But slow as it rose, the lid did close, With the rusty padlocks three. 635 LORD SOULIS. Now rose with Branxholme's ae brother, The Teviot, high and low: Bauld Walter by name, of meikle fame, For none could bend his bow. O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there sped The fame of his array, And that Teviotdale would soon assail His towers and castle gray. With clenched fist he knockt on the chest And again he heard a groan; And he raised his eyes as the lid did rise, But answer heard he none. The charm was broke, when the spirit spoke. And it murmurd sullenlie; — • Shut fast the door, and for evermore, Commit to me the key. Alas! that ever thou raisedst thine eyes, Thine eyes to look on me! Till seven years are o'er, return no more, For here thou must not be.' Think not but Soulis was wae to yield His warlock chamber o'er; He took the keys from the rusty lock, That never was ta'en before. He threw them over his left shoulder, With meikle care and pain; And he bade it keep them fathoms deep, Till he returnd again. And still when seven years are o'er, Is heard the jarring sound; When slowly opes the charmed dooi Of the chamber underground, And some within the chamber door Have cast a curious eye; But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell, The fearful sights they spy. When Soulis thought on his merry men now, A woeful wight was he; Says, — ' Vengeance is mine, and I will not repine! 636 But Branxholme's heir shall die.' LORD SOULIS. Says — ' What would you do, young Branxholme, Gin ye had me, as I have thee?' * I would take you to the good greenwood, And gar your ain hand wale the tree.' ' Now shall thine ain band wale the tree, For all thy mirth and meikle pride; And May shall chuse, if my love she refuse, A scrog bush thee beside.' They carried him to the good greenwood, ' Where the green pines grew in a row; And they heard the cry, from the branches high, Of the hungry carrion crow. They carried him on from tree to tree, The spiry boughs below: ' Say, shall it be thine, on the tapering pine, To feed the hooded crow?' ' The fir-tops fall by Branxholme wall, When the night Wast stirs the tree, And it shall not be mine to die on the pine I loved in infancie.' Young Branxholme turnd him, and oft lookt back, And aye he past from tree to tree; Young Branxholme peept, and puirly spake, ' O sic a death is no for me!' And next they past the aspen gray, Its leaves were rustling mournfullie; 1 Now, chuse thee, chuse thee, Branxholme gay, Say, wilt thou never chuse the tree?' ' More dear to me is the aspen gray, More dear than any other tree; For beneath the shade that its branches made, Have past the vows of my love and me.' Young Branxholme peept, and puirly spake, Until he did his ain men see, With witches hazel in each steel cap, In scorn of Soulis' grammarye; Then shoulder height for glee he lap, ' Me thinks I spy a coming tree!' 'Aye, many, many come, but few return,' Quo' Soulis, the lord of grammarye; 637 LORD SOULIS. ' No warrior's hand in fair Scotland Shall ever dint a wound on me.' ' Now, by my sooth,' quo' bauld Walter, ' If that be true we soon shall see.' His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true, But never a wound or scar had he. Then up bespake him true Thomas, He was the lord of Ersyltoun: ' The wizard's spell no steel can quell, Till once your lances bear him down.' They bore him down with lances bright, But never a wound or scar had he; With hempen bands they bound him tight, Both hands and feet on the Nine-stane lee. That wizard accurst, the bands he burst; They moulderd at his magic spell; And neck and heel, in the forged steel, They bound him against the charms of hell. That wizard accurst, the bands he burst, No forged steel his charms could bide; Then up bespake him true Thomas, ' We'll bind him yet, whatever betide.' The black spae-book from his breast he took, Impresst with many a warlock spell; And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott, Who held in awe the fiends of hell. They buried it deep, where his bones they sleep, That mortal man might never it see; But Thomas did save it from the grave, When he returned from Faerie. The black spae-book from his breast he took, And turnd the leaves with curious hand; No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind, But threefold ropes of sifted sand. They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn, And shaped the ropes so curiouslie; But the ropes would neither twist nor twine, For Thomas true and his gramarye. The black spae-book from his breast he took, 638 And again he turned it with his hand; LORD SOULIS. And he bade each lad of Teviot add The barley chaff to the sifted sand. The barley chaff to the sifted sand They added still by handfulls nine; But Redcap sly unseen was by, And the ropes would neither twist nor twine. And still beside the Nine-stane burn, Ribbed like the sand at mark of sea, The ropes, that would not twist nor turn, Shaped of the sifted sand you see. The black spae-book true Thomas he took; Again its magic leaves he spread; And he found that to quell the powerful spell, The wizard must be boiled in lead. On a circle of stones they placed the pot, On a circle of stones but barely nine; They heated it red and fiery ho^ Till the burnisht brass did glimmer and shine. They rolld him up in a sheet of lead, A sheet of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, And melted him, lead, and bones and all. At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron still, The men of Liddesdale can show; And on the spot, where they boild the pot, The spreat and the deer-hair ne'er shall grow. [' The tradition,' says Sir Walter Scott, ' regarding the death of Lord Soulis, however singular, is not without a parallel in the real history of Scotland. The same extraordi- nary mode of cookery was actually practised {horresco rtferensj upon the body of a sheriff of the Meams. This person, whose name was Melville of Glenbervie, bore his faculties so harshly, that he became detested by the barons of the country. Reiterated complaints of his conduct having been made to James I. (or, as others say, to the Duke of Albany,) the monarch answered, in a moment of unguarded impatience, ' Sorrow gin the sheriff were sodden, and supped in broo!' The complainers retired, perfectly satisfied. Shortly after, the lairds of Arbuthnot, Mather, Laureston, and Fittaraw decoyed Melville to the top of the hill of Garvock, above Laurencekirk, under pretence of a grand hunting party. Upon this place, still called the Sh&'ilTs Pot, the barons had prepared a fire and a boiling cauldron, into which they plunged the unlucky sheriff. After he was sodden (as the king termed it) for a sufficient time, the savages, that they might literally observe the royal mandate, concluded the scene of abomination by actually partaking of the hell-broth.'} 639 Sie @®m$ ®0 ^«elUSrsap# 610 [This ballad was written by Dr. Lej den, and first pub- lished in * Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.' 'The tradition,' says Sir Walter Scott, ' on which it is founded, derives considerable illustration from the argument of ' Lord Soulis'— (see next ballad.) ' It is necessary to add, that the most redoubted adversary of Lord Soulis was the chief of Keeldar, a Northumbrian district, adjacent to Cumberland, who perished in a sudden encounter on the banks of the Hermitage. Being arrayed in armour of proof, he sustained no hurt in the combat; but, stum- bling in retreating across the river, the hostile party held him down below water with their lances till he died ; and the eddy, in which he perished, is still called the Cout of Keeldar's Pool. His grave, of gigantic size, is still pointed out on the banks of the Hermitage, at the western corner of a wall, surrounding the burial-ground of a ruined chapel. As an enemy of Lord Soulis, his memory is revered ; and the popular epithet of Cout, i. e. Colt, is expressive of his strength, stature, and activity. The Keeldar Stone, by which the Northumbrian chief passed in his incursion, is still pointed out, as a boundary mark, on the confines of Jed forest and Northumberland. It is a rough insulated mass, of considerable dimensions, and it is held unlucky to ride thrice wither shins — in a direction, that is, contrary to the course of the sun — around it. The Brown Man of the Muirs is a Fairy of the most malignant order.'] HE eiry blood-hound howled by night, The streamers flaunted red, Till broken streaks of flaky light O'er Keeldar's mountains spread. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. The lady sighed as Keeldar rose: ' Come tell me, dear love mine, Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows, Or on the banks of Tyne?' ' The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows, By Tyne the primrose pale; But now we ride on the Scottish side, To hunt in Liddesdale.' ' Gin you will ride on the Scottish side, Sore must thy Margaret mourn; For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's Lord, And I fear you'll ne'er return. The axe he bears, it hacks and tears; 'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint; No armour of knight, though ever so wight, Can bear its deadly dint. No danger he fears, for a charmed sword he wears, Of adder stone the hilt; No Tynedale knight had ever such might But his heart-blood was spilt.' ' In my plume is seen the holly green, With the leaves of the rowan tree; And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand, Was formed beneath the sea. Then Margaret, dear, have thou no fear; That bodes no ill to me, Though never a knight, by mortal might, Could match his gramarye.' — Then forward bound both horse and hound, And rattle o'er the vale; As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees, Drives on the pattering hail. Behind their course the English fells In deepening blue retire; Till soon before them boldly swells The muir of dun Redswire. Aiid when they reacht the Redswire high, Soft beamed the rising sun; But formless shadows seemed to fly Along the muirland dun. $n THE COUT OF KEELDAR. And when he reacht the Redswire high, His bugle Keeldar blew; And round did float, with clamorous note, And scream, the hoarse curlew. The next blast that young Keeldar blew, The wind grew deadly still; But the sleek fern with fingery leaves, Waved wildly o'er the hill. • The third blast that young Keeldar blew, Still stood the limber fern; And a wee man, of swarthy hue, Up started by a cairn. His russet weeds were brown as heath That clothes the upland fell; And the hair of his head was frizzly red, As the purple heather bell. An urchin, clad in prickles red, Clung cowering to his arm; The hounds they howld, and backward fled, As struck by Fairy charm. ' Why rises high the stag -hounds' cry, Where stag-hound ne'er should be? Why wakes that horn the silent morn, Without the leave of me?' ' Brown dwarf, that o'er the muirland strays, Thy name to Keeldar tell!' — ' The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays Beneath the heather-bell, "Tis sweet, beneath the heather-bell, To live in autumn brown; And sweet to hear the laverocks swell Far, far from tower and town. But woe betide the shrilling horn, The chase's surly cheer! And ever that hunter is forlorn, Whom first at morn I hear.' Says, ' Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe, In thee we hope nor dread.' — But, ere the bugles green could blow, 642 The wee Brown Man had fled. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. And onward, onward, hound' and horse, Young Keeldar's band have gone; And soon- they wheel, in rapid course, Around the Keeldar Stone. Green vervain round its base did creep, A powerful seed that bore; And oft, of yore, its channels deep, Were stained with human gore. And still, when blood drops, clotted thin, Hung the grey moss upon, The spirit murmurs from within, And shakes the rocking stone. Around, around young Keeldar wound, And called, in scornful tone, With him to pass the barrier ground, The spirit of the Stone. The rude crag rockt; ' I come for death, I come to work thy woe!' — And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath, That murmured from below. But onward, onward Keeldar past, Swift as the winter wind, When, hovering on the driving blast, The snow-flakes fall behind. They past the muir of berries blae, The stone cross on the lee; They reacht the green, the bonnie brae, Beneath the birchen tree. This is the bonnie brae, the green, • Yet sacred to the brave, Where, still, of ancient size, is seen Gigantic Keeldar's grave. The lonely shepherd loves to mark The daisy springing fair, Where weeps the birch of silver bark, With long dishevelled hair. The grave is green, and round is spread The curling lady-fern; That fatal day flie mould was red, No moss was on the cairn. fi .$ THE COUT OF KEELDAR. And next they past the chapel there j The holy ground was by, Where many a stone is sculptured fair, To mark where warriors lie. And here, beside the mountain flood, A massy castle frownd, Since first the Pictish race, in blood, The haunted pile did found. The restless stream its rocky base Assails with ceaseless din; And many, a troubled spirit strays The dungeons dark within. Soon from the lofty tower there hied A knight across the vale; ' I greet your master well,' he cried, ' From Soulis of Liddesdale. Helieard your bugle's echoing call, In his green garden bower; And bids you to his festive hall Within his. ancient tower.' Young Keeldar called his hunter train:— ' For doubtful cheer prepare; And, as you open force disdain, Of secret guile beware. 'Twas here, for Mangerton's brave lord A bloody feast was set, Who, weetless, at the festal board The bull's broad frontlet met. Then ever, at uncourteous feast, Keep every man his brand; And, as you mid his friends are placed, Range on the better hand. And, if the bull's ill-omened head Appear to grace the feast, Your whingers, with unerring speed, Plunge in each neighbour's breast,' — In Hermitage they sat at dine, In pomp and proud array; And oft they filled the blood-red wine, 614 While merry minstrels play. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. And many a hunting song they sung, And song of game and glee; Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue, ' Of Scotland's luve and lee.' To wilder measures next they turn; 1 The Black, Black Bull of NorowayP Sudden the tapers cease to burn, The minstrels cease to play. Each hunter bold, of Keeldar's train, Sat an enchanted man; For, cold as ice, through every vein The freezing life-blood ran. Each rigid hand the whinger wrung, Each gazed with glaring eye; But Keeldar from the table sprung, Unharmed by Gramarye. He burst the doors; the roofs resound; With yells the castle rung; Before him, with a sudden bound, His favourite blood-hound sprung. Ere he could pass, the door was barred; And, grating harsh from under, — With creaking, jarring noise, was heard -~„ A sound like distant thunder. The iron clash, the grinding sound, Announce the dire sword-mill; The piteous howlings of the hound The dreadful dungeon fill. With breath drawn in, the murderous crew Stood listening to the yell; And greater still their wonder grew, As on their ear it fell. They listened for a human shriek Ainidst the jarring sound; They only heard in echoes weak The murmurs of the hound. The death-bell rung, and wide were flung The castle gates amain; While hurry out the armed rout, And marshal on the plain. 345 THE COUT OF KEELDAR. 646 Ah! ne'er before in Border feud ., "Was seen so dire a fray! Through glittering lances Keeldar hewed ' A red corse-paven way. His helmet, formed of mermaid sand, r , r ; No lethal brand could dint; No other arms could e'er withstand " , The axe of earth-fast flint. In Keeldar's plume the holly green And rowan leaves nod on, And vain Lord Soulis' sword was seen, Though the hilt was adderstone. Then up the "Wee Brown Man he rose, ' By Soulis of Liddesdale;— * In vain,' he said, ' a thousand blows Assail the charmed mail; In vain by land your arrows glide, , In vain your falchions gleam — ■ No spell can stay the living tide, Or charm the rushing stream.' And now young Keeldar reacht the stream, ' Above the foamy lin; ; \ The Border lances round him gleam, And force the warrior in; The holly floated to the side, ' ' And the leaf of the rowan pale. Alas! no spell could charm "the tide, Nor the lance of Liddesdale. Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course ' Along the lily lee; But home came never hound nor horse, And never home came he. Where weeps the birch with branches green, Without the holy ground, Between two old gray stones is seen The warrior's ridgy mound. And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train, Within yon castle's wall, In deadly sleep must aye remain, Till the ruined towers down fall. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. Each in his hunter's garb arrayed, Each holds his bugle horn; Their keen hounds at their feet are laid, That ne'er shall wake the morn. [Stanza 1. ' Streamers'— northern lights. St. 5. * Earth-fast flint'— an insulated stone inclosed in a bed of earth. Its blow U reckoned uncommonly severe. St. 6. * Adderstone'— a name applied to celts and other round perforated stones. The vulgar suppose them to be perforated by the stings of adders. Among the Scottish pea- santry it is held in high veneration. St. 7. The * Rowan tree,' or mountain asb, is still used by the peasantry, to avert the effects of charms and witchcraft. St. 16. ■ Urchin'— hedge-hog. St. 24. The * rocking stone,' commonly held a Druidical monument, has always been held in superstitious veneration by the people, who suppose it to be inhabited by spirits. St. 33. Castles remarkable for size, strength, and antiquity, are by the common people commonly attributed to the Picts, or Pechs, who are not supposed to have trusted solely to their skill in masonry in constructing these edifices, but are believed to have bathed the foundation-stone with human blood, in order to propitiate the spirit of the soil. St. 40. To present a bull's head before a person at a feast, was, in the ancient turbulent times of Scotland, a common signal for his assassination. Thus, Lindsay of Pitscottie relates in his History, p. 17, that ' efter the dinner was endit, once alle the delicate courses taken away, the chancellor (Sir William Crichton) presentit the bullis head befoir the Earle of Douglas, in signe and toaken of condemnation to the death/ St. 42. The most ancient Scottish song known is here alluded to, and is given by Win- toun, in his ' Chronykil,' vol. i. p. 401 : that alluded to in the following verse is a wild fanciful popular tale of enchantment, termed, * The Black Bull of Noroway.* It is pro- bably the same with the romance of the ' Three Futtit Dog of Noroway,' mentioned in the * Complaynt of Scotland.' St. 56. That no species of magic had any effect over a running stream was a common opinion among the vulgar, and is alluded to in Burns' admirable tale of * Tarn o' Shanter.' — Scott.} 647 [This ballad, written by Dr. Leyden, was first pub- lished in the « Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.' Mt is founded,* says Sir Walter Scott, 'upon a Gaelic traditional ballad called * Macphail of Colon- say and the Mermaid of Corrivrekin,' a dangerous gulf, lying between the islands of Jura and Scarba. . * The Gaelic story bears, that Macphail of Colonsay was carried off by a mermaid while passing the gulf above-mentioned ; that they resided together, in a grotto beneath the sea, for several years, during which time she bore him five children ; but finally, he tired of her society, and having prevailed upon her to carry him near the shore of Colonsay, he escaped to land.' The reader may find more about mermaids in the * Telliamed* of M. Maillet ; in Pontoppidan's * Natural History of Norway" ; and in an old work, the ' Kong's Shuggsio, or Boyal Mirror,' written, it is believed, about 1170. Some very remarkable stories are also told of them in Waldron's * History of the Isle of Man.'] | N Jura's heath how sweetly swell The murmurs of the mountain bee ! How softly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea ! THE MERMAID. But softer floating o'er the deep, The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsay. Aloft the purple pennons wave, As, parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay ; For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. And « raise,' he cried, ' the song of love, The maiden sung with tearful smile, When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, We left afar the lonely isle ! " When on this ring of ruby red Shall die," she said, " the crimson hue, Know that thy favourite fair is dead, Or proves to thee and love untrue." * * Now, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray, And, echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Resounds the song of Colonsay. ' Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas, Before my love, sweet western gale! Where the wave is tinged with red, And the russet sea-leaves grow, Mariners, with prudent dread, Shun the shelving reefs below. As you pass through Jura's sound, Bend your course by Scarba's shore; Shun, O shun, the gulf profound, Where Corrivrekln's surges roar! If from that unbottomed deep, With wrinkled form and wreathed train, O'er the verge of Scarba's steep, The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, 64* THE MERMAID. Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils, Sea-green sisters of the main, And, in the gulf where ocean boils, The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail I Soothe to rest the furrowed seas, Before my love, sweet western gale!' Thus, all to soothe the chieftain's woe, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow, He seemed her parting sigh to hear. The lonely deck he paces o'er, Impatient for the rising day, And still from Crinan's moonlight shore, He turns his eyes to Colonsay. The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, That streaks with foam the ocean green: While forward still the rowers urge Their course, a female form was seen. That sea-maid's form, of pearly light, Was whiter than the downy spray, And round her bosom heaving bright Her glossy yellow ringlets play. Borne on a foamy crested wave, She reached amain the bounding prow, Then clasping fast the chieftain brave, She, plunging, sought the deep below. Ah! long beside thy feigned bier,. The monks the prayer of death shall say; And long for thee the fruitless tear Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downward, like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters, murmuring in his ear. The murmurs sink by slow degrees; No more the waters round him rave; Lulled by the music of the seas, 650 He lies within a coral cave. THE MERMAID. In dreamy mood reclines he long,. - Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose, 'Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song Far in the crystal cavern rose; Soft as that harp's unseen controuL In morning dreams which lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul, But never reach the waking ear. As sunbeams through the tepid air, When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair, And fields that glow with livelier green; So melting soft the music fell; It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray — * Say, heardst thou not these wild notes swell ? Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay.' Like one that from a fearful dream Awakes, the morning light, to view, And joys to see the purple beam, Yet fears to find the vision true, He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, Which bade his torpid languor fly; He feared some spell had bound his feet, And hardly dared his limbs to try. * This yellow sand, this sparry cave, Shall' bend thy soul to beauty's swayj Canst thou the maiden of the wave Compare to her of Colonsay ?' Roused by that voice of silver sound, From lie paved floor he lightly sprung, And glancing wild his eyes around Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung; No form he saw of mortal mould; It shone like ocean's snowy foam; Her ringlets waved in living gold, Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb. Her pearly comb the siren took, And careless bound her tresses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look, As on the wondering youth she smiled.. 65' THE MERMAID. Like music from the greenwood tree, Again she raised the melting lay; — ' Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, And leave the Maid of Golonsay? Fair is the crystal hall for me, With rubies and with emeralds set; And sweet the music of the sea Shall sing, when we for love are met. How sweet to dance with gliding feet Along the level tide so green; Responsive to the cadence sweet That breathes along the moonlight scene ! And soft the music of the main Rings from the motley tortoise-shell; While moonbeams o'er the watery plain Seem trembling in its fitful swell. How sweet, when billows heave their head, And shake their snowy crests on high, Serene in Ocean's sapphire bed Beneath the tumbling surge to lie; To trace, with tranquil step, the deep, Where pearly drops of frozen dew In concave shells unconscious sleep, Or shine with lustre, silvery blue! Then all the summer sun, from far, Pour through the wave a softer ray; While diamonds, in a bower of spar, At eve shall shed a brighter day. Nor stormy wind, nor wintry gale, That o'er the angry ocean sweep, Shall e'er our coral groves assail, Calm in the bosom of the deep. Through the green meads beneath the sea, Enamoured we shall fondly stray — Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me, And leave the Maid of Colonsay!' ' Though bright thy locks of glistering gold, Fair maiden of the foamy main ! Thy life-blood is the water cold, 652 While mine beats high in every vein: THE MERMAID. If I. beneath thy sparry cave, Should in thy snowy arms recline, Inconstant as the restless wave, My heart would grow as cold as thine.' As cygnet down, proud swelled her breast,' Her eye confessed the pearly tear: His hand she to her bosom presst,— ' Is there no heart for rapture here? These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, Does no warm blood their currents fill; No heart-pulse riot, wild and free, To joy, to love's delirious thrill?' « Though all the splendour of the sea Around thy faultless beauty shine, That heart, that riots wild and free, Can hold no sympathy with mine. These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay, They swim not in the light of love: The beauteous Maid of Colonsay, Her eyes are milder than the dovel Even now, within the lonely isle, Her eyes are dim with tears for me; And canst thou think that siren smile Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?' An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, Unfolds in length her scaly train; She tossed in proud disdain her. head, And lashed with webbed fin the main. 'Dwell here alone!' the Mermaid cried, ' And view far off the sea-nymphs play; The prison-wall, the azure tide, Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay. Whene'er, like Ocean's scaly brood, I cleave with rapid fin the wave, Far from the daughter of the flood, Conceal thee in this coral cave. I feel my former soul return, It kindles at thy cold disdain: • And has a mortal dared to spurn A daughter of the foamy main?" 653 the mermaid: She fled; around the crystal cave The rolling waves resume their road; On the broad portal idly rave, But enter not the nymph's abode. And many "a weary night went by, As in the lonely cave he lay; And many a sun rolled through the sky, And poured its beams on Colonsay, And oft beneath the silver moon, He heard afar the Mermaid sing; And oft to many a meting tune, The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring. And when "the moon went down the sky, Still. rose, in dreams, his native plain,' And oft, he thought his love was by, And charmed .him with some tender strain: And heart-sick, oft he waked -to weep, When ceased that voice of silver sound, And thought to plunge him in the deep That walled his crystal cavern round. But still the ring, of ruby red, Retained its vivid crimson hue; And each despairing' accent fled, To find his gentle love so true. When seven long lonely months were gone,' The Mermaid to his cavern came, No more mis-shapen from the zone; But like a maid of mortal frame. ' O give to me that ruby ring, That on thy finger glances gay, And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing The song thou lovest of Colonsay.' ' This ruby ring, of crimson grain, Shall on thy finger glitter gay, If thou wilt bear me through the main;. Again to visit Colonsay.' ' Except thou quit thy former love, Content to dwell' for aye with me, Thy scorn my finny frame might move 6Bi To tear thy limbs amid the sea.' THE MERMAID. ' Then bear me swift along the main, The lonely isle again to see; And when I here return again, I plight my faith to dwell with thee.' An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, While slow unfolds her scaly train; With gluey fangs her hands were clad; She lashed with webbed fin the main. He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides, As with broad fin she oars her way; Beneath the silent moon she glides, That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay. Proud swells her heart! she deems at last To lure him with her silver tongue, And, as the shelving rocks she past, She raised her voice and sweetly sung. In softer, sweeter strains she sung, Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, When light to land the chieftain sprung, To hail the Maid of Colonsay. sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell, And sadly sink remote at sea! So sadly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea. And ever as the year returns, The charm-bound sailors know the day ; ( " For sadly still the Mermaid mourns The lovely Chief of Colonsay. 7 . ^..'S liW ©W TMl Dai®^[lL ©ILUKlo X'W% I 656 f This ballad is taken from ' The Mountain Bard,' by Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd ; a work which, in the words of Sir Walter Scott, ' contains many legendary stories and ballads of great merit.' Of the origin of the work the Shepherd, in his * Autobiography,* gives the following account : — * On the appearance of the ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border/ I was much dis- satisfied with the imitations of the ancient ballads contained in it* and immediately set about imitating the ancient ballads myself, selecting a number of tra- ditionary stories, and put them in metre, chanting them to certain old tunes. In these I was more suc- cessful than in anything I bad hitherto tried, although they were still but rude pieces of composition. On my return to Scotland, (in 1801,) having lost all the money that I had made by a regular and industrious life, and in one week too, I again cheerfully hired myself as a shepherd with Mr. Harkness, of Mitchell- black in Nithsdale. It was while here that I pub- lished ' The Mountain Bard,' consisting of the above- mentioned ballads.' Between these ballads and those to which, in his dissatisfaction therewith, they owe their existence, this is not the place for instituting a comparison. Whatever their respective merits, how- ever, they one and all may fitly find a 'local habita- tion' in the 'Pictorial Balladist.'] WILL tell you of ane wondrous tale, As ever was told by man, Or ever was sung by minstrel meet Since this base world began :— MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN. It is of ane May, and ane lovely May, That dwelt in the Moril Glen, The fairest flower of mortal frame, But a devil amongst the men ; For nine of them sticket themselves for love, And ten louped in the main, And seven-and-thretty brake their hearts, And never loved women again ; For ilk ane trowit she was in love, And ran wodde for a while — There was siccan language in every look, And a speire in every smile. And she had seventy scores of ewes, That blett o'er dale and down, On the bonnie braid lands of the Moril Glen, And these were all her own ; And she had stotts, and strudy steers, And blithsome kids enew, That danced as light as gloaming flies Out through the falling dew. And this May she had a snow-white bull, The dread of the hail countrye, And three-and-thretty good milk kye, To bear him companye ; And she had geese and goslings too, And ganders of muckil din, And peacocks, with their gaudy trains, And hearts of pride within ; And she had cocks with curled kaims, And hens, full crouse and glad, That chanted in her own stack-yard, And cackillit and laid like mad ; But where her minnie gat all that gear And all that lordly trim, The Lord in Heaven he knew full well, But noboby knew but him ; For she never yielded to mortal man, To prince, nor yet to king — She never was given in holy church, Nor wedded with ane ring. 2 U 657 MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN. So all men wist, and all men said ; But the tale was in sore mistime, For a maiden she could hardly be, With a daughter in beauty's prime. But this bonny May, she never knew A. father's kindly claim; She never was bless'd in holy church, Nor christen'd in holy name. But there she lived an earthly flower Of beauty so supreme, Some fear'd she was of the mermaid's brood, Come out of the salt sea faeme. Some said she was found in a fairy ring, And born of the fairy queen ; For there was a rainbow behind the moon That night she first was seen. Some said her mother was a witch, Come frae ane far country ; Or a princess loved by a weird warlock In a land beyond the sea I O, there are doings here below That mortal ne'er should ken ; For there are things in this fair world Beyond the reach of men. Ae thing most sure and certain was^- For the bedesmen told it me— That the knight who coft the Moril Glen Ne'er spoke a word but three. And the masons who biggit that wild ha house Ne'er spoke word good nor ill ; They came like a dream, and pass'd away Like shadows o'er the hill. They came like a dream, and pass'd away "Whither no man could tell ; But they ate their bread like Christian men, And drank of tb crystal well. And whenever man said word to them, They stay'd their speech full soon; For they shook their heads, and raised their hands, 65s And look'd to heaven aboon. MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN. And the lady came — and there she 'bade For mony a lonely day ; But whether she bred her bairn to God — To read but and to pray — There was no man wist, though all men guess'd, And guess'd with fear and dread ; But o she grew ane virgin rose, To seemly womanheid 1 And no man could look on her face, And eyne that beam'd so clear, But felt a stang gang through his heart, Far sharper than a spear- It was not like ane prodde or pang That strength could overwin, But like ane red hot gaud of iron Reeking his heart within. So that around the Moril Glen Our brave young men did lie, With limbs as lydder, and as lythe, As duddis hung out to dry. And aye the tears ran down in streams Ower cheeks right woe-begone ; And aye they gasped, and they gratte, And thus made piteous moan : — " Alake that I had ever been born. Or dandelit on the knee ; Or rockit in ane cradle bed, Beneath a mother's e'e ! " O ! had I died before my cheek To woman's breast had lain, Then had I ne'er for woman's love Endured this burning pain! " For love is like the fiery flame That quivers through the rain, And love is like the pang of death That splits the heart in twain. " If I had loved earthly thing, Of earthly blithesomeness, I might have been beloved again. And bathed in earthly bliss. 659 MAT OF THE MORIL GLEN. " But I have loved ane freakish fay Of frowardness and sin, With heavenly beauty on the face, And heart of stone within. " O, for the gloaming calm of death To close my mortal day — The last benighting heave of breath, That rends the soul away !" But word's gone east, and word's gone west, 'Mong high and low degree, Quhile it went to the king upon the throne, And ane worthful man was he. — " What !" said the king, " and shall we sit In sackcloth mourning sad, Quhille all mine lieges of the land For ane young quean run mad ? " Go saddle me my milk-white steed, Of true Megaira brode ; I will go and see this wondrous dame, And prove her by the rode. " And if I find her Elfin queen, Or thing of fairy kind, I will burn her into ashes small, And sift them on the wind !" The king had chosen fourscore knights All busked gallantlye, And he is away to the Moril Glen, As fast as he can dree. And when he came to the Moril Glen, Ae morning fair and clear, This lovely May on horseback rode To hunt the fallow deer. Her palfrey was of snowy hue, A pale unearthly thing, That revell'd over hill and dale Like bird upon the wing. Her screen was like a net of gold, That dazzled as it flew. Her mantle was of the rainbow's red, Her rail of its bonnie blue. G60 MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN. A golden comb with diamonds bright, Her seemly virgin crown; Shone like the new moon's lady light O'er cloud of amber brown. The lightning that shot from her eyne, Flicker'd like elfin brand ; It was sharper nor the sharpest spear In all Northumberland. The hawk that on her bridle arm Outspread its pinions blue, To keep him steady on the perch As his loved mistress flew, Although his een shone like the gleam, Upon ane sable sea, Yet to the twain that o'er them beam'd, Compared they could not be. Like carry ower the morning sun That shimmers to the wind, So flew her locks upon the gale, And stream'd afar behind. The king he wheel'd him round about, And calleth to his men, " Yonder she comes, this wierdly witch, The spirit of the glen ! " Come rank your master up behind, This serpent to belay ; I'll let you hear me put her down In grand polemic way." Swift came the maid ower strath and stron — Nae dantonit dame was she — Until the king her path withstood, In might and majestye. The virgin cast on him a look, "With gay and graceful air, As on some thing below her note, That ought not to have been there. The king, whose belt was like to burst, With speeches most divine, Now felt ane throbbing of the heart, And quaking of the spine. MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN. And aye he gasped for his breath, And gasped in dire dismay, And waved his arm, and smote his breast ; But word he could not say. The spankie grewis they scowr'd the dale, The dun deer to restrain ; The virgin gave her steed the rein, And follow 'd, might and main. * Go bring her back," the king he cried ; " This reifery must not be, Though you should bind her hands and feet, Go bring her back to me." The deer she flew, the garf and grew They follow'd far behind ; The milk-white palfrey brush'd the dew Ear fleeter nor the wind. But woe betide the lords and knights, That taiglit in the dell ! For though with whip and spur they plied., Full far behind they fell. They look'd outowre their left shoulders, To see what they might see, And there the king, in fit of love, Lay spurring on the lea. And aye he batter'd with his feet, And rowted with despair, And pull'd the grass up by the roots, And flang it on the air ! " What ails, what ails my royal liege ? Such grief I do deplore." " O I'm bewitched," the king replied, " And gone for evermore ! " Go bring her back — go bring her back — Go bring her back to me ; For I must either die of love, Or own that dear ladye ! " That god of love out through my soul Hath shot his arrows keen ; And I am enchanted through the heart, 662 The liver, and the spleen. MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN. The deer was slain ; the royal train Then closed the virgin round, And then her fair and lily hands Behind her back were bound. But who should bind her winsome feet ? That bred such strife and pain, That sixteen brave and belted knights Lay gasping on the plain. And when she came before the king, Ane ireful carle was he ; Saith he, '• Dame, you must be my love, Or burn beneath ane tree. " For I am so sore in love with thee, I cannot go nor stand ; And thinks- thou nothing to put down The king of fair Scotland ?" " No, I can ne'er be love to thee^ Nor any lord thou hast ; For you are married men each one, And I a maiden chaste. " But here I promise; and I vow By Scotland's king and crown, Who first a widower shall prove, Shall claim me as his own." The king had mounted his milk-white steed, — One wordJie said not more, — And he is away from the Moril Glen, As ne'er rode king before. He sank his rowels to the naife, And scour'd the muir and dale, He held his bonnet on his head, And louted to the gale, Till wives ran skreighing to the door, Holding their hands on high ; They never saw king in love before, In such extremitye. And every lord and every knight Made off-jhis several way, AH galloping as they had been mad, Withouten stop or stay. ^j MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN. But there was never such dool and pain In any land befel: For there is wickedness in man, That grieveth me to tell. There was one eye, and one alone, Beheld the deeds were done; But the lovely queen of Fair Scotland Ne'er saw the morning sun; And seventy-seven wedded dames, As fair as e'er were born, The very pride of all the land, Were dead before the morn Then there was nought but mourning weeds, And sorrow and dismay; While burial met with burial still. And jostled by the way. And graves were howkit in green kirkyards, And howkit deep and wide; While bedlars swarfit for very toil, The comely corps to hide. The graves, with their unseemly jaws, Stood gaping day and night To swallow up the fair and young; — It was ane grievous sight! And the bonnie May of the Moril Glen Is weeping in despair, For she saw the hills of fair Scotland Could be her home nae mair. Then there were chariots came o'er night, As silent and as soon As shadow of ane little cloud In the wan light of the moon. Some said they came out of the rock, And some out of the sea; And some said they were sent from hell, To bring that fair ladye. When the day sky began to frame The grizly eastern fell, And the little wee bat was bound to seek 664 His dark and eery cell. MAY OF THE MORTL GLEF. The fairest flower of mortal frame Pass'd from the Moril Glen; And ne'er may 'such a deadly eye Shine amongst Christian men! In seven chariots, gilded bright, The train went o'er the fell, All wrapt within a shower of hail; Whither no man could tell; But there was a ship in the Firth of Forth, The like ne'er sail'd the faeme, For no man of her country knew Her colours or her name. Her mast was made of beaten gold, Her sails of the silken twine, And a thousand pennons stream'd behind, And trembled o'er the brine. As she lay mirror'd in the main, It was a comely view, So many rainbows round her play'd With every breeze that blew. And the hailstone shroud it rattled loud, Right over ford and fen, And swathed the flower of the Moril Glen From eyes of sinful men. And the hailstone shroud it wheel'd and row'd, As wan as death unshriven, Like dead cloth of an angel grim, Or winding sheet of heaven. It was a fearsome sight to see Toil through the morning gray, And whenever it reached the comely ship, She set sail and away. She set her sail before the gale, As it began to sing, And she heaved and rocked down the tide, Unlike an earthly thing. The dolphins fled out of her way Into the creeks of fife, And the blackguard seals they yowlit for dread, And swam for death and life. „ . MAY OF THE MORTL OLEN. But aye the ship, the bonnie ship, Outowre the green wave flew, Swift as the solan on the wing, Or terrified sea-mew. No billow breasted on her prow, Nor levell'd on the lee; She seem'd to sail upon the air And never touch the sea. And away, and away went the bonnie ship, Which man never more did see; But whether she went to heaven or heU, Was ne'er made known to me. '/ V'l 66G [This ballad was written by Henry Kirkc Wliite ; a name which it is impossible to pronounce or hear without feeling, with Lord Byron, (' English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,"; * the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred func- tions they were destined to assume/ lie was born at Not- tingham, on the 21st March, 17BA, and died at Cambridge on the 19th Oct. 180G, in his 22nd year; 'in consequence "f too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that,* in the eloquent language of the noble poet already quoted, * would have matured n mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than sub- dued.' Ilia Lordship's beautiful eulogy on * Unhappy White,* in the work above-mentioned, is too well known (o require insertion here. With regard to the ballad, it would appear from ' The Remains of Henry Kirkc White,' edited by Robert Soutlicy, whose generous assistance of the author while living, and tribute to his memory, after his death, are familiar to all readers, to have first appeared in what his biographer calls 'the little volume which Henry published in 1803/ It is here taken from Southey's edition of his works above-named, London, ISIG —92 ] HE night it was still, and the moon it shone, Serenely on the sea, And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock They murmur'd pleasantly. 66 * GONDOLINE. When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, A maiden full fair to the sight ; Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, And turn'd it to deadly white. Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear It fill'd her faint blue eye, As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, Her Bertrand's dying sigh. Her Bertrand was the bravest youth . Of all our good king's men, And he was gone to the Holy Land To fight the Saracen. And many a month had past away, And many a rolling year, But nothing the maid from Palestine Could of her lover hear. Full oft she vainly tried to pierce The ocean's misty face ; Full oft she thought her lover's bark She on the wave could trace. And every night she placed a light In the high rocFs lonely tower, To guide her lover to the land, Should the murky tempest lower. But now despair had seized her breast, And sunken in her eye ; " O tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace will die." She wander' d o'er the lonely shore, The curlew scream'd above, She heard the scream with a sickening heart, Much boding of her love. Yet still she kept her lonely way, And this was all her cry, " O ! tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace shall die." And now she came to a horrible rift, All in the rock's hard side, A bleaK and blasted. oak o'erspr°ad „ 6S The cavern yawning wide. GONDOLINE. And pendant from its dismal top The deadly nightshade hung ; The hemlock and the aconite Across the mouth were flung. And all within was dark and drear, And all without was calm ; Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld By some deep-working charm. And as she enter'd the cavern wide, The moonbeam gleamed pale, And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, It clung by its slimy tail. Her foot it slipt, and she stood aghast, She trod on a bloated toad ; Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, She kept upon her road. And now upon her frozen ear Mysterious sounds arose ; So, on the mountain's piny top The blustering north wind blows. Then furious peals of laughter loud Were heard with thundering sound, Till they died away in soft decay, Low whispering o'er the ground. Yet still the maiden onward went, The charm yet onward led, Though each big glaring ball of sight Seem'd bursting from her head. But now a pale blue light she saw, It from a distance came ; She follow* d, till upon her sight Burst full a flood of flame. She stood appall' d ; yet still the charm Upheld her sinking soul ; Yet each bent knee the other smote, And each wild eye did roll. And such a sight as she saw there No mortal saw before, And such a sight as she saw there No mortal shall see more. 609 GONDOLINE. A burning cauldron stood in the midst The flame was fierce and high, And all the cave so wide and long Was plainly seen thereby. And round about the cauldron stout Twelve withered witches stood : Their waists were bound with living snakes, And their hair was stiff with blood. Their hands were gory too ; and red And fiercely flamed their eyes ; And they were muttering indistinct Their hellish mysteries. And suddenly they join'd their hands, And utter'd a joyous cry. And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. And now they stopt ; and each prepared To tell what she had done, Since last the lady of the night Her waning course had run. Behind a rock stood Gondoline, Thick weeds her face did veil, And she leaned fearful forwarder, To hear the dreadful tale. The first arose : she said she'd seen Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd ; She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, And a jovial storm had brew'd. She call'd around the winged winds, And rais'd a devilish rout ; And she laught so loud, the peals were heard Full fifteen leagues about. She said there was a little bark Upon the roaming wave, And there was a woman there who'd been To see her husband's grave. And she had got a child in her arms, It was her only child, And oft its little infant pranks 670 Her heavy heart beguiled. GONDOLINE. Acd there was too in that same bark, A father and his son ; The lad was sickly, and the sire Was old and woe begone. And when the tempest waxed strong, And the hark could no more it 'bide, She said it was jovial fun to hear How the poor devils cried. The mother claspt her orphan child Unto her breast and wept ; And sweetly folded in her arms The careless baby slept. And she told how, in the shape of the wind, As manfully it roar'd, She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, And threw it overboard. And to have seen the mother's pangs, 'Twas a glorious sight to see ; The crew could scarcely hold her down From jumping in the sea. The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand And it was soft and fair : It must have been a lovely child, To have had such lovely hair. And she said the father in his arms He held his sickly son, And his dying throes they fast arose, His pains were nearly done. And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, And his face grew deadly blue ; And the father he tore his thin gray hair, And kiss'd the livid hue. And then she told how she bored a hole In the bark, and it filled away : And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, And some did vow and pray. The man and woman they soon were dead, The sailors their strength did urge ; But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, And the wind sung their funeral dirge. 671 GONDOLINE. She threw the infant's hair in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. The second begun : She said she had done The task that Queen Hecate had set her j And that the devil, the father of evil, Had never accomplisht a better. She said, there was an aged woman, And she had a daughter fair, Whose evil habits fill'd her heart With misery and care. The daughter had a paramour, A wicked man was he, And oft the woman him against Did murmur grievously. And the hag had workt the daughter up To murder her old mother, That then she might seize on all her goods, And wanton with her lover. And one night as the old woman Was sick and ill in bed, And pondering solely on the life Her wicked daughter led, She heard her footstep on the floor, And she raised her pallid head, And she saw her daughter, with a knife, Approaching to her bed. And said, My child, I'm very ill, I have not long to live, Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die Thy sins I may forgive. And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, And she lifted the sharp bright knife, And the mother saw her fell intent, And hard she begg'd for life. But prayers would nothing her avail, And she scream' d aloud with fear, But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 672 Could reach no human ear. GONDOLINE. And though that she was sick, and old, She straggled hard, and fought ; The murderess cut three fingers through Ere she could reach her throat. And the hag she held the fingers up, The skin was mangled sore, And they all agreed a nobler deed Was never done before. And she threw the fingers in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. The third arose : She said she'd been To holy Palestine ; And seen more blood in one short day Than they had all seen in nine. Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, Drew nearer to the flame, For much she dreaded now to hear Her hapless lover's name. The hag related then the sports Of that eventful day, "When on the well-contested field Full fifteen thousand lay. She said that she in human gore Above the knees did wade, And that no tongue could truly tell The tricks she there had play'd. There was a gallant featured youth, Who like a hero fought ; He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, And every danger sought. And in a vassal's garb disguised, Unto the knight she sues, And tells him she from Britain comes, And brings unwelcome news. That three days ere she had embarkt His love had given her hand Unto a wealthy Thane : and thought Him dead in Holy -Land. 6 j 3 GONDOLINE. And to have seen how he did writhe When this her tale she told, It would have made a wizard's blood Within his heart run cold. Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, And sought the battle's bed ; And soon all mangled o'er with wounds He on the cold turf bled. And from his smoking corse she tore His head, half clove in two. She ceased, and from beneath her garb The bloody trophy drew. The eyes were starting from their socks, The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, And there was a gash across the brow, The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 'Twas Bertrand's head 1 With a terrible scream The maiden gave a spring, And from her fearful hiding place She fell into the ring. The lights they fled, — the cauldron sank, Deep thunders shook the dome, And hollow peals of laughter came Resounding through the gloom. Insensible the maiden lay Upon the hellish ground, And still mysterious sounds were heard At intervals around. She woke, she half arose — and wild She cast a horrid glare, The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, And all was stillness there. And through an awning in the rock The moon it sweetly shone, And show"d a river in the cave Which dismally did moan. The stream was black, it sounded deep As it rusht the rocks between, It offer' d well, for madness fired 674 The breast of Gondoline. GONDOLINE. She plunged in, the torrent moan'd With its accustom'd sound, And hollow peals of laughter loud Again rebellow" d round. The maid was seen no more. — But oft Her ghost is known to glide, At midnight's silent, solemn hour, Along the ocean's side. 675 Sfoii SBSMtafo M MU* [This ballad was written by James Hogg, the Et trick Shepherd, and is taken from his ' Queen's Wake/ which was first published in 1813. ' I was/ he tells us, in the ' Auto- biography ' prefixed to bis ' Poetical Works/ Glasgow, 1838, — * forty years of age before I wrote the ' Queen's Wake.' With regard to the origin of the ballad, or the circumstances, real or supposed, upon which it was founded, the Shepherd gives but little information- He says, indeed, that ' the catastrophe of this tale is founded upon popular tradition/ But of the particulars of that tradition, or the locality to which it is peculiar, or any other matter con- nected therewith, he says nothing. And it is matter of regret that on so interesting a subject we are obliged to leave the reader in the ignorance in which we find him ] CJHARE half ye been, ye ill womyne, These three lang nightis fra hame Quhat garris the sweit drap fra yer brow, Like clotis of the saut sea facm ? THE WITCH OF FIFE. " It fearis me muckil ye half seen Qnhat guid man never knew ; It fearis me muckil ye haif been Quhare the gray cock never crew. " But the spell may crack, and the brydel breck, Then sherpe yer werde will be ; Ye had better sleippe in yer bed at hame, Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me." — " Sit doune, sit doune, my leil auld man, Sit doune, and listen to me ; I'll gar the hayre stand on yer crown, And the cauld sweit blind yer e'e. " But tell nae wordis, my guid auld man, Tell never word again ; Or deire shall be yer courtisye, And driche and sair yer pain. " The first leet night, quhan the new moon set, Quhan all was douffe and mirk, We saddled ouir naigis wi' the moon-fern leif, And rode fra Kilmerrin kirk. " Some horses ware of the brume-cow framit, And some of the greine bay tree ; But mine was made of ane humloke schaw. And a stout stallion was he. " We raide the tod doune on the hill, The martin on the law ; And we huntyd the hoolet out of brethe, And forcit him doune to fa'." — " Quhat guid was that, ye ill womyne ? Quhat guid was that to thee ? Te wald better haif been in yer bed at hame, Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me." — " And aye we raide, and se merrily we raide, Throw the merkist gloffis of the night ; And we swam the floode, and we darnit the woode, Till we cam' to the Lommond height. " And quhan we cam' to the Lommond height, Se lythlye we lychtid doune ; And we drank fra the hornis that never grew, The beer that was never browin. 677 THE WITCH OF FIFE. " Then up there raise ane wee wee man, Fra nethe the moss-gray stane ; His fece was wan like the collifloure, For he nouthir had blude nor bane. " He set ane reid-pipe til his muthe, And he playit se bonnilye, Till the gray curlew and the black-cock flew To listen his melodye. " It rang se sweit through the grein Lommond, That the nycht-winde lowner blew ; And it soupit alang the Loch Leven, And wakinit the white sea-mew. " It rang se sweit through the grein Lommond, Se sweitly butt and se shill, That the wezilis laup out of their mouldy holis, And dancit on the mydnycht hill. " The corby craw cam' gledgin' near, The ern ged veeryng bye; And the troutis laup out of the Leven Loch, Charmit with the melodye. " And aye we dancit on the grein Lommond, Till the dawn on the ocean grew : Ne wonder I was a weary wycht Quhan I cam' hame to you." " Quhat guid, quhat guid, my weird weird wyfe, Quhat guid was that to thee ? Qe wald better haif bein in yer bed at hame, Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me." " The second nycht, quhan the new moon set, O'er the roaryng sea we flew ; The cockle-shell our trusty bark, Our sailis of the grein sea-rue. " And the bauld windis blew, and the fire-flauchtis flew, And the sea ran to the skie ; And the thunner it growlit, and the sea-dogs howlit, As we gaed scouryng bye. " And aye we mountit the sea-grein hillis, Quhill we brushit through the cludis of" the hevin • Than sousit dounright like the stern-shot light, Fra the liftis blue casement driven. THE WITCH OF FIFE. " But our taickil stood, and our bark was good, And se pang was our pearily prowe ; Quhan we culdna speil the brow of the wavis, We needilit them throu' belowe. " As fast as the hail, as fast as the gale, As fast as the mydnycht leme, We borit the breiste of the burstyng swale, Or fluffit i' the flotyng faem. " And quhan to the Norraway shore we wan, We muntyd our steedis of the wynde, And we splashit the floode, and we darnit the woode, And we left the shouir behynde. " Fleit is the roe on the grein Lommond, And swift is the couryng grew, The rein-deir dun can eithly run, Quhan the houndis and the hornis pursue. " But nowther the roe, nor the rein-deir dun, The hinde nor the couryng grew, Culde fly owr montaine, muir, and dale, As our braw stedis they flew. " The dales war deep, and the Doffrinis steep, And we raise to the skyis ee-bree ; Quhite, quhite was our rode, that was nerer trode, Owr the snawis of eternity ! " And quhan we cam' to the Lapland lone, The fairies war all in array ; For all the genii of the north War keipyng their holeday. " The warlock men and the weird wemyng, And the fays of the wood and the steip; And the phantom hunteris all war there, And the mermaidis of the deip. " And they washit us all with the witch-water, Distillit fra the muirland dew, Quhill our beauty blumit hke the Lapland rose, That wylde in the foreste grew." — " Ye ,lee, ye lee, ye ill womyne, Se loud as I heir ye lee ! For the warskfaurd wyfe on the shorjs of Fyfe Is comlye comparit wi' thee." — THE WITCH OF FIFE. 680 ° Then the mermaidis sang and the woodlandis rang, Se sweitly swellit the quire ; On every cliff a herpe they hang, On every tree a lyre. " And aye the sang, and the woodlandis rang, And we drank, and we drank se deip ; Then saft in the artnis of the warlock men, "We laid us doun to sleip." " Away away, ye ill womyne, An ill deide met ye dee ! Quhan ye ha'e pruvit se false to yer God, Ye can never pruve true to me." — " And there we learnit fra the fairy foke, And fra our master true, The wordis that can heire us throu' the air, And lokkis and barris undo. " Last nycht we met at Maisry's cot ; Bicht weil the wordis we knew ! And we set a foot on the black cruik-shell, And out at the lum we flew. " And we flew owr hill, and we flew owr dale, And we flew owr firth and sea, Until we cam' to merry Carlisle, Quhare we lightit on the lea. " We gaed to the vault beyound the towir, Quhare we enterit free as ayr ; And we drank, and we drank of the bishopis wine Quhill we culde drynk ne mair." " Gin that be true, my guid auld wyfe, Whilk thou hast tauld to me, Betide my death, betide my lyfe, I'll beire thee companye. " Neist tyme ye gaung to merry Carlisle To drynk of the blude-reid wyne, Beshrew my heart, I'll fly with thee, If the deil should fly behynde." " Ah I little do ye ken, my silly auld man, The daingeris we maun dree ; Last nychte we drank of the bishopis wyne, Quhill near near ta'en war we, THE WITCH OF FIFE. " Afore we wan to the Sandy Ford, The gor-cockis nichering flew ; The lofty crest of Ettrick Pen Was wavit about with blue, And, flichtering throu' the ayr, we fand The chill chill mornyng dew. " As we flew ower the hillis of Braid, The sun raise fair and cleir ; There gurly James, and his baronis braw, War out to hunt the deir. " Their bowis they drew, their arrowis flew, And piercit the ayr with speide, Quhill purpil fell the mornyng dew Wi' witch-blude rank and reide. " Littil do ye ken, my silly auld man, The daingeris we maun dree ; Ne wonder I am a weary wycht Quhan I come hame to thee.". — " But tell me the word, my guid auld wyfe, Come tell it speedilye : For I lang to drynk of the guid reide wyne, And to wyng the ayr with thee. " Yer hellish horse I wilna ryde, Nor sail the seas in the wynde ; But I can flee as weil as thee, And I'll drynk quhill ye be blynd." — " O fy ! O fy ! my leil auld man, That word I darena tell ; It wald turn this warld all upside down, And make it warse than hell. " For all the lasses in the land Wald munt the wynde and fly ; And the men wald doff their doublets syde, And after them wald ply." — But the auld guidman was ane cunnyng auld man, And ane cunnyng auld man was he ; And he watchit, and he watchit for mony anychte, The witches' flychte to see. Ane nycht he darnit in Maisry's cot ; The fearless haggs cam' in ; And he heard the word of awsome weird, And he saw their deidis of synn. 681 THE WITCH OF FIFE. Then ane by ane they said that word, As fast to the fire they drew ; Then set a foot on the black cruik-shell, And out at the lum they flew. The auld guidman cam' fra his hole With feire and muckil dreide, But yet he culdna think to rue, For the wyne cam' in his head. He set his foot in the black cruik-shell, With ane fixit and ane wawlying e'e ; And he said the word that I darena say, And out at the lum flew he. The witches skalit the moon-beam pale ; Deep groanit the trembling wynde ; But they never wist till our auld guidman Was hoyeryng them behynde. They flew to the vaultis of merry Carlisle, Quhare they enterit free as ayr ; And they drank and they drank of the hishopis wyne Quhill theyculde drynk ne mair. The auld guidman he grew se crouse, He dauncit on the mouldy ground, And he sang the bonniest sangs of Fyfe, And he tuzzlit the kerlyngs round. And aye he piercit the tither butt, And he suckit, and he suckit sae lang, Quhill his een they closit, and his voice grew low, And his tongue wald hardly gang. The kerlyngs drank of the bishopis wyne Quhill they scentit the morning wynde ; Then clove again the yielding ayr, And left the auld man behynde. And aye he sleipit on the damp damp floor, He sleipit and he snorit amain ; He never dreamit he was far fra hame, Or that the auld wyvis war gane. And aye he sleipit on the damp damp floor, Quhill past the mid-day highte, Quhan wdkenit by five rough Englishmen 682 That trailit him to the lychte. THE WITCH OF FIFE. " Now qulia are ye, ye silly auld man, That sleipis se sound and se weil ? Or how gat ye into the bishopis vault Throu' lokkis and barns of steel 1 " The auld guidman he try it to speak, But ane word he culdna fynde ; He tryit to think, but his head whirlit round, And ane thing he culdna mynde : — " I cam' fra Fyfe," the auld man cryit, " And I cam* on the mydnicht wynde." They nickit the auld man, and they prickit the auld man, And they yerkit his limbis with twine, Quhill the reide blude ran in his hose and shoon, But some cryit it was wyne. They lickit the auld man, and they prickit the auld man, And they tyit him till ane stone ; And they set ane bele-fire him about, To burn him skin and bone. " O wae to me I " said the puir auld man, " That ever I saw the day ! And wae be to all the ill wemyng That lead puir men astray ! " Let nevir ane auld man after this To lawless greide inclyne ; Let nevir ane auld man after this Bin post to the deil for wyne." The reike flew up in the auld manis face, And choukit him bitterlye ; And the lowe cam' up with ane angry blese, And it syngit his auld breek-knee. He lukit to the land fra whence he cam', For lukis he culde get ne mae ; And he thochte of his deire little bairnis at hame, And O the auld man was wae ! But they turnit their facis to the sun, "With gloffe and wonderous glair, For they saw ane thing beth lairge and dun, Comin' swaipin down the ayr. That burd it cam' fra the landis o' Fyfe, . And it cam' rycht tymeouslye, For quha was it but the auld manis wife, Just comit his dethe to see. 683 THE WITCH OF FIFE. Scho put ane reide cap on his heide, And the auld guidman lookit fain, Then whisperit ane word intil his lug, And tovit to the ayr again. The auld guidman he ga'e ane hob, I' the mids o' the hurnyng lowe ; And the sheklis that hand him to the They fell fra his armis like tnwe. nng, He drew his breath, and he said the word. And he said it with muckil glee, Then set his fit on the burnyng pile, And away to the ayr flew he. Till aince he cleirit the swirlyng reike, He lukit beth ferit and sad ; But whan he wan to the lycht blue ayr, He lauchit as he'd been mad. His armis war spred, and hu heid was hiche, And his feite stack out behynde ; And the laibies of the auld manis cote "War wauffing in the wynde. And aye he neicherit, and aye he flew, For he thochte the ploy se raire ; It was like the voice of the gainder blue, Quhan he flees throu' the ayr. He lukit back to the Carlisle men As he borit the norlan sky ; He noddit his heide, and ga'e ane girn, But he nevir said guid-bye. They vanisht far i' the liftis blue wale, Ne mair the English saw, But the auld manis lauche cam' on the gale, With a lang and a loud gaffa. May evir ilke man in the land of Fyfe Bead what the drinkeris dree ; And nevir curse his puir auld wife, 684 Bichte wicked altho' scho be. [ * The wild and imaginative tale of The Ancient Mariner,' which, in the words of Sir Walter Scott, ' displays so much beauty with much eccentricity,* was written, the reader needs scarcely be told, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and is the poem by which he is chiefly, if not, indeed, to many readers, exclu- sively, known. It is here taken from a volume en- titled * Sibylline Leaves, a Collection of Poems. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq London, 1817;' though that was not its first appearance in print. No information was afforded by the poet as to the existence of any matter-of-fact foundation for the story of the ballad; which, indeed, he in all probability wished the reader to consider es a * trick' of ' strong imagination, bodying forth the forms of things unknown, and giving to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.' And thus it has probably, with most readers, passed for 'more strange than true ' For the principal incident, how- ever, an origin has-been found in a passage of Shel- vocke's * Voyage Bound the World,' which the reader may see by referring to the note on page 140. Be this as it may, however, .the ballad is not the less * wild and imaginative;* there is, as has been observed by an eminent writer* ' nothing else like it ; it is a poem by itself; between it and other compositions en pari materia there is a chasm which you cannot overpass. The sensitive reader feels himself insulated, and a sea of wonder and mystery flows round him, as round the spell-stricken ship itself.' t T is an ancient Mariner MariSS^m* t- And he stoppeth one of three : eth three gai- 'By thy long gray heard and %%££» glittering eye, and detaineth Now wherefore stopst thou me? one ' 6S5 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: Mayst hear the merry din.' He holds him with his skinny hand; ' There was a ship,' quoth he. ' Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three-years' child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest Is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear: And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top. The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he; And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon- The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she: Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. And now the storm -blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong; He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along. 686 The Mariner tells how the ship sailed south- ward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line. The Wedding -Guest heareth the bridal mu- sic; but the Mariner continueth his tale. The ship driven by a storm toward the South Pole. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. With sloping masts, and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shallow of his foe, And forward bends his head; The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold; And ice mast-high came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. The land of Ice and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around; It crackt and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound. At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, "We hailed it in God's name. Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow- fog, and was received with great joy and hos- pitality. It ate the food it ne'er had ate, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through! And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the Mariner's hollo! And lo ! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating ice. In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud It percht for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moonshine. ' God save thee, ancient Mariner, From the fiends that plague thee thus! Why lookst thou so?' With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross! The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen. 687' THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 688 PART H. The Sun now rose upon the right, Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day, for food or play, Came to the Mariner's hollo! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe; For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah, wretch! said they, the bird to slay That made the breeze to blow! Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist; Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow streamed off free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink: Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves ac- complices in the crime. The fair breeze conti- nues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward even till it reaches the Line. The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. And the Albatross be- gins to be avenged. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be ! Tea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root: We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah, well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. PART IIL There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye! When looking westward I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved, and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked, and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood; I bit my arm, I suckt the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail! 2 x A Spirit had followed them, one of the in- visible inhabitants of this planet, neither de- parted souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learned Jew, Joscphus, and the Platonic Con- stantinopolitan ( Michael Psellus, may be con- sulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more. The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner; in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off. At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst. 699^ THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. With throat unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call; Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. See! see! I cried, she tacks no more Hither to work us weal, Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! The western wave was all a-flamij, The day was well nigh done, Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas ! thought I, and my heart beat loud, How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun Like restless gossameres? Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer as through a grate? And is that woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold; Her skin was as white as leprosy; The night-mare Life in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. A flash of joy. And horror follows ; for can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide ? It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The spectre- woman and her death-mate, and no other, on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew. 6ty The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; ' The game is done! I've won, I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. [A gust of wind sterte up behind And whistled through his bones; Through the holes of his eyes and the hole or his mouth, Half whistles and half groans.] Death and Life-in- Death, have diced for the ship's crew; and she, the latter, winneth the ancient Mariner. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; No twilight within the At one stride comes the dark; courts of the Sun. With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up; Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip. The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white, ' From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star At the rising of the Within the nether tip. Moon, One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, One after another, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men His shipmates drop (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), down dead ; With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropt down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly — But Llfe-in-Dcath be- They fled to bliss or woe! gins her work on the ancient Mariner. And every soul it passed me by Like the whiz of my Cross-bow! PART IV. ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner, The Wedding - Guest I fear thy skinny hand! feareth that a spirit is talking to him ; And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand! ' I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.' — Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest, But the ancient Ma- This body dropt not down. riner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate Alone, alone, all, all alone, his horrible penance. Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. 691^ THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MARJNER. The many men so beautiful! And they all dead did lie; And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. I lookt upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away: I lookt upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I lookt to Heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, •A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they; The look with which they lookt on me Had never past away. An orphan's curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high; But 0! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside. Her beams bemockt the sultry main, Like April hoarfrost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship I watcht the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. 692 He despiseth the crea- tures of the calm. And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead. But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward, and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounc- ed, as lords that are cer- tainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm ; THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Within the shadow of the ship I watcht their rich attire; Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gusht from my heart, And I blessed them unaware : Sure my kind saint took pity on me. And I blessed them unaware. Their beauty and their happiness. He blesseth them Jn his heart. The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sunk Like lead into the sea. The spell begins to break. PART V. O Sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with aew, And when I awoke, it rained. By grace of the Holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreama And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limb I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep And was a blessed ghost. And soon I heard a roaring wind; It did not come a-near; But with its sound it shook the sails That were so thin and sere. Re heareth sounds, ana seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the elements. 693 694 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER, The upper air burst into life; And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about, And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The loud wind never reacht the ship, The bodies of the ship i -*t- , Ll _ . . , , *■ crew are inspirited, and x et now tne snip moved on ! the ship moves on. Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on, Yet never a breeze upblew; The mariners all gan work the ropes Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — "We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me. ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' Be calm, thou Wedding- Guest, 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, But not by the souls of Which to their Corses Came again, the men, nor by demons -r, „ , . *» & i**t», of eaTtn or mi ddle air, .but a troop 01 spirits blest: but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits sent For when it dawned, they dropt their arms, of toe guanUansatot. 011 And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies past. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then dartecUto the Sun; Slowly thejbunds came back again, Now niixt, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the Heavens be mute. It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe : Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel, nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid; and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also. The Sun right up above the mast, Had fixt her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan'stir With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length, With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound, It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down i i a swound. The Lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obe- dience to the angelic troop, but still requir- eth vengeance. 695 696 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. How long in that same fit I lay, The Polar spirit's fct- _ , * 1 i ' low-demons, the invi. 1 have not to declare; Bible inhabitants of the But ere my living life returned, ^wr^n/two 3 I heard, and in my soul discerned them relate, one «o the m „„:„,„ ;„ »u„ „;„ other, that penance long iWO VOlCeS in the air. and he avy for the an- cient Mariner hath been * Is it he?' quoth one; ' Is this the man? accorded to the Polar „ , . , T i Spirit, who returneili By him who died on cross, southward. With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew; Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.' PART VX FIRST VOICE. But tell me, tell me, speak again, Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the Ocean doing? SECOND VOICE. Still as a slave before his lord, The Ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast — If he may know which way to go, For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him. FIRST VOICE, But why drives On that ship SO fasf^ The Mariner hath been Without or wave or wind? ^ int0 ,. a tranra - for the angelic power caus- etii the vessel to drive SECOND VOICE. northward, faster than . , human life could en- The air is cut away before, dure. And closes from behind! THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated; For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated. I woke, and we were sailing on, The supernatural mo- As in a gentle weather; «&£ **££• £j 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high; Ms penance begins The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck, For a charnel dungeon fitter; All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away; I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. And now this spell was snapt; once more The curse is finally ex. I viewed the ocean green, piate( ' And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me^ Nor sound nor motion made; Its path was not upon the sea In ripple or in shade. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow -gale of spring- It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship- Yet she sailed softly too; Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-" <">n me alone it blew. 697 698 THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. O! dream of joy! is this indeed 4 nd th ? » n ,°' e " t »*»- ___, ,. , J J _ riner beholdeth bis Ihe lighthouse top 1 Seer native country. Is this the hill ? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. And I with sobs did pray — let me be awake, my God, Or let me sleep alway! The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn ; And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon. The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock; The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, The angelic spirits rp-ii • • i» ,-l „ _ n rt leave the dead bodies, lill, rising trom the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. A little distance from the prow And appear in theii Those crimson shadows were; own forD,s ofIigM - 1 turned my eyes upon the deck — Christ! what saw I there! Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood, A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood ! This seraph-band, each waved his hand; It was a heavenly sight; . They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light; This seraph-band, each waved his hand No voice did they impart — No voice; but O! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars,, 1 heard the pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. The pilot, and the pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast; Dear Lord in heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third — I heard his voice; It is the hermit good; He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood; He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PART VII. This hermit good lives in that wood Th <> hermit of Bw wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump ; It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk — ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair That signal made but now?' ' Strange, by my faith,' the hermit said — Approacheth the shin 'And they answered not our cheer! with wonder. The planks look warped; and see these sails How thin they are and sere! I never saw ought like to them, Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along: When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below That eats the she-wolf's young.' ' Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look — (The pilot made reply) lama-feared.' 'Push on, push on 1' Said the hermit cheerily. 699 70t THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reacht the ship, it split the bay; The ship suddenly sink. The ship went down like lead. eth- Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams myself I found The ancient Mariner Within the pilot's boat. tit^ ta the pUot ' S Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked, And fell down in a fit; The holy hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars: the pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro: * Ha! ha!' quoth he, ' full plain I see The Devil knows how to row !' And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' The ancient Mariner The hermit crost his brow; SSSfftSS^JS', ' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say ?"? the penance of uf« nri , j. . ,i_ i, fallsonhim: What manner 01 man art thour Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. I pass like night from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bridemaids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea; So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. O ! sweeter than the marriage feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay. Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding- Guest: He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God that loveth us, He made and loveth all. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony con- straineth him to tra- vel from land to land, And to teach, by hia own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth. 701 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. [The following is the passage referred to in the Introductory Note, as having been supposed to have furnished Coleridge with the principal incident of this ballad. It is found in a work entitled, * A Voyage round the World by Way of the Great South Sea, performed in the years 1719-20-21-22, in the Speedwell of London, of 24 Guns, and 100 Men, (under his Majesty's Commission to Cruize on the Spaniards, in the late War with the Spanish Crown,) till she was cast away on the Island of Juan Fernandes, in May, 1720 ; and afterwards continued in the Recovery, the Jesus Maria, and Sacra Familia, &c. By Capt. George Shelvocke, Com- mander of the Speedwell, Recovery, &c, in this Expedition. London, 1726.' * We had not had the sight of one fish of any kind, since we were come to the southward of the Streights of Le Mair, nor one sea-bird, except a disconsolate black Albitross, who accom- panied us for several days, hovering about us as if he had lost himself, till Hatley, (my Second Captain,) observing, in one of his melancholy fits, that this bird was always hovering near us imagined, from his colour, that it might be some ill omen. That which, I suppose, induced him the more to encourage his superstition, was, the continued series of contrary, tempestuous winds, which had oppressed us ever since we had got into this sea. But be that as it would, he, after some fruitless attempts, at length shot the Albitross, not doubting (perhaps) that we should have a fair wind of it.' This hope, however, was not realized, for the bad weather continued until the vessel was eventually * caat away,' as the title page expresses it, * on the Island of Juan Fernandes.'] 1 702 Sis &&>* M && Sfimfjg. [This ballftd i: iaken from ' Blackwood's Magazine,* for February 1819, where it first appeared. The author vras the well-known correspondent of that periodical, who wrote under the name of Morgan O'Doherty ; and was, as indeed it can be scarcely necessary to say, the late Dr. Maginn. * The reader/ he says, ' will learn with astonishment, that I composed the following ballad in the fourteenth year of my age. I doubt if either Milton or Pope rivalled this precocity of genius- The reader will at once detect the resemblance which it bears to a well-known and justly celebrated piece of Scott.' In fact it is, as the reader will see, a parody of the preceding ballad, 'The Eve of St. John;' and one which cannot, it is thought, be considered to overstep the bounds of good natured pleasantry. As to St. Jerry, * I have in vain scrutinized the calendar,* says Mr. O'Doherty, ' for the name of this saint.'] ICK Gossip the barber arose with the cock, And pull'd his breeches on ; 1 I Down the staircase of wood, as fast as he could, The valiant shaver ran. 703 THE EVE OF ST. JERRY. He went not to the country forth To shave or frizzle hair ; Nor to join in the battle to be fought At Canterbury fair. Yet his hat was fiercely cocked, and his razors in his pocket, And his torturing irons he bore ; A staff of crab-tree in his hand had he, Full five feet long and more. The barber return' d in three day's space, And blistered were his feet ; And sad and peevish were his looks, As he turn'd the corner street. He came not from where Canterbury Ran ankle-deep in blood ; Where butcher Jem, and his comrades grim, The shaving tribe withstood. Yet were his eyes bruis'd black and blue ; His cravat twisted and tore ; His razors were with gore imbued — But it was not professional gore. He halted at the painted pole, Full loudly did he rap, And whistled on his shaving boy, "Whose name was Johnny Strap. Come hither, come hither, young tickle-beard, And mind that you tell me true, For these three long days that Fve been away, What did Mrs. Gossip do? When the clock struck eight, Mrs. Gossip went straight, In spite of the pattering rain, Without stay or stop to the butcher's shop, That fives in Cleaver-lane. I watcht her steps, and secret came Where she sat upon a chair, No person was in the butcher's shop, — The devil a soul was there. The second night I'spy'd a fight As I went up the strand, 'Twns she who ran, with pattens on, 701 And a lanthorn in her hand. THE EVE OF ST. JERRY. She laid it down upon a bench, And shook her wet attire ; And drew in the elbow chair, to warm Her toes before the fire. In the twinkling of a walking stick, A greasy butcher came, And with a pair of bellows, he Blew up the dying flame. And many a word the butcher spoke To Mrs. Gossip there, But the rain fell fast, and it blew such a blast, That I could not tell what they were. The third night there the sky was fair, There was neither wind nor rain ; And again I watcht the secret pair At the shop in Cleaver-lane. And I heard her say, " Dick Gossip's away, So we'll be blithe and merry, And the bolts I'll undo, sweet butcher to you, On the eve of good St. Jerry." " I cannot come, I must not come" — For shame, faint-hearted snarler, Must I then moan, and sit alone, In Dicky Gossip's parlour. " The dog shall not tear you, and Strap shall not hear you, And blankets I'll spread on the stair ; By the blood-red sherry, and holy St. Jerry, I conjure thee sweet butcher be there." " Though the dog should not tear me, and Strap should not hear me, And blankets be spread on the stair, Yet there's Mr. Parrot, who sleeps in the garret, To my footsteps he could swear." "Fear not Mr. Parrot, who sleeps in the garret, For to Hampstead the way he has ta'en ; And an inquest to hold, as I have been told, On the corpse of a butcher that's slain." He turn'd him around, and grimly he frown' d, And he laught right scornfully, The inquest that's held, on the man that's been kill'd, May as well be held on me. 3 2 z 705 THE EVE OF ST. JERRY. " At the lone midnight hour, when hobgoblins have power, In thy chamber I'll appear ;" — " With that he was gone, and your wife left alone, And I came running here." Then changed. I trow was the barber's brow, From the chalk to the beet-root red, Now tell me the mien of the butcher thou'st seen, By Mambrino I'll smite off his head. " On the point of his nose, which was like a red rose, Was a wart of enormous size ; And he made a great vaporing with a blue and white apron, And red stockings rolled up to his thighs." " Thou liest, thou liest, young Johnny Strap, Is it all a fib you tell, For the butcher was taken as dead as bacon, From the bottom of Carisbrook well." " My master attend, and I'll be your friend, I dont value madam a button ; But I heard Mistress say, dont leave, I pray, Sweet Timothy Slaughter-mutton." He oped the shop-door, the counter he jumpt o'er, And overturned Strap, Then bolted up the stair, where he found his lady fair, With the kitten on her lap. " Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright, — ■ Now hail thou barber trim, What news from Canterbury fight, What news from bloody Jem." " Canterbury is red with gore, For many a barber fell ; And the mayor has charged us for evermore, To watch the butcher's well." Mrs. Gossip blusht, and her cheek was flusht, But the barber shook his head ; And having observed that the night was cold, He tumbled into bed. Mrs. Gossip lay and mourn' d, and Dicky tost and turn'd ; And he mutter'd while half a-sleep, The stone is large and round, and the halter tight and sound, 706 And the well thirty fathom deep. THE EVE OF ST. JERRY. The gloomy dome of St. Paul's struck three, The morning began to blink, And Gossip slept, as if his wife Had put laudanum in his drink. Mrs. Gossip drew wide the curtains aside, The candle had burn'd to the socket, And lo ! Timothy stood, all covered with blood, With his right hand in his pocket. " Dear Slaughter-mutton, away," she cried, " I pray thee do not stop," — " Mrs. Gossip, I know, who sleeps by thy side, But he sleeps as sound as a top. Near Carisbrook well I lately fell ' Beneath a barber's knife; The coroner's inquest was held on me, But it did not restore me to life. By thy husband's hand, was I foully slain, He threw me into the well, And my sprite in the shop, in Cleaver-lane, For a season is doom'd to dwell." — Love master'd fear — " what brings thee here ? " The Love-sick matron said. — " Is thy fair carcase gone to pot V — The goblin shook his head. ** I slaughter'd sheep, and slaughter'd was And for breaking, the marriage bands, My flesh and bones go to David Jones — But let us first shake hands. He laid his left fist, on an oaken chest, And, as she cried, — " dont burn us ;" With the other hegraspt her by the nose, And scorcht her like a ftirnace. There is a felon in Newgate jail, Who dreads the next assize ; A woman doth dwell, in Bedlam cell, With a patch between her eyes. The woman who dwells in Bedlam cell, Whose reason is not worthia button, Is the wife of the barber in: Newgate jail, Who slaughter'd Slaughter-mutton. IN POUR PARTS. [From ttiackwood's Magazine, February, 181iJ.] An auncient waggonere etoppeth aine tailore going to a wedding, whereat be hath been appointed to be best manne, and to take a band in the casting of the slipper e. PART FIRST. IT is an auncient waggonere, And he stoppeth one of nine : — ' Now wherefore dost thou grip me sae With that horny fist of thine?' The waggonere in mood for chate, and admits of no excuse. ' The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And thither I must walke; Soe, by youre leave, I muste be gone, I have noe time for talke.' The tailore seized with the ague. Hee holds him with his horny fist — * There was a wain,' quothe hee, — ' Hold offe thou raggamouffine tykke,'- Eftsomes his fist dropped he. He listeneth like a three yeares and a half child. Hee satte him downe upon a stone, With ruefulle looks of feare; And thus began this tippsye manne, The red nosed waggonere. The appetite of the tailore whetted by the smell oi' cabbage. 708 ' The wain is fulle, the horses pulle, Merrilye did we trotte Alonge the bridge, alonge the road, A jolly crewe I wotte:' — And here the tailore smotte his breaste, He smelte the cabbage pottel THE AUNCIENT WAGGONERE. The nighte was darke; like Noah's arke, Our waggone moved alonge; The hail pour'd faste, loude roared the Waste, Yet still we moved alonge; And sung in chorus, ' Cease loud Borus,' A very charniinge songe. The waggonere in talk- ing anent Boreas mak- eth bad orthographic. * Bravoe, bravissimoe,' I cried, The sound was quite elatinge, But in a trice, upon the ice, We heard the horses skaitinge. Their mirthe Inter- rupted; The ice was here, the ice was there, It was a dismale mattere, To see the cargoe, one by one. Flounderinge in the wattere! With rout and roare, we reached the shore, And never a soul did sinke; But in the rivere, gone for evere, Swam our meate and drinke. And the passengers exercise themselves in the pleasant art of swimminge, as doeth also their prog; to witte, great store of colde roasted beef; item, ane beefstake pye ; item, viii choppines of usque- baugh* At lengthe we spied a goode grey goose, Thorough the mow it came; And with the butte end of my whippe, I hailed it in Goddhis name. It staggered as it had been drunke, So dexterous was it hitte; Of brokene boughs we made a fire, Thomme Loncheone roasted itte. ' Be done, thou tipsye waggonere, To the feaste I must awaye.' — The waggonere seized him bye the coatte, And forced him there to staye, Begginge, in gentlemanlie style, Butte halfe ane hours delaye. The waggonere haileth ane goose with ane no velle salutatione. The tailore impatient to be gone, but is forci- bly persuaded to re- main. PART SECOND. ' The crimsone sunne was risinge o'ere The verge of the horizon; Upon my worde, as fair a sunne As ever I clapped eyes onne. The waggonere's bowels yearne towards too sunne. 709 THE AUNCIENT WAGGONERE. The passengers throwe the blame of the goose massacre on the inno- cent e waggonere. The sunne suffers ane artificial eclipse, and horror follows, the same not being mentioned in the Belfaste Alma* nacke. Various hypotheses on the subject, from which the passengers dra-n wronge conclusions. Ane tovelye sound aria eth ; ittes effects de- scribed. ' Twill bee ane comfortable thinge,' The mutinous ere we 'gan crye; ' Twill be ane comfortable thinge, Within the jaile to lye; Ah! execrable wretch,' said they, ' That caused the goose to die!' The day was drawing near itte's close, The sunne was well nighe settinge; When lo! it seemed as iff his face Was veiled with fringe-warke-nettinge. Somme said itte was ane apple tree, Laden with goodlye fruite, Somme swore itte was ane foreigne birde, Somme said it was ane brute; Alas! it was ane bumbailiffe, Ridinge in pursuite! A hue and crye sterte uppe behinde, Whilk smote our ears like thunder, Within the waggone there was drede, Astonishmente and wonder. The passengers throw somersets. One after one, the rascalls rave, And from the carre did jump; One after one, one after one, They felle with heavye thump. Six miles ane houre they offe did scouro, Like shippes on ane stormye ocean, Theire garments flappinge in the windc, With ane shorte uneasy motion. The waggonere com- plimenteth the bum- bailiffe with ane Men- doza. Their bodies with their legs did flye, Theye fled with feare and glyffe; Whye starest thou soe? — with one goode blow I felled the bumbailiffe.' PART THIRD. 1 1 feare thee, auncient waggonere, I feare thy hornye fiste, For itte is stained with gooses gore, And bailliffe's blood, I wist. 710 THE AUNCIENT WAGGONERE. I feare to gette ane fisticuffe, From thy leathern knuckles brown'— With that the tailore strove to ryse, — The waggonere thrusts him down. The tailore meeteth Corporal Feare. • Thou craven, if thou movest a limbe; I'll give thee cause for feare;' — And thus went on that tipsye man, The red-billed waggonere. ' The bumbailiffe so beautiful Declared itte was no joke, For, to his knowledge, both his legs, And fifteen ribbes were broke. Tbe bailiffe complain- eth of considerable de- rangement of his ani- mal economye. The lighte was gone, the nighte came on, Ane hundrede lantherns sheen Glimmered upon the kinge's highwaye, Ane lovely sighte, I ween. ' Is it he,' quoth one, ' is this the manne, 111 laye the rascalle stiffe; With cruel stroke the beak he broke Of the harmless bumbailiffe.' Policemen with lhe ; r lanthornes pursue tl.e waggonere. The threatening of the saucye rogue, No more I could abide: Advancing forthe my good right legge, Three paces and a stride, I sent my lefte foot dexterously Seven inches through his side. Up came the seconde from the vanne; We had scarcely fought a round, When some one smote me from behinde, And I fell down in a swound: Who steppeth twenty feet in imitation of the Admirable Crichton. Complaineth of foul play, and falleth down in ane trance. And when my head began to clear, I heard the yemerning crew — Quoth one, ' this man hath penance done, And penance more shall do.' One acteth the part3 of Job's comfortere. PART FOUR. ' O! Freedom is a glorious thing! — And, tailore, by the bye, I'd rather in a halter swing, Than in a dungeon lie. The waggonere maketli ane shrewd observa- tion. 71. The waggonere tlck- leth the spleen of the jailor, who dances ane Fandango. The jailore came to bring me foode, Forget it will I never, How he turned uppe the white o' his eye, "When I stuck him in the liver. Rejolceth in the fra- grance of the aire. Dreadeth Shoandhu, the corporal of the guardo. His thread of. life was snapt; once more I reached the open streete; The people sung out ' Gardyloo,' As I ran down the streete. Methoughte the blessed air of heaven Never smelte so sweete. Once more upon the broad highwaye, I walked with feare and drede; And every fifteen steppes I tooke, I turned about my heade, For feare the corporal of the guarde, Might close behinde me trede! Behold upon the western wave Setteth the broad bright sunne; So I must onward, as I have Full fifteen miles to runne;— The waggonere taketh leave of the tailore, to whom ane small accident happeneth. Whereupon iblloweth the morale very pro- per to be had in minde by all members of the Dilettanti Society, when tbey come over the bridge at these houres. Wherefore let them take heed and not lay blame where it lyeth nott. And should the bailiffes hither come To aske whilke waye I've gone Tell them I took the other road,' Said hee, and trotted onne. The tailor rushed into the roome, O'erturning three or foure; Fractured his skull against the walle, And worde spake never more.' Such is the fate of foolish men, The danger all may see Of those, who list to waggoneres, And keep bad companye. 712 [This ballad Is taken from ' The Local Historian's Table- book,' mentioned above, p. 260. It was written by Mr. James Telfer, also there mentioned, \nd first appeared in ' The Newcastle Magazine/ for January, 1825. In the Intro- ductory remarks of Mr. Robert White, in the former work, it is stated to have been * a youthful effort, produced several years before the author had an opportunity of examining Percy's ' Reliquea,' and while as yet he had not read the 'Faerie Queene.' The idea, therefore, of an enchanted girdle, may have originated with himself. To the reader of Spenser, however, familiar with the girdle of ' Faire Flori- mell,' it will, of course, not he new. Before him, too, Tasso had, in his 'Jerusalem Delivered,' sung of the enchanted girdle of Armida, and before him, again. Homer, of the Cestus of Venus. * The Girdle of Florimell,* however, as is well observed by the Rev. Mr. Todd, (Faerie Queene, Bk. iv. c. v., s. 3, note,) ' is of a nature opposite to those of Venus and Armida.' For ' while the objects of Homer and Tasso are to show the efficacy of those allurements which excite loose desires, that of Spenser is to promote the cause of fidelity and chastity.* And the same may be said of * Our Lady'B Girdle.*] OUNG Mary was the loveliest lass In all green Teviotdale ; Her cheek outvied the budding rose, Her breath the rosy gale. OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. 7U Her een they were twa crystal bowers Wi' love and life within ; Her bosom seemed a paradise Each sinner's soul to win, And the bedesman said so fair a flower Could bear no taint of sin. And wooers cam' frae ilka airt To win that ladye's hand ; Some wooed her for her beauty rare, Her gowd but and her land. Some told their love with ring and glove, And some with hinny tale, And some of valour's deeds could vaunt, But all might not avail. Some tilted on the castle lea, Some feasted in the ha', Some tried unseen to press their love, But the owreword ay was, na. And the rose on her cheek wad blench th: while, For she cared na' the tale to hear , And oft she wad steal to the lonesome bower Where Jed's waters rin clear, And pour her vow to the Ladye of might, To stainless virgins dear. Her snawy feet she wad lave i' the stream, While the troutlets around wad play, As her lovely een were fixed on heaven, On the blue that ne'er can decay, And often she langed to follow her thoughts To the bowers of eternal day. O ! never I ween, did a lovelier form The world with its fragrance fill ; But life is love, and love is life, Sweet woman will be woman still. Her father was a gallant knight, Her mother a lady of high degree ; Of sons they had five gallant youths, Of daughters they had only she. OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. And she was mild as the forest flower Whose bloom is fair to view ; Her cheek was fanned by the mountain win Her hair was wet wi' the dew, And, saving the hymn to our Ladye, Nae lore the maiden knew. But the tale I tell, so it befel, She loved to stray unseen, Where the merle from his liquid throat Can melodize the dean. And it fell on the hour when the ruddy sun Began to sink i' the sea, When gloaming flang his mantle dun Outowre the fauld and lea ; The maiden stray' d till dark'ning night O'erspread the welkin wide ; Her een did follow the chambering sun To his bed i- the ocean tide, And she never wist till a maid of heaven Was standing by her side. All as she lookit the stranger upon She deemed her a sister dear — When the mind is free from slavish guilt It is free from silly fear. To sing of the maiden of heaven hie, Suits not my simple lay ; But she smiled on the lovely maid of earth, And thus she said her say : " Earthly flower of angels' love, Beauteous maiden, list to me, The stainless Virgin from above Sends this precious gift to thee, Bids thee wear this girdle free, Which her spotless hands have wove ; Gentle maiden, prize and prove : Blessed, maiden, shalt thou be. - 15 OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. Hapless love shall ne'er betray, Maiden, mark the dear decree, Love and worth shalt thou repay With thy sweet virginity e. Bright shall ever be thy blee, Ever cloudless be thy day : Maiden, I have said my say ; Beauteous maiden, this to thee." Young Mary looked up in wild amaze, But nothing she said ava, And the maiden of heaven the girdle has ta'en, Put it round her middle sma\ Above that zone whose brightness shone As pure as Cheviot's snaw. The girdle was o' the sun-beam thread, Spun i' celestial land, It couldna be seen by mortal een, Nor felt by mortal hand. O lithe and listen ladies young, To my tuneless tale come lend an ear, But first I'll ask you question one — Ladies, this girdle wad ye wear ? O weel I ken that smirking blush That gives your roses brighter blaw ; The tongue that sweetly faulters, aye, May hesitate and whisper, na. The mind may say the promised day Of happy love may slowly come ; Virginitye may breed to wae, If keepit till the day of doom. The will may be the sweets to prie, The wily tongue gainsay the will ; O life is love, and love is life, Sweet woman will be woman still. The warder in his tower of gloom Had toll'd the dreary hour of nine, And none has seen young Mary's face Since rung the little hour of dine, The e'enin' banquet's in the ha', 716 And none to fill her father's wine. OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. Her mother's mind was all unrest, And every heart impatience wild ; Where is your ladye, bower maidens — Why tarrieth my darling child ? Gae seek her i' the wild wood grove, And i' the bower aside the linn — All as she spoke the door did ope, And smilin' cam' the maiden in. Why tarry ye sae late, my Mary, The night grows eerysome to see ; The dew is damp, and the wind is cauld, My child, it is not good for thee. The fox is howling on the hill, The howlet is screamin drear ; It is the hour when the forayers ride — Some harm may hap my dear. I fear nae harm, the maiden said, And smiled benignantlye ; I have not injured any one — Sure none will injure me. O ! lovely Is the Angel of Grace Redeeming souls from sin ; But lovelier far to the sons of men I trow was that maiden. The seasons cam' and the seasons went, O silent time could fleetly flee ; The clouds raise up and the rain down fell, And rivers ran to the roaring sea. The seasons cam' and the seasons went, The grass could grow and fade ; The birdies sang and the wild wood ran;;, And lovelier still was the maid And her fame went far and her fame went wide, And it spread owre all Scotland ; While lord and knight and baron bold Did seek that ladye' s hand. And there was tilting on the e;reen And dancing in the ha', And all to gain the maiden's love. But the owerword still was, na. 717 OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. The Douglass cam' frae Liddisdale, Wi' the young laird o' Buccleuch ; And there were Kerrs and Cockburns baith, All knights of honour true. Johnstone and Maxwell also cam Their wooing skill to prove, And young Cranstoun, of Crailing, too, But he never told his love. Among the rest frae southron land There cam a knight of fame ; He also sought the lady e's ear To tell his tale of flame. But his was the love o' the gude green lands, But and the gowd sae free — And his was the love o' the gaudy glare Which but delights the e'e. And his was the love o' the faultless form — The rose and lillye dye — And he has sought the maiden's side His artful tale to try. He try'd at morn, he try'd at e'en, The maiden's heart to move ; But when he told his artful tale, Her answer was na love. But sae it fell on a bonny summer night As the light begoud to lower, The maid did walk in her green mantle Alane by the lanely bower. The star o' love frae 'boon the hill Did glitter on the stream, And musing was young Mary's mind, Celestial was her theme — And never wist she till the southron knight Did break the waking dream. Now give me love, thou proud maiden, Gi'e love for love again ; Uncourteous was the southron knight, The ladye all disdain. O ! darksome was the lonely bower, And tender was her fame — And he has tried to force the maul To do the deed o' shame. 718 OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. She couldna bow the arm o' strength, — O, gui her heart was sair ! But little wist he o' the girdle o' heaven That keepit her virtue fair. There's nane that wears our ladye's belt May yield to guilty love ; And he that tries ungentle skaith HimseF the skaith shall prove. There was a say, I have heard it said, Though I scarce believed it true, That the southron knight from that day forth No love of ladye knew. There was a say, I have heard it said, Though I gave no ear the while, That from that day no am'rous maid Upon his love wad smile. The seasons cam', the seasons went In sunshine or in shade ; The spring could see the floVrets flush And autumn see them fade : But Time might come, or Time might go, And lovelier still was the maid. 'Tis fair to see the king of day Frae the burnished ocean springing — 'Twas fairer to see the maid walk forth, And the little birds a. singing. The matins were meet and the vespers sweet In Jedworth's holy fane ; But far more sweet i' the ear o' heaven The maiden's simple strain. And evermore in hall or bower Were gallants not a few — And vows they vowed, some false I wis, And some I ween were true ; And aye the angels wad listen and look As through the lift they flew. O some cam' east, and some cam' west, And some cam* mony mile to see — O she was joy to every heart, O she was light to every e'e. W9 OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. There was young Buccleuch frae Branksome ha,' And Douglass frae Liddesdale, The young Cranstoun frae (trailing tower, But he never told his tale. O his was the love of kind esteem — Of kind esteem from friendship sprung ; O his was the love o' the constant heart, Which sits far deeper than the tongue. Though narrow was fair Crailing's land, And little wealth could he display, But a trusty heart and a ready hand — Ready alike for friend and fae. O he was the lord o' the keenest sword, And he was the lord o' the lealest love ; And he was the lord o' the feeling heart That helpless misery aye could move ; But rue the hour would pride and power The might of Cranstoun' s arm to prove. Why does Lord Cranstoun thoughtfully stray In Crailing's flushing vale 1 O he is in love with a fail maiden, And he winna tell his title. O some wad ride at Valour's ring, Some danced in Beauty's ha' — _ And some to Beauty told their tale, But the owerword still was, na. But it sae fell out in a sweet evening, She sought the bower alane, And young Cranstoun has followed her In love's delicious pain ; And he faultered forth revealings soft, And the maiden blushed again. My wealth is sma, quo' the young Cranstoun, It canna please the e'e ; But the heart of love, and the hand of weir I gi'e them baith to thee. And the maiden smiled with a kindly smile, — _„* Thy love is all to me. OUR LADYE'S GIRDLE. He pledged to her his earliest love, Sae tender and sae true ! And she gave him her maiden kiss To seal the solemn vow. Three little weeks they cam' and went : O merry was the morning tide, "When a proud array to Jedworth gray, Through autumn dews could ride, And a lady bright was led by her knight, To the holy altar's side. 8 A 721 GPi« atari jftotfg &9%m$s* m 9} mm mm ' [This ballad is taken from the annual entitled ' The Literary Souvenir' for 1826, where, it is believed, it first appeared. Whether it is to be found elsewhere, we are not able to say. In the work from which it is taken it bears the signature A (Delta); and was, therefore, it is to be presumed, written by the contributor, who, under that signature, has been so long and so advan- tageously known to the reader of 'Blackwood's Maga- zine.' Whether it be ' of imagination all compact,' or relate the ' acting of some dreadful thing,' some * strange and terrible event,' is a matter upon which the Author has not furnished any the slightest information, or hint ; the ballad being unaccompanied with ■ note or com- ment,' of any kind whatever. And the reader will scarcely expect that the Editor of this work should be able to supply the deficiency.] STEEL-clad knight stood at the gate, And loud he knocked and long, Till out from the chancel came a frere, For it was even-song. THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE. To an alder-tree his steed was tied, And the live wind from the west Stirred the blue scarf on his helmet side, And the raven plumes of his crest. " Why knockest thou here ? — No hostel this, And we have our mass to say ; Rnowest thou that rises our evening prayer, When lours the twilight grey ? " But if thou returnest at morning tide, Whatever be thy behest — " '* Nay," said the stranger hastily, " Delay not my request : For I have come from foreign lands, And seen the sun of June Set over the Holy Jerusalem ; And its towers beneath the moon ; And I have battled for the Cross, 'Tis the symbol on my mail ; — But why with faltering words should I Prolong a needless tale. And I have stood by the sepulchre, Where our good Lord was laid ; And drank of Siloa's brook that flows In the cool of its own palm shade. The Ladye Ellinore — woe to me, Brought the words that tale which told, Was yesternight, by the red-torch light, Left alone in your vaults so cold. "Tis said, last night, by the red-torch light, That a burial here hath been ; Now I pr'ythee show me her grave who stood My heart and heaven between. Alas ! alas ! that a cold, dark vault Her dwelling place should be, Who, singing, sate in the bright sunshine When I went o'er the sea ! — - 'Tis nay, sir knight ; but at matin prime If thou turn'st thy steed again, And knock' st at the porch of St. John's chapelle, Thou shaltnot knock in vain." j 23 Then anger flashed o'er that stranger's brow, Like storm-clouds o'er the sky; And, stamping, he struck his gauntlet glove On the falchion by his thigh. " Now, by our Ladye's holy name, And by the good St. John, I must gaze on the features of the dead, Though I hew my path through stone." The frere hath lighted his waxen taper, And turned the grating key, And down winding steps, through gloomy aisles, The damp, dull way showed he. And ever he stood, and crossed himself, As the night winds smote his ear ; For the very carven imageries Spake nought but of death and fear. And sable 'scutcheons flapped on high, 'Mid that grim and ghastly shade ; And coffins were ranged on their tressels round, And banners lowly laid. At length therinnermost aisle they gained, Last home of a house of fame ; And the knight, looking up with a steadfast eye, Bead the legend around the name. " Yes, here, good frere — now, haste thee, ope," — The holy man turned the key, And, ere he had an Ave said, The knight was on his knee. He lifted the lawn from her waxen face, And put back the satin soft ; Fled from her cheek was the glowing grace, That had thrilled his heart so soft. O, Ellinore ! I little dreamed, When I sped me o'er the sea, That our meeting next, when I returned, In a charnel vault should be ! O, I have met thee on the waves, On the field have braved thee, Death' ! But never before sank my heart so low ,j 2i Thy withering scowl beneath ! THE KNIGHTS REVENGE. How different was the time, alas ! When, in the bright noon of love, I trysted with thee in the stag coppice, In the centre of the grove. How different was the time, alas ! "When the gay gold ring I gave, And smiling thou said'st, — ' When thou'rt far away I will bear it to my grave ! " The knight turned back the satin fold, Where her hand lay by her side, And there, on her slender finger cold, He the token ring espied. " Now know I thou wert true to me, — Oh ! false thou couldst not prove ! Vain was the hate that strove to mate Thy heart with a stranger love." And then he kissed her clay-cold cheek, And then he kissed his sword ; — " By this," he said, " sweet, injured maid, Thy doom shall be deplored. And dearly some shall make remead, And darkly some shall pay, For griefs that broke thy faithful heart When I was far away !" — " Nay ! — dost thou talk of vengeance now," Quoth the frere, " on thy bended knee ? " — The knight looked wildly up in his eyes, But never a word spake he. " Now rise, now rise, sir knight ! " he cried, " Mary Mother calm thy mind ; 'Twas the will of Heaven that she should die, To its fiat be thou resigned. Uprose the knight then from his knee, In that darksome aisle and drear ; No word he said, but, with hasty glove, Brushed away one starting tear. Then, as he donned his helm, he plucked The silken scarf from its crest, And upraised it first to his meeting lip, — Then hid it within his breast. 725 THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE. The coffin-lid was closed ; the frere Went on with his taper wan ; Behind him strode the black-mailed knight, A melancholy man. And ever the frere, as he onwards bent From that darksome place of dread, Where the coffined clay of that ladye lay, Did backwards turn his head. " Say, holy frere, can the waves of fear O'er thy calm pure spirit flow 1 Or is it the cold, through these vaults of mould, That makes thee tremble so 1" Then strode he forth ; — the frere he closed The gate behind the knight ; Dim lay the clouds, like giant shrouds, Over the red star-light. And ever, with a low moaning sound, Swept the gust 'mid the wild- wood trees ; Calm, in slumber bound, lay all around, Save the waters' fall and the breeze. The frere put his taper out, and looked His high, barred lattice fro ; And he saw 'mid the dusk, the mounted knight Down the winding valley go. 'Twas the break of dawn ; on the dewy lawn Shone in glory the purpling day ; The lark on high sang down from the sky, The thrush from the hawthorn spray : On the lakelet blue the water-coot Oared forth with her sable young, — While from its edge, 'mid the bordering sedge, The fisher hern upsprung. Where hurries so fast the henchman now ? His steed seems frothed with spray ; To the abbey of St. John, 'mid the dawning lone He speeds his onward way. " Awake !" he cries, as loudly he knocks, "Ho ! arise, and haste with me ; For on dying bed is lowly laid ? The Lord of Auchandrie." THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE. .Then forth outspake the abbot grey, From his couch as he ariose,— " Alack ! thou bring' st us tidings of ill, . For thy lord he was of those Who gifted our church with goodly lands, And his sword hath ever been" In cause of the holy rood, and in ours, At the call, unsheathed and keen. Then fasten thy steed in our porter's keep ; And otrr brother will straight repair, As the falcon follows the little bird • That flies from the fowler's snare." Bright shone' the sitn ; the mounted monk Rode along thrd'figlf the woodlands gay ; Upon his bosom lay the book, Under his cloak of grey. Before! him, in the pleasant prime, The osiered river flowed ; From wild flowers by the pathway side, The gallant heath-cock crowed. Glistened* the dews on the' heather-bells ; And ever as the wind swept by,- From blossoming broom floated odours rich As from gardens' of Araby. And now he wandered by beechen grovesy Now by daisied pastures' green ; And rioW, from the winding mountain-road, The Lothians rich were seen. Now by coppiee" and 1 corn he urge'd' MV steed' ; Now by dingle wild! and by dellj Where, down the' ledges' of rifted rodk,- The living waters well ;' Till he came to a dump of oat-trees 1 h6a*, Half over the wild road hung;- Whten up at once to his bridle rein' The arm' of a 1 warrior Sprung : With sudden jerk the startled steed Swerved aside' with bristling mime';— " Now halt 1 , ttiee', freVe f and rest thee hei« Till I hither return again - . 111 THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE. •' I know thine errand, — dismount! — dismount ! That errand for thee I'll do ; But, if thou stirrest till I return, Such rashness thou shalt rue ! Then doff to me thy mantle grey, And eke thy hood of black, And rest thee amid these br ic! ens green To the left, till I come ba'.k. " O, bethink thee, knight," the good frere said, " I should kneel by his couch and pray ; How awful it is for the soul of man Unannealed to pass away ! How awful it is, with sins unshrived, To pass from the bed of pain ; — Lord Auchandrie may a dead man be Ere thou com'st hither again." He must needs obey, — he durst not say nay, That monk, to the warrior stern ; His corslet unlaced, and his helm unbraced, Down rattled amid the fern : And he hath mounted the frere's good steed, Clad in mantle and cowl rides he, Till before his eyes, 'gins straight arise The turrets of Auchandrie. " Now speed thee !" cried the porter then, As the portals wide he threw ; " Now speed thee !" cried the warders mailed, The courts as he passed through. " Now speed thee!" cried the seneschal, As he showed the way before, " For much I fear, most holy frere, The struggle will soon be o'er." Then passed he from the chamber forth, And in silence from the gate, And away to the east, through the mountain pass, On his steed he journeyed straight. Unfolded were the chamber doors, — And there the great lord lay ; His rattling breath spoke of coming death, And life's sands ebbing away. 728 THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE. But when the mantled monk he saw, On his arm he strove to rise ; And the light that now was waning fast, Came back to his sunken eyes. " Welcome ! holy father," he said, In accents low and weak, — " I would pour my sins in thy pitying ear, And absolution seek ; For I have been a sinful man, And repent me of my sin ; Yet, as pass the hopes of life away, The fears of death begin. But chiefly would I tell to thee My crime of the blackest dye, Which a sea of tears might scarce wash out, Though I could weep it dry. " A gentle ladye my kinsman loved, And, before he crossed the sea To combat afar with the Saracen, He trust reposed in me. That knight he was only rich in heart, But I was rich in pelf, — So, instead of nursing her love for him, I wooed it for myself." Upstarted the frere. — " Ah ! holy man, Yet the worst I have not told ; In me, though sprung from noblest blood, A perjured wretch behold ! My suit that lofty ladye spurned ; More distant she looked and cold ; And for my love no love return' d, Though I wooed her with gifts and gold ; And for my love no love return' d, Although, with hellish sleight, We forged a cartel, whose purport showed That Sir Edmund had fallen in fight." Uprose the frere, — " Nay, sit thee down, — Not mine was the guilt alone ; Father Francis was the clerke thereof, In your own house of St. John. 729 THE KNIGHTS REVENGE. To the fair Ellinore that scroll he bore, Then she folded her hands and sighed, And said, " Since true he has died to me, I will be no other's bride !" Still wooed I her in her mourning weeds, Till she showed a poniard bare, And vowed, if again I vexed her heart, Her hand should plunge it there. Day after day, ray after ray, She waned like an autumn sun, When droop the flowers "mid the yellow bowers, And the waters wailing run : Day after day, like a broken rose-bud, She withered and she waned, Till of her beauty and wonted bloom But feeble trace remained. Yet seemed she like some saintly form, Too pure for the gazer's eye, Melting away from our earthly day,. To her element, the sky. She died, — and. then I felt, remorse, — But how could I atone ? — And I trembled when by her breathless corse In silence I stood alone ! And when I saw my victim lie Within her swathing shroud,. The weight of my wounded conscience hung Upon me like a cloud. There was no. light, — and all was night, And storm and' darkness drear ; — By day 'twas joyless, and my sleep Was- haunted' fey forms of fear 1 And often I of my kinsman dreamt, Of his sorrow and vengeance dire; Till yesternight he crossed my path Like a demon in his ire. I had not heard of his home return ; Like a spectre there he stood, Down sank I, and his falchion d rank My fevered, forfeit blood* 730 THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE. O ! grant remission for my sins, A humbled man I die — " Ere yet the words were out the monk Beheld his glazing eye ; And, rising away from the couch, he said, — " May Heaven forgive my vow, — " Deep horrors thrilled through his yielding frame, And he smote his throbbing brow. Then down he passed through scraggy dean, Overhung with aspens grey, Until he came to the brackens green Wherein Father Francis lay. " Ho, frere, arise ! thy cloak and cowl Have done their office meet," — Father Francis arose from his lurking place, And stood at the warrior's feet. " Now tell me," quoth Sir Edmund fierce, " For thou art learned in lore. What the meaning of this riddle is, That a bird unto me bore : " A lady in her chamber sate, Her true knight he was abroad, Fighting the battles of his faith Under the Cross of God. A false lord, and a falser frere, They tried to o'ercome her faith, They forged, — ah ! wherefore dost thou fear ? Base caitiff take thy death I" The knight he struck him to the heart, — Through the branches, with a crash, Down went the corse, and in the wave Sank with a sullen dash. " Thus perish all who would enthrall The innocent and the true ; Yet on head of mine no more shall shine The sun from his path of blue ! No more on me shall pleasure smile, A heartless, hopeless man ; — The tempest clouds of misery Have darkened for aye my span. * 31 THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE. Farewell, farewell, my native land ! Hill, valley, wood, and strath ; — And thou, who held my heart's command, And ye, who crossed my path ! Blow, hlow, ye winds ! in fury blow, And waft us from the shore, — Rise, rise, ye billows ! and bear us along Who hither return no more !" 732 'm SeU«fi)«5 ©m^r th® $&@wl&» [This is a 'modernised version,' taken from ' The Local Historian's Table-book,* of a ballad written by Robert Owen, Esq., formerly of North Shields, which is there stated to have been ' first printed in Hone's Table-book/ in a style so overdone in its labouring after an antiquated orthogra- phy, as to be nearly unintelligible to the general reader.* It is founded upon a Legend which, in the first-mentioned work, bears the following title : — ' The Monk's Stone : A Goodly e Legend of a Cross: sheweing how a certayne Monk wandered from his Monasterie of Tinemouth, And going unto ye Gastell of Seton De-la-val stole therefrom a Pigg's Head, with what befell him on his waie hack* new-lie written downe by the Auctour from sundrie truthes gotten out of diuerse hookes and ould writeinges, and from the saieings of manie aunciente men and wiues of verie goode report,* This Legend, ' as Master Francis Grose relateth it in his Large Book,' is very closely followed in the Ballad. Of the Stone itself, only the pedestal and part of the shaft remain, their present site, after frequent removal, being in a field a little to the north-east of Tynemouth. On the surface of the former is . inscribed in lettering almost obliterated, ' O HOROR TO KILL A MAN FOR A PIGG'S HEAD.] HATwant ye, what want ye, thou holy friar, Said Sir DelavaFs warder brave ; "What lack ye, what lack ye, thou jolly friar? Saith — Open the portal, knave ! Wearie leagues three from the Priorie I've come since the sun hath smil'd on thesea. 733 SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. 734 Now nay ! now nay ! thou holy friar, I may not let ye in ; Sir Delaval's mood is not for the rood, And he cares not to shrive his sin ; And should he return with his hound and horn, He will gar thy holiness rin. For Christ his sake ! now say not nay, But open the portal to me ; And I will donne a rich benison For thy gentlesse and courtesie ; By mass and by rood ! if this boon is withstood Thou shalt perish by sorcerie. Then quicklie the portal was open'd wide, Sir Delaval's hall was made free, And the table was spread for the friar with speed, And he feasted right plentifullie. Did a friar wicht ever lack of might When he tooken cheap hostelric 7 And the friar he ate, and the friar he drank, Till the cellarman wondered full sore, And he wish'd him at home at St. Oswin's tomb, With his relicks and missal lore : But the friar did eat of the venison meat, And the friar he drunk the more ! Now this day was a day of wassail kept, Sir Delaval's birth day, I ween, And many a knight and ladye bright, In Sir Delaval's castle was seen ; But since the sun on the blue sea shone, They'd hunted the woods so green. And rich and rare was the feast prepaid For the knights and ladyes gay ; And the field and the flood both yielded their brood To grace the festal day : And the wines from Spain which long had lain And spices from far Cathay. SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. But first and fairest of all the feast, By Sir Delaval priz'd most dear, A fat boar roasted in seemly guise, To grace his lordly cheer : The reek from the fire sore hunger' d the friar, In spite of refecting gear. And thus thought the friar as he sate, This Boar is right savourie ! I wot 'tis no sin its hede to win If I mote right cunninglie ; This godless knight is a church-hating wicht, To filch him, no knaverie. With that he took his leathern poke, And whetted his knife so sheen, And he patiently sat at the kitchen grate Till no -villeins w,ere thither seen ; Then with meikle drede cut off the boar's hede, As tho' it never had been. Then the friar be nimbly footed the sward, And bent him to holy pile ; For once within its sacred shrine, He'd laugh and joke at his guile ; But hie thee fast with thy utmost haste, For thy gate is many a mile. Now Christ ye save ! when the villeins saw, The boar without his hede, They wist and grie that witcherie Had done the fearsome deed : In sore distraught the friar they sought, To help them in their need. They sought and sought, and long they sought, No friar, no hede, could find, For friar and hede, far o'er the meade, Were scudding it like the wind : But haste, but haste ! thou joliy friar, Where bolt and bar will bind. 735 SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. 736 The sun was high in his journey's flight, And homeward the fisher boat rowed, When the deep sounding horn told Sir Delaval' s return, With his knights and ladyes proud : The bagpipes did sound, and the jest went round, And revelrie merrie and loud. But meikle, but meikle was the rage, Of the host and the cotnpanie, When the tale was told of the deed so bold, Which was laid to witcherie ; And how in distraught, the monk they sought, The monk of the Priorie. Now rightlie I trow, Sir Delaval knew, When told of the friar knave, By my knighthood I vow he shall dearly rue, This trick he thought so brave : And away flew the knight like an eagle's flight, O'er the sands of the northern wave. And fast and fast Sir Delaval rode Till the Priorie gate was in view, And the knight was aware of a friar tall, With a look both tired and grue, Who with rapid span o'er the green-sward ran, The wrath of the knight to eschew. But stay ! but stay ! thou friar knave, But stay and shew to me, What thou hast in that leathern poke, Which thou mayest carry so hie ! — Now, Christ ye save ! said the friar knave, Fire-wood for the Priorie. Thou liest ! thou liest ! thou knavish priest, Thou liest unto me ! — The knight he took the leathern poke, And his boar's hede did espie, And still the reek from the scorched cheek, Did seem right savourie. SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. Gods'wot ! but had ye seen the friar, With his skin of livid hue, When the knight drew out the reeking snout, And flourished his hunting thew ; Gramercie, gramercie! Sir Knight on me, As the Virgin will mercy shew ! " But the knight he banged the friar about, And beat his hide full sore ; And he beat him as he rolled on the sward, Till the friar did loudly roar : No mote he spare the friar maire, Than Mahound on eastern shore. Now take ye that ye dog of a monk ! Now take ye that from me ; — And away rode the knight, in great delight, At his feat of flagellrie : And the sands did resound to his war-steed's bound, As he rode near the margined sea. But who's that hies from the Priorie gate, With a cross so holie and tall, And of monks a crowd all yelping loud, At what might the friar befall, For they saw the deed from the Priorie hede, And heard him piteous call ? The friar he lay in sore distraught, All writhing in grim dismay, Each lashed wound spread blood on the ground, And tinged the daisy gay : Woe fall the deede ! and there lay the hede, Both reeking as well might they. No word he spake, no cry could make When the prior came breathless nigh ; But the tears yran from the holy man, As he heaved many a sigh : Then the prior was rede of the savourie hede, That near the monk did lie. 3 b 737 SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. Then they bore the monk to the Priorie gate, In dolorous step and slow ; They vengeance vowed, in curses loud, On the horseman wicht I trow ; The welkin rang with their yammerings lang, As they came the Priorie to. A leech of skill, with meikle care, And herbs and conjurie, Soon gave the monk his wonted spunk, For his quippes and knaverie ; When he told how the knight, Sir Delaval hight, Had done the batterie. But woe for this knight of high degree, And greet as well he may! For the friar I wot he battered and bruised Took ill, as the churchmen say, And is surely deade withouten remede, Within year and eke a day. Farewell to youre lands, Sir Delaval bold, Farewell to youre castles three, They're gone from thy heir, tho' grievest thou sair, They're gone to the Priorie ; And thou must thole a woollen stole, And lack thy libertie. Three long long years in dolefull guise, In Tynemouth Abbey pray, And many a mass to heavenward pass For the friar that thou didst slay ; Thou mayest look o'er the sea, and wish to be free, But the prior of Tynemouth sayeth naye. When thou hast spent three long long years To the holy land thou must hie, Thy falchion wield on the battle field, 'Gainst the Paynim chivalrie ; Three crescents bright, must thou win in fight, 738 Ere thou winn'st thy deal «>untrie. SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. And on the spot where the ruthless deed Ystained the meadow greene, All fair to see in masonrie, As tall as anie oaken treene, Thou must set a stone, with a legend thereon, That a murder there had been. The masses most grieved Sir Delaval sore, But pray he must and may, He thummelled his bead, and beat his head Through the night and through the day, Till the three years o'er he leapt to the shore, And cried — To the battle away ! He doffed his stole of woollen coarse, And donned in knightly pride His blade and cuirass, and said no more mass, While he crossed the billowy tide : No candle ! no rood ! but the fighting mood Was the mood of the border side. Soon, soon, midst the foes of the holy land, Where the lances thickly grew, Was Sir Delaval seen, with his brand so keen On his steed so strong and true ; The Pagans they fell, and passed to hell, And he many a Saracen slew. Gallantly rode sir Delaval on, Where lethal wounds were given, And the onsets brave, like a sweeping wave, Roll'd the warriors of Christ to heaven : But for each holy knight yslaine in fight, A hundred false hearts were riven. And he soon from the ranks of Saladin bore Three crescents of silver sheen, No Pagan knight might withstand his might, Who fought for wife and wean ; Saint George ! cried the knight, and England's might i Or a bed ' neath the hillock green ! 739 SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. Now brave Sir Delaval's penance was done, He homeward sought his way, From the battle plain, across the main, To fair England's welcome bay ; To see his lone bride to the north he hied, "Withouten stop or stay. Once more is merrie the border land, Hark ! through the midnight gale The bagpipes again play a wassail strain, Round round flies the joyous tale : Many a joke of the friar's poke Is passed o'er hill and dale. The Ladye Delaval once more smiled, And sang to her wean on her knee, And prayed her knight in fond delight While he held her lovinglie : Nor grieved he more of his dolours sore, Tho' stripped of land and fee. At Warkworth castle which proudly looks O'er the stormy northern main, The Percy greeted the Border knight, With his merriest minstrel strain : Thronged was the hall with nobles all, To welcome the knight again. Now at this day while years roll on, And the knight doth coldly lie, A stone doth stand on the silent land, To tellen the strangers nigh, That a horrid deede for a pig his hede Did thence to heavenward cry. 740 SIFUassEi -*& ^ [This ballad was written by Matthew Gregory Lewis, the well-known author of ' The Monk,' and other tales and ballads of the wild and marvellous ; and first appeared in his ' Romantic Tales,* London, 1808, ISmo. ' It is founded/ he says, * upon a tradition current in Northumberland. Indeed, an adventure nearly similar to Sir Guy's, is said to have taken place in various parts of Great Britain, particu- larly on thePentland Hills, in Scotland, (where the prisoners are supposed to be King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table,) and in Lancashire, where an ale-house near Chorley still exhibits the sign of a Sir John Stanley follow- ing an old man with a torch, while his horse starts back in terror at the objects, which are discovered through two im- mense iron gates — the ale-house is known by the name of the * Iron Gates,' which are supposed to protect the entrance of an enchanted cavern in the neighbourhood. The female captive, I believe, is peculiar to Dunstanburgh Castle ; and certain .-tuning stones, which are occasionally found in its neighbourhood, and which are called ' Dunstanburgh Dia- monds,' are supposed by the peasants to form part of that immense treasure, with which the Lady will reward her deliverer. With regard to the castle itself, the interest at- taching to it is by no means lessened by the circumstance of the ballad having been written in its neighbourhood, during Mr. Lewis', residence at Howick, the seat of Earl Grey ; to whose ancestor, Sir William Grey, it was granted by James the First. The * Rumble Churn " is a vortex im- mediately below the eminence on which the ruins stand, and so called from the noise made by the breaking of the waves against the rocks.] IKE those in the head of a man jnst dead Are his eyes, and his beard's like snow ; yjBut when here he came, his glance was a ^aJ flame, And his locks seemed the plumes of the oow 741 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Since then are o'er forty summers and more ; Yet he still near the castle remains, And pines for a sight of that lady bright, Who wears the wizard's chains. Nor sun nor snow from the ruins to go Can force that aged wight ; And still the pile, hall, chapel, and aisle, He searches day and night : But find can he ne'er the winding stair, Which he past that beauty to see, Whom spells enthrall in the haunted hall, Where none but once may be. That once, regret will not let him forget ! — 'Twas night, and pelting showers Did patter and splash, when the lightning's flash Showed Dunstanburgh's grey towers. Raised high on a mound that castle frowned In ruined pagean-trie ; And where to the north did rocks jut forth, Its towers hung o'er the sea. Proud they stood, and darkened the flood ; For the cliffs were so rugged and steep, Had a plummet been dropt from their summit unstopt That plummet had reached the deep. Nor flower there grew ; nor tree e'er drew Its nurture from that ground ; Save a lonely yew, whose branches threw Their baleful shade around. Loud was the roar on that sounding shore :. Yet still could the Knight discern, Louder than all, the swell and the fall Of the bellowing Rumble Churn ! With strange turmoil did it bubble and boil, And echo from place to place ; So strong was its dash, and so high did it splash, That it washt the castle's base : The spray, as it broke, appeared like smoke From a sea-volcano pouring ; And still did it rumble, and grumble, and tumble, 742 Rioting ! raging ! roaring I SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Up the hill Sir Guy made his courser fly, And hoped, from the wind and the rain, That he there should find some refuge kind ; But he sought it long in vain ; For fast and hard each portal was barred, And against his efforts proof ; Till at length he espied a porch spread wide The shelter of its roof. — ' Gramercy, St. George !' quoth glad Sir Guy, And sought the porch with speed ; And fast to the yew, which near it grew, He bound his Barbary steed ; And safety found on that sheltered ground From the sky's increasing gloom ; From his brow he took his casque, and he shook The rain off, that burthened its plume. Then long he stood in mournful mood, With listless sullen air, Propt on his lance, and with indolent glance Watcht the red lightning's glare ; And sadly listened to the shower, On the clattering roof that fell ; And counted twice the lonely hour, Tolled by some distant bell. But scarce that bell could midnight tell, "When louder roared the thunder, And the bolt so red whizzed by his head, And burst the gates asunder. And, lo ! through the dark a glimmering spark He espied of lurid blue ; Onward it came, and a form all flame Soon struck his wondering view! 'Twas an ancient man of visage wan, Gigantic was his height ; And his breast below there was seen to flow A beard of grizzled white : And flames o'er-spread his hairless head, And down his beard they streamed ; And in his hand a radiant wand Of burning iron gleamed. 743 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Of darkest grain, with flowing train, A wondrous robe he wore, With many a charm, to workman's harm, In fire embroidered o'er ; And this robe was bound his waste around With a triple chain red-hot ! — And still came nigher. that phantom of fire, Till he reacht the self-same spot, Where stood Sir Guy, while his hair bristled high, And his breath he scarce could draw ; And he crost his breast, for, I wot, he guesst, 'Twas Belzebub's self that he saw ! And full on the Knight that ghastly wight Fixt his green and glassy eyes ; And he clanked his chain, and he howled with pain, Ere his words were heard to rise. — ' Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if your heart be right, And your nerves be firm and true, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! a beauty bright In durance waits for you. But, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if you ever knew fright, That Dame forbear to view ; Or, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ' that you feasted your sight, While you live, you'll sorely rue !' — ' That mortal ne'er drew vital air, Who witnessed fear in me : Come what come will, come good, come ill, Lead on ! I'll follow thee !'— And now they go both high and low, Above and under ground, And in and out, and about and about, And round, and round, and round ! The storm is husht, and lets them hear The owlet's boding screech, As now through many a passage drear A winding stair they reach. With beckoning hand, which flamed like a brand, Still on the Wizard led ; And well could Sir Guy hew a sob and a sigh, 744 As up the first flight he sped ! SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. While the second he past with foosteps fast, He heard a death-bell toll ! — While he climbed the third, a whisper he heard, — * God's mercy on thy soul !' — And now at the top the wanderers stop A brazen gate before Of massive make ; and a living snake - Was the bolt, which held the door. In many a fold round the staple 'twas rolld ; With venom its jaws ran o'er ; And that juice of hell, where-ever it fell, To a cinder burned the floor. When the monster beheld Sir Guy, he swelled With fury, and threw out his sting ; Sparks flasht from each eye, and he reared him on high, And.prepared on the Warrior to spring ; But the Wizard's hand extended his wand, And the reptile drooped his crest, Yet strove to bite, in impotent spite, The ground which gave him rest ! And now the gate is heard to grate, On its hinges turning slow ; Till on either side the valves yawn wide, And in the wanderers go. 'Twas a spacious hall, whose sides were all With sable hangings dight ; And whose echoing floor was diamonded o'er With marble black and white ; And of marble black as the raven's back A hundred steeds stood round ; And of marble white, by each, a knight Lay sleeping on the ground ; And a hundred shafts of laboured bronze The fretted roof upheld ; And the ponderous gloom of that vaulted room A hundred lights dispelled ; And a dead man's arm by a magic charm Each glimmering taper bore, And where it was lopt, still dropt and dropt Thick gouts of clotted gore. 745 - SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Where ends the room, doth a chrystal tomb Its towering front uphold ; And one on each hand two skeletons stand, "Which belonged to two giants of old : That on the right holds a faulchion bright, That on the left a horn ; And crowns of jet with jewels beset Their eyeless skulls adorn : And both these grim colossal kings With fingers long and lean Point towards the tomb, within whose womb A captive Dame is seen. A form more fair than that prisoner's ne'er Since the days of Eve was known ; Every glance that flew from her eyes of blue, Was worth an Emperor's throne, And one sweet kiss from her roseate lips Would have melted a bosom of stone. Soon as Sir Guy had met her eye, Knelt low that captive maid ; And her lips of love seemed fast to move, Eut he heard not what she said. Then her hands did she join in suppliant sign. Her hands more white than snow ; And like dews that streak the rose's cheek, Her tears began to flow. The warrior felt his stout heart melt, When he saw those fountains run : — • Oh ! what can I do,' he cried, 'for you ? What mortal can do, shall be done !' — Then out and speaks the Wizard ; Hollow his accents fall ! — 'Was never man, since the world began, Could burst that chrystal wall. For the hand, which raised its magic frame, Had oft clasp t Satan's own ; And the lid bears a name Young Knight, the same Is stamp'd on Satan's throne ; At its maker's birth long trembled the earth ; The skies dropt showers of gore ; And she, who to light gave the wonderous wight, 7 46 Had died seven years before ; SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. And at Satan's right hand while keeping his stand, The foulest fiend of fire Shrunk back with awe, when the babe he saw, For it shockt its very sire ! But hark, Sir Knight ! and riddle aright The riddle I'll riddle to thee ; Thou'lt learn a way without delay To set yon damsel free. Seest yonder sword, with jewels rare Its dudgeon crusted o'er ? Seest yonder horn of ivory fair ? 'Twas Merlin's horn of yore ! That horn to sound, or sword to draw, Now, youth, your choice explain ! ButHhat which you choose, beware how you lose, For you never will find it again : And that once lost, all hopes are crost, Which now you fondly form ; And that once gone, the sun ne'er shone, A sadder wight to warm : But such keen woe, as never can know Oblivion's balmy power, With fixed despair your soul will share, Till comes your dying hour. Your choice now make for yon Beauty's sake ; To burst her bonds endeavour ; But that which you choose, beware how you lose ; Once lost, 'tis lost for ever !' In pensive mood awhile now stood Sir Guy, and gazed around ; Now he turned his sight to the left, to the right, Now he fixt it on the ground. Now the faulchion's blaze attracted his gaze ; On the hilt his fingers lay ; But he heard fear cry, — ' you're wrong, Sir Guy !' And he snatcht his hand away ! Now his steps he addrest towards the North and the West; Now he turned towards the East and the South ; Till with desperate thought the horn he caught, And prest it to his mouth. 747 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Hark ! the blast is a blast so strong and so shrill, That the vaults like thunder ring ; And each marble horse stamps the floor with force, And from sleep the warriors spring! And frightful stares each stony eye, As now with ponderous tread Ihey rush on Sir Guy, poising on high Their spears to strike him dead. At this strange attack full swift sprang back, I wot, the startled Knight ! Away he threw the horn, and drew His faulchion'keen and bright. But soon as the horn his grasp forsook, Was heard a cry of grief; It seemed the yell of a soul in hell Made desperate of relief ! And straight each light was extinguisht quite, Save the flame so lurid-blue On the Wizard's brow, (whose flashings now Assumed a bloody hue), And those sparks of fire, which grief and ire From his glaring eye-balls drew ! And he stampt in rage, and he laught in scorn. While in thundering tone he roared, ' Now shame on the coward who sounded a horn, When he might have unsheatht a sword I ' He said, and from his mouth there came A vapour blue and dank, Whose poisonous breath seemed the kiss of death, For the Warrior senseless sank. Morning breaks ! again he wakes ; Lo ! in the porch he lies, And still in his heart he feels the dart Which shot from the captive's eyes. From the ground he springs ! as if he had wings, The ruin he wanders o'er, And with prying look each cranny and nook His anxious eyes explore : But find can he ne'er the winding stair, Which he climbed that Dame to see, Whom spells enthrall in the haunted hall, 748 Where none but once may be. SIR GUI, THE SEEKER. The earliest ray of dawning day Beholds his search begun : The evening star ascends his car, Nor yet his search is done : Whence the neighbours all the Knight now call By ' Guy, the Seeker's' name ; For never he knows one hour's repose From his wish to find the Dame : But still he seeks, and aye he seeks, And seeks, and seeks in vain ; And still he repeats to all he meets, — * Could I find the sword again !' Which words he follows with a groan, As if his heart would break ; And oh ! that groan has so strange a tone, It makes all hearers quake ! The villagers round know well its sound, And when they hear it poured, — ' Hark ! hark !' they cry ; ' the Seeker Guy Groans for the Wizard's sword.' — Twice twenty springs on their fragrant wings For his wound have brought no balm ; For still he's found But, hark ! what sound Disturbs the midnight calm ? Good peasants, tell, why rings that knell ? — "Tis the Seeker-Guy's we toll ; His race is run ; his search is done.' — God's mercy on his soul ! 749 [This very spirited and beautiful ballad, or— as its author prefers to call it — ' legend,' is taken from ' Friendship's Offering/ for 1828, where, we believe, it originally appeared. We say ' believe,' because we are unable to affirm any- thing positively upon the subject. To whom we are indebted for this contribution to our ballad- lore ; who were Sir Carodac and * swarthy Britomart,' and who the 'White-Armed Ladye ;' in what period of the world's history they played their parts ; and what, if any, was the occasion of the lists being formed on Naseby Wold, are matters upon which the author has not thought proper to throw any more light than can be obtained from the ballad itself; to which, therefore, we must be content to refer the reader, as to the only source of information respecting them with which we are acquainted.] I INSTRELS are wending from lordly tower, Merry maidens from ladye's bower, Shaven priest, and bearded knight, 'i Courser black, and charger white. THE WHITE-ARMED LADYE'S OATH. King Richard mounts his palfrey grey, And England's best are in array; For lordly blood and knighthood bold Do mortal fight on Naseby Wold. Wherefore is Carodac spear in rest? Swarthy Britomart targe on breast? Not for tilt, or tourney light, But in deep defiance of deadly fight. Horse to horse, and hand to hand, God to speed, and his own red brand > — Woe worth the day, woe worth the feud, When the falcon stoops for the falcon's blood 'Twas whisperd, somewhat of deadly wrong, Of treason foul, and slanderous tongue; — Some talkt of woman's wandering eye, Far on the* shores of Paynimie. A Palmer spoke of murder's stain, — Swords red,^^but hot on battle plain, I reck not^'tis as legends tell, — None know how so dark a feud befell! Certes! was seen a ladye there; — (When was feud without ladye fair?) Darkly bedight in foreign weed, And proudly borne on an Eastern steed. Maidens lip like hers ne'er smiled; Maidens eye was ne'er so wild: — Saint Mary! yonder lip and eye Have more than earthly witchery! Jesu! 'twas an awful day, When spirits mingled with earthly >clay: — Eastern lore hath sung her birth, She was no ladye of nether earth! Strange legends of her youth were told, That India's seas had o'er her rolld; That her sire was ruler in Oceans caves, O'er Genii of the pearly waves. Her mother was queen of Fairy Lands, -Crystal isles, and golden sands; — And she, — the child of another sphere Loves she? — or why is she.mortal here? ^ S1 THE LISTS OF NASEBY WOLD; OR, Yes! Love, — in pain, in peril proved; — And who can doubt, that once has loved? She has left her fathers caverns swart, And crosst the wave with Sir Britomart. Queen-like, around the lists she rides; But her brow is dark as an Afric bride's; For she has tried her magic power, — But a mightier spell rules the battle-hour. Hark! peals the heralds challenge loud* — The warders are pricking through the crowd, — The clarion sounds; — with a torrents force Parts from his stance each barbed horse. The spurs were red in the coursers side, Ere the first note of battle died: A second — and in mid career Reels the steed, and cracks the spear! Sir Britomarts horse was a noble one, Matchless in blood and mighty in bone; Araby's steeds, he had beaten them all, — But he was not bred in earthly stall! There are sprites of the air, and sprites of the sea, Jesu shield us! — that such should be! — Now, ladyes all, read me my rede, Whence came he, that coal-black steed? But Carodac bore him like stubborn rock: And the Paynim barb reeld at the shock: Heaven's own hand was in the deed, Or he had not quaild to earthly steed. The girths are snapt on his panting sides, The hand has dropt from the rein that guides: Yon ashen lance, so good and so true, Has pierced Sir Britomart through and through! The clarions rung, and ladyes wept, And many a Leech has forward stept, To staunch and to talk as Leech does now; — But the sweat of death is on his brow! In shorter gasps his breath came and went, Like the forest's groan when the storm is spent, — And ever, with a torrents flood, , 752 Grusht from his mouth the bubbling blood. THE WHTTE-ARMED LADTE'S OATH. The priest would pray with the dying knight, That his soul would pass, as pass it might; But better the friar at home may preach, — And he swore aloud at the trembling Leech! His lips are moving, but not in prayer, Though the blanch of death is settling there: — He is trying to name his ladye's name, — Few sounds were heard, — that ladye came. O! Death is deadly wherever he be, On the lonely wild, or the pathless sea; But deadlier, wilder, in field or hall When youth and strength before him fall. To die, when life is but begun, — To look your last on the blessed sun; With the charnel-worm long vigils to keep, — Or to sleep that last and awful sleep: To clasp a hand, while your tongue can say — A moment — and mine will be but clay; — ■ ' To gaze on the eye that is best and dearest, And know, that Night to your own is nearest! O! this is death in his deadliest mood, — Worse than battle, worse than blood; Worse than rack, when sinews start: — Such was the death of Sir Britomart ! There is a light form oer him bending, — There is a breast his pillow lending, O! were the snow-wreath half as white, No moon would shine on an Alpine night. There is ah eye that looks in his, — Glazed and haggard and dim as it is: — But the glaze and the dimness awhile can fly, When he meets the beam of his Leila's eye. So dark, so full, in its vivid glowing, No light is quench t, though tears are flowing; But her cheek is red in a crimson flood, And her bosom steept in his hearts best blood! She weeps no more on a senseless corse: — Mount, gallant knights; to horse! to horse! Say not tis woman's wrath you fly,— No womans war is in that eye: »*, THE LISTS OF NASEBY WOLD; OR, Ye have dared the tiger in his den, — Ye quaild not before the Saracen, — Ye have heard the Soldans battle-cry, — Now, — hear the oath of Zatanai! That oath is one of woe and fear, — Deadly to speak, and deadly to hear; — Twas framed in murkiest realms of air, And sworn by fiends in their despair: Few lived that heard the first brief word;; — The dark heath rockt before the third: — Fiendish was it, — fiendish wrought; — T must do penance for the thought! Sir Carodac went o'er land arid flood, To fight for his faith, and the holy rood; He has been six summers in Paynim land, And deadly arid keen was his knightly brana The Soldan came with his sjiear in rest, And challenged of England's band the best: But the Soldan fled like the fleecy rack, For England's best was Sir Carodac. He was foremost when Salem's towers were won; He was first on the walls of Ascaloh: — But whether in fight, or in tourney ring, A solemn voice was whispering; — ' O! the Christian knight of his spear may boast; He may 'scape the sea, he may 'scape the host; Pirate arid Payriim — one or both — But he canriot 'scape that La&ye's oath.' The ships are ploughing the northern foam, And Carodac is weldomed home; — His foot is on his own white sand, And his face is turnd to his fathers land ! Onward they prickt, his good steed and he, O'er hill and dale, right merrily; — But the sun went down the hills beneath, And the moon rose pale on a blasted heath: Onward he prickt, — but spur and rein To the weary horse are all in vain; — And he paused — -for, beneath the moon-beam cold, 764 He knew the lists of Naseby Wold! THE WHITE-ARMED LADYE'S OATH. Sir Carodae was a warrior brave: He had fought the Turk at his Saviours grave; — But lip and cheek are blanching both, When he thinks of the White-armd Ladye's oath. He heard a shriek, and a withering laugh, Like the glee of fiends, when the cup they quaff; And the lightning fires their red forks sent, And the thunder rode in the firmament. Thrice he spurred his courser good, And thrice he signed the blessed rood: — Knighthood's heart is steeld to fear; But knighthood's heart is useless here! Beneath the lightnings flickering glare, The lists were set, and the tents were there; Bung out the trump, and pranced the horse, But each rider there was a ghastly corse. All seemd as on that fatal day When Britomart fell in the bloody fray: Names of honour and rank were there, And Queen of the lists sat a Ladye fair. But nought of earthly shape was seen, Save she alone, that ladye Queen, Mid grim and gaunt and ghastly ones, For all around were skeletons! And hark! upon the moaning blast, Warrior forms are careering fast, With shriek, and with shout, and with wild halloo, And well those fiendish yells he knew. The cymbal rung and the scymitar, And gong and drum of Faynim war; — He heard the Soldans battlfe-cry, And he manned himself right valiantly. But his gauntlet graspt at a broken brand, And his spear was withered within his hand, He would have cried, ' God for St. George!' But the accents died in his helmets gorge. Then slowly rose that Ladye bright, Sole empress of the ghastly flght, — Thrice waved her ann, and thrice she spoke, And thrice the pealing thunder broke. 75£ 766 THE LISTS OF NASEBY WOLD; OR, At the first sound came shapes of fear, Lion, and gryff, and headless deer; At the second, volumes of smoke and flame, And devilries 'twere sin to name. At the third, yawnd the dark heath wide. Six long ells from side to side! — Horse and knight have run their course, But fathoms deep are knight and horse Deep are India's caves of jet, — Sir Carodac's barb is deeper yet; Deep rolls the sea, but the founderd bark Is not so deep as that warrior stark. Knights have come from a far countrie, "Wizards have connd their gramarye, Priests have journeyed with pyx and prayer, But few have seen that Ladye fair. Yet trembling Serfs the tale have told, Of fearful sights on Naseby Wold; Sabres gleaming, horses prancing, And banners of flame to the night air dancing! Of shadowy shapes in the cold moonlight, Of turband Turk and of Christian Knight, And of one who bears the blessed rood, On a milk-white charger, mottled with blood. Ever, ever, careers he fast, When peals a lonely trumpet blast; — He bears him well with spear in rest, But he never wins that dark hills breast. For, warder in hand, sits a Ladye there, Queen -like, throned in an ebon chair; And ere the good steed has run its course In a fathomless gulph sinks man and horse. Warders have told it on castle wall, — Minstrels have sung it in lordly hall; But priest and warrior cross them both, Or ere they name that Ladye's oath. Legends there are for midnight hour, Song and tale for ladye's bower; This may be one, or it may not be; — I would not doubt it for earldoms three. S&mgwp&istoft ftfe l§Mfo&t. [This ballad was written by Robert Couthey ; a name familiar to every lover of ' ballad lore.* It first appeared, it is believed, in ' Sharpe's London Magazine,' 1329. ' The story,' says Mr. Southey, ' is told by Taylor the Water- poet, in his * Three "Weeks, Three Days, and Three Hours' Observations, from London to Hamburgh in Germany ; amongst Jews and Gentiles, with Descriptions of Towns and Towers, Castles and Citadels, artificial Gallowses and natural Hangmen; and dedicated for the present to the absent Odcombian Knight Errant, Sir Thomas Coryat.' It is in the volume of his collected works, p. 82 of the third paging. Collein, which is the scene of this story, is more probably Kollen, on the Elbe, in Bohemia, or a town of the same name in Prussia, than Cologne, to which great city the reader will perceive I had good reason for transferring it.] PART I. OPRECHT the Robber is taken at last, In Cologne they have him fast ; Trial is over, and sentence past ; And hopes of escape were vain he knew For the gallows now must have its due. 757 ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. But though pardon cannot here be bought, It may for the other world, he thought ; And so to his comfort, with one consent The Friars assured their penitent. Money, they teach him, when rightly given, Is put out to account with heaven ; For suffrages therefore his plunder went, Sinfully gotten, but piously spent. All Saints, whose shrines are in that city, They tell him, will on him have pity, Seeing he hath liberally paid, In this time of need, for their good aid. In the Three Kings they bid him confide, Who there in Cologne lie side by side ; And from the Eleven Thousand Virgins eke, Intercession for him will they bespeak. And also a sharer he shall be In the merits of their community ; All which they promise, he need not fear, Through purgatory will carry him clear. Though the furnace of Babylon could not compare With the terrible fire that rages there, Yet they their part will so zealously do, He shall only but frizzle as he flies through. And they will help him to die well, And he shall be hang'd with book and bell ; And moreover with holy water they Will sprinkle him, ere they turn away. For buried Roprecht must not be, He is to be left on the triple tree ; That they who pass along may spy Where the famous Robber is hanging on high. Seen is that gibbet far and wide From the Rhine and from the Dusseldorff side ; And from all roads which cross the sand, North, south, and west, in that level land. It will be a comfortable sight, To see him there by day and by night ; For Roprecht the Robber many a year 758 Had kept the country round in fear. ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. So the Friars assisted, by special grace, With book and bell to the fatal place ; And he was hang'd on the triple tree. With as much honour as man could be. In his suit of irons he was hung, They sprinkled him then, and their psalm they sung, And turning away when this duty was paid, They said what a goodly end he had made. The crowd broke up and went their way ; All were gone by the close of day ; And Roprecht the Robber was left there Hanging alone in the moonlight air. The last who look'd back for a parting sight, Beheld him there in the clear moonlight ; But the first who look'd when the morning shone, Saw in dismay that Roprecht was gone. PART SECOND. The stir in Cologne is greater to-day Than all the bustle of yesterday ; Hundreds and thousands went out to see ; The irons and chains, as well as he, There gone, but the rope was left on the tree. A wonderful thing ! for every one said He had hung till he was dead, dead, dead ; And on the gallows was seen, from noon Till ten o'clock.in the light of the moon. Moreover the Hangman was ready to swear He had done his part with all due care ; And that certainly better hang'd than he No one ever was, or ever could be. Neither kith nor kin, to bear him away And funeral rites in secret pay, JJad he, and none that pains would take, With risk of the law, for a stranger's sake. So 'twas thought because he had died so well He was taken away by miracle. But would he again alive be found ? Or had he been laid in holy ground? 769 ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. If in holy ground his relics were laid, Some marvellous sign would show, they said ; If restored to life, a Friar he would he, Or a holy Hermit certainly, And die in the odour of sanctity. That thus it would prove they could not doubt, Of a man whose end had been so devout ; And to disputing then they fell About who had wrought this miracle. Had the Three Kings this mercy shown, Who were the pride and honour of Cologne ? Or was it an act of proper grace, From the Army of Virgins of British race Who were also the glory of that place ? Pardon, some said, they might presume, Being a kingly act, from the Kings must come ; But others maintained that St. Ursula's heart Would sooner be moved to the merciful part. There was one who thought this aid divine Came from the other bank of the Rhine ; For Roprecht there too had for favour applied, Because his birth-place was on that side. To Dusseldorif then the praise might belong, And its Army of Martyrs, ten thousand strong ; But he for a Dusseldorff man was known, And no one would listen to him in Cologne. Where the people would have the whole wonder their own. The Friars, who helped him to die so well, Put in their claim to the miracle; Greater things than this, as their Annals could tell The stock of their merits for sinful men Had done before, and would do again. 'Twas a whole week's wonder in that great town, And in all places up the river, and down ; But a greater wonder took place of it then, For Roprecht was found on the gallows again ! PART THIRD. With that the whole city flocked out to see : There Roprecht was on the triple tree, Dead, past all doubt, as dead could be ; But fresh he was as if spells had charm'd him, And neither wind nor weather had harm'd him. ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. "While the multitude stood in a muse, One said, I'm sure he was hang'd in shoes ! In this the Hangman and all concurr'd ; But now, behold, he was booted and spurr'd ! Plainly, therefore, it was to be seen, That somewhere on horseback he had been ; And at this the people marvelled more, Than at anything which had happened before. For not in riding trim was he When he disappeared from the triple tree ; And his suit of irons he still was in, With the collar that clipp'd him under the chin. With that this second thought befell, That perhaps he had not died so well, Nor had Saints perform'd the miracle : But rather there was cause to fear, That the foul Fiend had been busy here ! Roprecht the Robber had long been their curse, And hanging had .only made him worse ; For bad as he was when living, they said They had rather meet him alive than dead. What a horse must it be which he had ridden ; No earthly beast could be so bestridden ; And when by a hell-horse a dead rider was carried, The whole land would be fearfully harried ! So some were for digging a pit in the place, And burying him there with a stone on his face ; And that hard on his body the earth should be press' d, And exorcists be sent for to lay him at rest. But others, whose knowledge was greater, opined That this corpse was too strong to be confined ; No weight of earth which they could lay Would hold him down a single day, If he chose to get up and ride away. There was no keeping Vampires under ground, And bad as a Vampire he might be found, Pests against whom it was understood Exorcism never had done any good. But fire, they said, had been proved to be The only infallible remedy ; So they were for burning the body outright, Which would put a stop to his riding by night. ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. Others were for searching the mystery out, And setting a guard the gallows about, "Who should keep a careful watch, and see Whether Witch or Devil it might be That helped him down from the triple tree. For that there were Witches in the land, Was what all by this might understand ; And they must not let the occasion slip For detecting that cursed fellowship. Some were for this, and some for that, And some they could not tell for what ; And never was such commotion known In that great city of Cologne. PART FOURTH. Pieter Snoye was a boor of good renown, Who dwelt about an hour and a-half from the town ; And he, while the people were all in debate, Went quietly in at the city gate. For Father Kijf he sought about, His confessor, till he found him out ; But the Father Confessor wondered to see The old man, and what his errand might be. The good Priest did not wonder less When Pieter said he was come to confess ; " Why, Pieter, how can this be so ? I confessed thee some ten days ago ! Thy conscience, methinks, may be well at rest, An honest man among the best ; I would that all my flock, like thee, Kept clear accounts with Heaven and me !" Always before, without confusion, Being sure of easy absolution, Pieter his little slips had summ'd ; But he hesitated now, and he hawM and humm'd. And something so strange the Father saw In Pieter' s looks, and his hum and his haw, 7fl . That he began to doubt it was something more. Than a trifle omitted in last week's score. ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. At length it came out, that in the affair Of Roprecht the Robber he had some share : The Confessor then gave a start in fear — " God grant there have been no witchcraft here '." Pieter Snoye, who was looking down, With something between a smile and a frown, Felt that suspicion move his bile, And look'd up with more of a frown than a smile. " Fifty years I, Pieter Snoye, Have lived in this country, man and boy, • And have always paid the church her due, And kept short scores with Heaven and you. The Devil himself, though Devil he be, Would not dare impute that sin to me ; He might charge me as well with heresy : And if he did, here, in this place, Fd call him liar, and spit in his face ! " The Father, he saw, cast a gracious eye When he heard him thus the Devil defy ; The wrath, of which he had eased his mind, Left a comfortable sort of warmth behind. Like what a cheerful cup will impart, In a social hour, to an honest man's heart ; And he added, " For all the witchcraft here, I shall presently make that matter clear. Though I am, as you very well know, Father -Kijf, A peaceable man, and keep clear of strife, It'g a queerish business that now I've been in ; But I can't say that it's much of a sin. However, it needs must be confess' d, And as it will set this people at rest, To come with it at once was best : Moreover, if I delayed, I thought That some might perhaps into trouble be brought. Under the seal I tell it you, And you will judge what is best to do, That no hurt to me and my son may ensue. No earthly harm have we intended, And what was ill done, has been well mended. ? 63 ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. I and my son, Piet Pieterszoon, Were returning home by the light of the mora, From this good city of Cologne, On the night of the execution day ; And hard by the gibbet was our way. About midnight it was we were passing by, My son Piet Pieterszoon, and I, "When we heard a moaning as we came near, Which made us quake at first for fear. But the moaning was presently heard again, And we knew it was nothing ghostly then ; ' Lord help us, Father ! ' Piet Pieterszoon said, ' Roprecht, for certain, is not dead ! ' So under the gallows our cart we drive, And, sure enough, the man was alive ; Because of the irons that he was in, He was hanging, not by the neck, but the chin. The reason why things had got thus wrong, Was, that the rope had been left too long ; The Hangman's fault, — a clumsy rogue, He is not fit to hang a dog. Now Roprecht, as long as the people were there, Never stiri^d hand or foot in the air ; But when at last he was left alone, By that time so much of his strength was gone, That he could do little more than groan. Piet and I had been sitting it out, Till a la'Jsh hour, at a christening bout ; And perhaps we were rash, as you may think, And a little soft or so, for drink. Father Kijf, we could not bear To leave him hanging in misery there : And 'twas an act of mercy, I cannot but say, To get him down, and take him away. And, as you know, all people said What a goodly end that day he had made : So we thought for certain, Father Kijf, That if he were saved he would mend his life. My son, Piet Pieterszoon, and I, We took him down, seeing none was nigh ; And we took off his suit of irons with care, 7Gi When we got him home, and we hid him there. ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. The secret, as you may guess, was known To Alit, my wife, but to her alone ; And never sick man, I dare aver, "Was better tended than he was by her. Good advice, moreover, as good could be, He had from Alit my wife, and me ; And no one could promise fairer than he • So that we and Piet Pieterszoon our son, Thought that we a very good deed had done. You may well think we laughed in our sleeve, At what the people then seem'd to believe : Queer enough it was to hear them say, That the Three Bangs took Roprecht away. Or that St. Ursula, who is hi bliss, With her Army of Virgins had done this : The Three Kings and St. Ursula, too, I warrant, had something better to do. Piet Pieterszoon my son, and I, We heard them talk as we stood by, And Piet look'd at me with a comical eye. We thought them fools, but, as you shall see, Not over-wise ourselves were we. For I must tell you, Father Kijf, That when we told this to Alit my wife, She at the notion perk'd up with delight, And said she believed the people were right. Had not Roprecht put in the Saints his hope, And who but they should have loosen' d the rope, When they saw that no one could intend To make at the gallows a better end ? Yes, she said, it was perfectly clear That there must have been a miracle here ; And we had the happiness to be in it, Having been brought there just at the minute. And therefore it would become us to make An offering for this favour's sake To the Three Kings and the Virgins too, Since we could not tell to which it was due. For greater honour there could be none Than what in this business the Saints had done To us and Piet Pieterszoon our son ; She talk'd me over, Father Kijf, With that tongue of hers, did Alit my wife. /65 ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. 66 Lord forgive us ! as if the Saints would deign To come and help such a rogue in grain : When the only mercy the case could admit Would have been to make his halter fit ! That would have made one hanging do, In happy season for him too, When he was in a proper cue ; And have saved some work, as you will see, To my son Piet Pieterszoon, and me. Well, father, we kept him at bed and board, Till his neck was cured and his strength restored ; And we should have him sent off this day With something to help him on his way. But this wicked Roprecht, what did he ? Though he had been saved thus mercifully ; Hanging had done him so little good, That he took to his old ways as soon as he could. Last night, when we were all asleep, Out of his bed did this gallows-bird creep, Piet Pieterszoon' s boots and spurs he put on, And stole my best horse, and away he was gone ! Now Alit, my wife, did not sleep so hard, But she heard the horse's feet in the yard, And when she jogg"d me, ner, who himself so greatly contributed to its reno- vation, it consists oi ' wcod, park, lawn, valley, river, sea, and mountain.' — Kuky.J ?7U IM dPmgU ®f iHPk Ssmife^o ' L This 'Ancient Ballad,' as it is there called, is taken from * Legends of the Library at Lilies, by the Lord and Lady there,' London, 1832. The only information afforded respect- ing it is as follows : — ' To such as are well read in the rare work of autobiography lately published by Sir Jonah Barrington, so singular will the coincidence appear between the re- lation he gives of the strange fate of Mr. Joseph Kelly and Mr. Peter Alley, in ' My Brother's Hunting Lodge,' and the catastrophe of the following tale, that, except for the doubtless authenticity of the first-mentioned narrative, it might almost be thought to have been founded on this ancient ballad, which bears evidence of having been written about the middle of the sixteenth century, by a person who was himself a witness of the event he celebrates. As it is, the two stories will probably be taken as e quail y true, and strongly confirmatory of each other.'] GOODLTE romaunte you shal heere, I wis, Tisycleped of AlleDeuilesHalle, Likewyse of the Feaste of Alia Deuiles it is, And of what dyd there befalle. 777 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. For a pleasaunte thynge is this historye, And much delyte doe I In one so straunge, yett so true perdie That noe man can ytt denye. O the boarde is sette, and the guestes are mett To drinke in Alle Deuiles' Halle, The guestes are drye, but the walles are wett, And the doores are barred on alle. And why are the tables in ordere sett, And why is the wassaile spredd, And why are they mett while the walles are wett To carouse o'er the uaultes of the dedd? The Baronne of Hawkesdenne rose wyth the sunne On the daye of Alle Sayntes in the morne. A terrible feate hee had thoughte uponne, And a terrible oathe he had sworne. From holye church full manie a roode Hee had ravishede of landys fayre, And where Alle Saintes abbaye had latelye stoode Hys holde hee had builded there. For to hym our good Kynge Harrye had given For hys fee that rich Abbaye, When the Angels bequeathed for the service of Heuen Were ta'en from the Church awaye. Yett firmlye and well stoode the proude ChappelL Though ne monk ne. preeste was there, Butt for festival nowe was hearde the beil That wont to be hearde for prayer. And those sayntelye walles of olde gray stone Dyd witnesse foul revelrye, And they shooke to heare theire echoes owne Wordes of ribaulderie. ' Now builde mee a Halle,' the Baronne sayde, ' And builde ytt both wide and high, And builde ytt mee ouer the moulderinge dedde, As they rotte in cemeterye. For long haue I lacked a banquettinge Halle, Meete for my feeres and me; For our mirthe the olde Chappell is alle too smalle, » 78 Soe our butterye-hatch ytt sh il bee. THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. Thys aunciente place I wyl newlye calle, And christene ytt in goode wyne, Thys church of Alle Sayntes shall be Alle Depiles' Halle, And the daye, too, Alle Deuiles and myne. On the firste of Nouembre thys lordeshippe fayre My heritage was made, From noe Saynte dydd I craue ytt by vowe or by prayere, But I called to the Deuile for ayde. . Longe, longe did I striue, and on hope I leaned, And att Courte I dyd uainlye toyle, And his Highriesse was harde tyll I uowed to the fiende A share in the Churche's spoyle. Nowe, onn thys daye beginneth a moneth of cloudes, And of deedes that mayne not bee forgiuen> When the self-sleyne dedde looke upp from theire shroudes, See no blew, and despaire of heuen. And eache yeare thys festiuall daye wee wyl keepe, Saynte nor angelle a place shal haue, Butt darke spiritts wyth us shal carouse, pottle deepe, And well welcome suche from the graue. O there wyll wee mocke the skulles belowe, And we'll grinne more wyde than theye, And well synge more loude thann the owletts doe, And louder than preestes wolde praye. And our dogges wyth eache pate that is bleached and bare Shall sporte them rounde and rounde, Or tangle theire jaws in the drye dedde haire, As theye route in the hollowe grounde. Att the wildered batte wee wyl loudlye laugh, As hee flitts rounde hys mansyons olde, And the earthe worme shal learne the redde wyne to quaff, As he reeles in his slymie folde. We wyl barre oute the blessede lyghte fulle welle, And we'll heare noe lark to disturbe us, For the larke synges to heuen, butt wee to helle, Noe hymminge fooles shal curbe us. A frend in our neede is indeede a frend, And suche frend was the Deuile to mee; And thys halle I wyll builde, to thys dutyfulle ende, That my cuppe fellowe hee may bee.' THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. O Nouembre is neare wythe the closinge yeare, And the Halle is unfinishede quite, And what liuinge menne dyd reare in the day, ytt dyd appeare That dedde handes dyd undoe at nighte. the ceilinge and walles theye are rough and bare, And the guestes they are comynge nowe; O how shal the Baronne feaste them there, And how shal hee. keepe hys vowe? Att the builders hee raued furiouslye, Nor excuse wolde hee graunte att alle; Butt, as one poore wretch low bent on hys kneo, He strake oute hys braynes wyth hys malle. And, highe as he raysed his bloudie hande, Ryght fearfullie thus spake hee: ' Yff at eue thys halle unfinishede stande, Not one knave of yee liuinge shal bee!' Thenn the builders theye playstered dilligentlye, For lyfe or deth playstered theye, And, a dagger's depthe, thicke coates three Theye had spredde on the walles that daye. ' Sore feare worketh welle !' quoth the proude Baronne, As he strode to the festall chayre, And loude laughed the guestes to looke uponne The worke so smoothe and fayre. The pine torches rounde a braue lighte dydd flynge, A redd noone through the darke nighte streaminge, And small thoughte hadd the guestes of the waynscottinge, Howe wette, and softe, and steaminge. Now theye have barred faste the doores belowe, And eke the windowes on highe ; And withoute stoode tremblinge the vassailes a rowe Att the bolde impietie. O wee tremblede to heare their reuelrie, (For I was there that nighte,) A sabbath ytt seemede of Deuilrie, And of Witches att theyre delyte. There was chauntinge thenne amayne, butt the pure and holie strayne Of sweete musicke had loste ytt's feelinge, And there was harpe and lute, but lyttel dyd ytt boote, 7S0 For the daunce was butt beastlie reelinge. THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. And the feates were ille tolde of chiualrye olde, Amiddste dronkennesse and dinne, And the softe laye of loue colde noe tendernesse moue Ynn hartes of ryott and sinne. Three nightes y tt endured, and the staringe owle Was scared from hys ivye throne, And the poore currs dismallie answered a howle More senselesse thanne theyre own. And dronker theye waxed, and dronker yett, And each manne dyd uainly laboure, By reason of manie speakers, to gett Meet audience from his neyboure. These wordes thenn stammerede the loude Baronne, « May I ne'er quitt thys goode cheere, Tyll our maystere come to feaste wyth hys owne !' And thatt was the laste wee colde heare. The third morne rose full fayre, and the torches ruddye glare, Through the windowes streamed noe more, And, when the smalle birde rose from hys chambere in the boughes, The.festiuall shout was o'er. The smalle birde gaylye sunge, and the merryelarke uppe sprunge, And the dewe droppe spangled the spraye, And the blessede sunne, that stille shines the same on goode and ille, Smyled thatt morne onn the old Abbaye. O longe dydd we listene, in doubt and feare, Att thatt unholye doore, And, ere wee essayed to enter there, Ytt was full highe noone and more. Bntt stille colde we gaine noe answere att alle, Though wee asked continuallye; And I that telle was the urchin smalle That was thruste through the windowe to see. O I hadde quayled in Saynte Quentin's fighte, Where I rode in that Baronne's trayne, And hadd shrunke to see the slayne att nighte, As they laye onn the bloudye playne. ygj THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. I hadde sickennede to see eache pale face bare, And eache staringe glassie eye, As the moone was dimmlye reflectede there, Farre from agreeablye. Butt ne'er hadde I seene suche a syghte before As thatt whyche dydd thenn befalle, Of grimme and ghastlye dedd heddes a score Mortared into a walle ! Theye were helde as theye dronkenlye backe dydd leahe, Ynn deadlye payne and despayre, And the redd wyne was clottede theire jawes betwene, And the mortare was growne to the hayre. Full ofte haue I hearde thatt wyse menne doe saye ' Manie heddes are bettere thanne one;' Butt, O, thanne wyth suche gaunt heddes as theye Ytt were bettere to liue wyth none. And stille the gaye fruites blushede on the boarde, As in scorne of the sadde arraye, And the sparklinge flaggons, wyth wyne halfe stored, Beamed oute to the sunne alwaye. Nowe Time hath rolled onne for three score yeare, And the olde walle standeth yett; And, deepe, in rowes, rounde thatt dred chambere, Eache darke browne skulle is sett. The ivye hath wreathede a coronett grene For the grimlye Baronne's browe; And, where once the dais carpett flaunted shene, The ranke grass waveth nowe. In the sockett where rowled eache dronken eye Hath the martlett builded her holde; And, aye, midde the whyte teeth, gallantlye The walle flowere twisteth ytt's folde. And, in place of the torches of pine-tree made, The pale moone quivereth o'er themme, And the scritch owle, wyth sorrye serenade, Mocketh the mynstreU before themme. And there muste they staye, tyll the dredful daye When theire maystere claymeth hys dole ! O Gentles beeware of suche doome, and praye Grammercye onne eache poore soule. 1 82 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. Butt, euermore, to your dyinge hower, Remembere, whate'er befalle, Keepe free your hartes from the foule fiende's pow*ir, And your heddes from newe mortared-walle. Thenne of Alle Deuiles' Daye thys the stor/e is, And of Alle Deuiles' Halle lykewyse; A wonderous tale, yett soe trewe ytt is, That noe bodye it denyes. [Stanza 1. 'Good Kynge Harrye"— Henry VIII.— whom the ordinary reader may, perhaps, not at once recognise under that epithet. St. 7. 'Angels' — metallic currency, not spirits of another world. St. 9. ' BibauWerie' — a sort of converse much in use among the soldiers of the Fays des Eibauds ; desultory troops under the command of the Duke of Burgundy in the holy wars.— Du Conge. St. 15. ' Despaire of heuen'— ' Que faut-il faire pour dissiper l'ennuie ? C'est le mois de Novembre. D fait mauvais temps— temps de brouillards. Que faut-U faire pour dissiper l'ennuie? Les Anglois se pendent. Que faut- il faire, dis-je, pour dissiper l'ennuie ? D faut boire du ponche ! — Almanack des Gourmands."} (Sifog ®l§EJsim« ®£ f£MftM®m<> * •• /, I - IK'/'. ['lhis ballad is taken from • The Local Historian's Table- njvv. book,* where it is given as 'revised by the author,' the ^pA Rev. J. Watson .having, apparently, been first published tryl in *Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.' It is founded upon a wJ * family legend/ current in the County of Durham, ' the Wk authority of which,' says Mr. Brockett, in his ' Glossary of isrl North Country Words,' 'the inhabitants will not allow to be ft ' questioned.' * The lapse of three centuries,' he adds, * has so completely enveloped in obscurity the particular details, that it is impossible to give a narration which could in any degree be considered as complete.' In the Table-book, 1 however, is given a * history,' said to have been ' gleaned with much patient and laborious investigation, from the viva voce nar- ^f rations of sundry of the elders of both sexes on the banks of *• the Wear, in the immediate neighbourhood of the scene of action.' This ' history' is almost identical with the story of the ballad ; the allusions in which will be found explained in the notes. With regard to the origin of the Legend, which has been 'preserved and repeated almost without variation for centuries,' it is conjectured in the ' Table- book' to have * arisen from the circumstance of an invasion from a foreign foe, some successful chieftain, with well-dis- ciplined bands, destroying and laying waste with fire and ^ S^ sword, whose advance over unequal ground would convey to the fears of the peasantry the appearance of a rolling ser- pent,; and the power of re-uniting is readily accounted for by the ordinary evolutions of military tactics. And by the _ knight's 'destroying this legion by his single arm,' is sup- /-,' posed to be signified that he was ' the head and chief in the A onslaught.'] jf$ THE SINNING. T is the joyful Easter morn, And the bells ring loud and clear, Sounding the holy day of rest Through the quiet vale of Wear. THE WORME OF LA.MBTON. Forth at its sound, from his stately hall, Hath the Lord of Lambton come, With knight and squire in rich attire, Page, seneschal, and groom. The white-hair' d peasant and his dame, Have left their woodland cot ; Children of toil and poverty, Their cares and toil forgot. And buxom youth and bashful maid, In holiday array, Thro' verdant glade and greenwood shade, To Brigford bend their way. And soon within its sacred dome Their wandering steps are stayed ; The bell is rung, the mass is sung, And the solemn prayer is prayed. But why did Lambton' s youthful heir, Not mingle with the throng ? And why did he not bend his knee, Nor join in the holy song ? O, Lambton' s heir is a wicked man ! Alike in word and deed ; He makes a jest of psalm and priest, Of the Ave and the Creed. He loves the fight, he loves the chase ; He loves each kind of sin ; But the holy church, from year to year, 'He is not found within. And Lambton's heir, at the matin prayer, Or the vesper, is not seen ; And on this day of rest and peace He hath donned his coat of green ; And with his creel slung on his hack, His light rod in his hand, Down by the side of the shady Wear He took his lonely stand. There was no sound but the rushing stream, The little birds were still, As if they knew that Lambton's heir, Was doing a deed of ill. y 35 THE WORME OF LAMBTON- Many a salmon and speckled trout Through the quiet waters glide ; But they all sought the deepest pools, Their golden scales to hide. The soft west wind just rippled the brook, And the clouds flew gently by, And gleamed the sun, — 'twas a lovely day To the eager fisher's eye. He threw his line, of the costly twine, Across the gentle stream ; Upon its top the dun-flies drop Lightly as childhood's dream. Again, again, — but all in vain, In, the shallow or the deep ; No trout rose to his cunning bait ; He heard no salmon leap. And now he wandered east the stream, And now he wandered west ; He sought each bank or hanging bush, Which fishes love the best. But vain was all his skilful art; Vain was each deep disguise ; Vain was alike the varied bait, And vain the mimic flies. " When, tired and vexed, the castle hell, Rung out the hour of dine, "Now," said the Lambton's youthful heir, "A weary lot is mine. For six long hours, this April morn, My line in vain I've cast ; But one more throw ; come weal come wo, For this shall be the last." He took from his bag a maggot worm, That bait of high renown ; His line is wheeled quickly through the air, Then sunk in the water down. When he drew it out, his ready hand ' With no quivering motion shook, For neither salmon, trout nor ged, Had fastened on his hook. 7yj THE WORME OF LAMBTON. But a little thing, a strange formed thing, Like a piece of muddy weed ; But like no fish that swims the stream. Nor ought that crawls the mead. "Fwas scarce an inch and a half in length, Its colour the darkest green ; And on its rough and scaly hack Two little fins were seen. It had a long and pointed snout, Like the mouth of the slimy eel, And its white and loosely hanging jaws, Twelve pin-like teeth reveal. It had sharp claws upon its feet, Short ears upon its head, A jointed tail, and quick bright eyes, That gleamed of a fiery red. " Art thou the prize," said the weary wight, " For which I have spent my time ;"' For which I have toil'd till the hour "of noon, Since rang the matin chime ?" From the side of the dell, a crystal wel Sends its waters hiihbTirig by ; "Rest there, thou ugly tiny elf, Either to live or die." He threw it in, and when next he came, He saw, to his surprise, It was a foot and a half in length ; It had grown so much in size. And its wings ~were long, far-stretched and strong, And redder were its eyes. THE CURSE. But Lamb ton's heir is an altered man ; At the church on bended knee, Three times a day he was wont to pray ; And now he's beyond the sea. He has done penance for his sins, He has drank of a sainted well, He has joined the band from the. Holy. Land To chase the infidel. 787 THE WORME OF LAMBTON. Where host met host, and strife raged most, His sword flashed high and bright ; Where force met force, he winged his course, The foremost in the fight. Where he saw on high th' Oriflamme fly, His onward path he bore, And the Paynim Knight, and the Saracen, Lay weltering in their gore. Or in the joust, or tournament, Of all that valiant band, When, with lance in rest, he forward prest, Who could the shock withstand ? Pure was his fame, unstained his shield ; A merciful man was he ; The friend of the weak, he raised not his hand 'Gainst a fallen enemy. Thus on the plains of Palestine, He gained a mighty name, And, full of honour and renown, To the home of his childhood came. But when he came to his father's lands, No cattle were grazing there ; The grass in the mead was unmown and rough, And the fields untilled and bare. And when he came to his father's hall, He wondered what might ail ; His sire but coolly welcomed him, And his sisters' cheeks were pale. " I come from the fight," said the Red-Cross Knight ; " I in savage lands did roam ; But where'er it be, they welcome me, Save in my own loved home. " Now why, now why, this frozen cheer ? What is it that may ail ? Why tremble thus my father dear ? — Mj sister, why so pale ?" "O! sad and woful has been our lot, Whilst thou wast far away ; For a mighty dragon hath hither come And taken up its stay ; At night or morn it sleepeth not, ' 88 But watcheth for its prey. THE WORME OF LAMBTON. "Tis ten cloth yards in length ; its hue Is of the darkest green ; And on its rough and scaly back, Two strong black wings are seen. It hath a long and pointed snout, Like the mighty crocodile ; And, from its grinning jaws, stand out • Its teeth in horrid file. It hath on each round and webbed foot Four sharp and hooked claws ; And its jointed tail, with heavy trail, Over the ground it draws. It hath two rough and hairy ears Upon its bony head ; Its eyes shine like the winter sun, Fearful, and darkly red. Its roar is loud as the thunder's sound, But shorter, and more shrill ; It rolls, with many a heavy bound, Onward from hill to hill. And each morn, at the matin chime, It seeks the lovely Wear; And, at the noontide bell, It gorges its fill, then seeks the hill Where springs the crystal well. No knight has e'er returned who dared The monster to assail. Though he struck off an ear or limb, Or lopt its jointed tail, Its severed limbs again unite, Strong as the iron mail. My horses, and sheep, and all my kin The ravenous beast hath killed ; With oxen and deer, from far and neai, Its hungry maw is filled. 'Tis hence the mead is unmown and long And the corn-fields are untilled. My son, to hail thee here in health, My very heart is glad ; But thou hast heard our tale — and say, Canst thou wonder that we're sad ?" 769 THE WORME OF LAMBTON. THE ASSOILINft And sorrowful was Lamb ton's heir : "My sinful act," said he, " This curse hath on the country brought ; Be it mine to set it free." Deep in the dell, in a ruined hut, Far from the homes of men. There dwellt a witch the peasants called Old Elspat of the Glen. 'Twas a dark night, and the stormy wind Howled with a hollow moan, As through tangled copsewood, bush, and briar, He sought the aged crone. She sat on a low and three-legged stool, Beside a dying fire ; As he lifted the latch she stirred the brands, And the smoky flames blazed higher. She was a woman weak and old, Her form was bent and thin ; And on her lean and shrivelled hand, She rested her pointed chin. He entered with fear, that dauntless man, And spake of all his need ; He gave her gold ; he asked her aid, How best he might succeed. "Clothe thee," said she, "in armour bright, In mail of glittering sheen. All studded o'er, behind and before, With razors sharp and keen : " And take in thy hand the trusty brand Which thou bore beyond the sea ; And make to the Virgin a solemn vow, If she grant thee victory, What meets thee first, when the strife is o'er, Her offering shall be." He went to the fight, in armour bright Equipped from head to heel ; His gorget closed, and his vizor shut, 790 He seemed a form of steel. THE WORME OF LAMBTON. But with razor blades, all sharp and keen, The mail was studded o'er ; And his long tried and trusty brand In his greaved hand he .bore. He made to the Virgin a solemn vow, If she granted victory! What met him first on his homeward path Her sacrifice should be. He told his sire, when he heard the horn, To slip his favpurite hound j "'Twill quickly seek its master's side At the accustomed sound." Forward he trod, wijth measured step, To meet his foe, alone, While the first beams of the morning sun On his massy armour shone. The monster slept on an island crag Lulled by the rustling Wear, Which eddy'd turbid at the base Though elsewhere smooth and clear. It lay in repose ; its wings were flat, Its ears fell on its head, Its legs stretched out, and drooped its snout, But his eyes were fiery red. Little feared he, that armed knight, As he left the rocky shore ; And in his hand prepared for fight, His unsheathed sword he bore. As he plunged in, the waters' splash The monster startling hears ; It spread its wings, and the valley rings, Like the clash of a thousand spears. It bristled up its scaly back, Curled, high its jointed tail, And ready stood with grinning teeth, The hero to assail ; Then sprung at the knight with all its might, And its foamy teeth it gnashed ; With, its jointed tail, like a thrasher's flail, The flinty rocks it lashed. ^ 91 THE WORME OF LAMBTON. But quick of eye, and swift of foot, He guarded the attack ; And dealt his brand with skilful hand Upon the dragon's back. A»ain, again, at the knight it flew ; The fight was long and sore ; He bravely stood, nor dropped his sword Till he could strike no more. It rose on high, and darkened the sky, Then with a hideous yell, A moment winnowed th' air with its wings, And down like a mountain fell. He stood prepared for the falling blow, But mournful was his fate ; Awhile he reeled, then, staggering, fell Beneath the monster's weight. And round about its prostrate foe Its fearful length it rolled, And clasped him close, till his armour cracked Within its scaly fold. But pierced by the blades, from body and breast, Fast did the red blood pour ; Cut by the blades, piece fell by piec% And quivered in the gore. Piece fell by piece, foot fell by foot : No more is the river clear, But stained with blood, as the severed limbs Rolled down the rushing Wear. Piece fell by piece, and inch by inch, From the body and the tail ; But the head still hung by the gory teeth Tight fastened in the mail. It panted long, and fast it breathed, With many a bitter groan ; Its eyes grew dim, it loosed its hold, And fell like a lifeless stone. Then loud he blew on his bugle-horn, The blast of victory ; From rock to rock the sound was borne, By Echo, glad and free ; For, burdened long by the dragon's roai • 92 She joy'd in her liberty. THE WORME OF LAMBTON. But not his hound, with gladdened hound, Comes leaping at the call ; With feelings dire, he sees his sire Bush from his ancient hall. O ! what can equal a father's love, When harm to his son he fears ; 'Tis stronger than a sister's sigh, More deep than a mother's tears. When Lambton's anxious listening lord Heard the bugle notes so wild, He thought no more of his plighted word, But ran to clasp his child. " Strange is my lot," said the luckless wight, "How sorrow and joy combine ! When high in fame to my home I came, My kindred did weep and pine. This morn my triumph sees, and sees Dishonour light on me : For I had vowed to tho Holy Maid, If she gave me victory, What first I met, when the fight was o'er, Her offering should be. I thought to have slain my gallant hound, Beneath my unwilling knife : But I cannot raise my hand on him Who gave my being life !" And heavy and sorrowful was his heart, And he hath gone again To seek advice of the wise woman, Old Elspat of the Glen. " Since thy solemn vow is unfulfilled, Though greater be thy fame, Thou must a lofty chapel build To the Virgin Mary's name. On nine generations of thy race, A heavy curse shall fall : They may die in the fight, or in the caa.*3, But not in their native hall." 793 THE WORME OF LAMBTON. He builded there a chapel fair, And rich endowment made, "Where morn and eve, by cowled monk, In sable garb arrayed, The bell was rung, the mass was sung, And the solemn prayer was said. LENVOY. Such is the tale which, in ages past, On the dreary winter's eve, In baron's hall, the harper blind, In wildest strain, would weave ; Till the peasants, trembling, nearer crept, And each strange event believe. Such is the tale which often yet, Around the Christmas fire, Is told to the merry wassail group, By some old dame or sire. But tiiougn they tell that the crystal well Still flows by the lovely Wear, And that the hill is verdant still, His listeners shew no fear. And though he tell that of Lambton's race Nine of them died at sea, Or in the battle, or in the chase, They shake their heads doubtingly. And though he say there may still be seen The mail worn by the knight, Tho' the blades are blunt that once were keen, And rusted that once were bright, They do but shake their heads the more, And laugh at him outright. For knowledge to their view has spread Her rich and varied store ; They learn and read, and take no heed, Of legendary lore. And pure religion hath o'er them shed A holier heavenly ray ; And dragons and witches, and mail-clad knights, Are vanished away ; As the creatures of darkness flee and hide, : 794 From the light of the dawning day. THE WORME OF LAMBTON. But Lambton's castle still stands by the Wear, t A tall and stately pile ; \ And Lambton's name is a name of might, 'Mong the migntiest of our isle. Long may the sun of Prosperity Upon the Lambtons smile ! [The Worme of Lambton.— ' Onne, or Worme, is, in the ancient Norse, the generic name for serpents.' The. Italian poets, Dante, y Inferno," c. 6. 22,) and Ariosto, ( ' Orlando Furioso,' c 46, 78,) call the infernal serpent of old, *fl granverme,' that great worm f and Milton, ('Paradise Lost,* Bk. ix., 1067,) makes Adam reproach Eve with having given 'ear to that false worm! Cowper, ( ' Task/ Bk. vL , ) adopts the same expression : — *>o foe to man Lurks in the serpent now ; the mother sees, And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand Strecht forth to dally with the crested worm.' Shakespeare, too, (* Cymbeline, Act iiL, Sc. 4,) speaks of slander's tongne as 'outvenoming all the worms of Nile.* To these passages, quoted in ' The Local Historian's Table-book/ may be added the following : — Shakespeare, ( ( Macbeth,* Act iiL, Sc 4j) * There the grown serpent lies : the worm that's fled,' &c Massinger, (' Parliament of Love/ Act iv.» Sc 2. ' The sad father That sees his son stung by a snake to death. May with more justice stay his vengeful hand, And let the worm escape,' &c- * Piers Plowman/ Km. 1. Ed. 1561,) speaks of ' Wyld wormes in woodes ; ' and in the old ballad of * Alison Gross/ (Jamieson's 'Popular Ballads and Songs/ ii 187, Ed. 1806,) that 'ugliest witch of the north conn trie' turns one who would not be her * lemman sae true' into * an ugly worm, and gard him toddle about the tree.* The word is also used in the same sense in the ballad, entitled 'The laidly Worm of Spindlestane Heughs/ St. 27. 'A crystal well' — 'known at this day by the name of the Worm Well.' St. 39. * Bed-Gross Knight.' According to a curious entry in an old MS. pedigree, lately in the possession of the family of Middleton, of Ofierton, * John Lambeton that slewe ye worme was Knight of Rhodes and Lord of Lambeton and Wod Apilton after the dethe of fower brothers, tant esthete maUe.' St. 46. * The hill'— still called ' The Worm Hill, a considerable oval-shaped hill, 345 yards in circumference, and 52 in height, about a mile and a half from old Lamb ton Hall/ St. 56. * All studded oer . . .with razors.' 'At Lambton Castle is preserved a figure, evidently -of considerable antiquity, which represents a knight, armed cap-a-pie, his vizor raised, and the back part of his coat of mail closely inlaid with spear blades : with his left hand he holds the head of the worm, and with his right he appears to be drawing his sword out of his throat. The worm is not represented as a reptile, but has cars, legs, and wings.* St. 88. If popular tradition is to be trusted, ' this prediction was fulfilled, for it holds that during the period of * the curse* none of the Lords of Lambton died in their beds. Be this as it may, nine ascending' generations from Henry Lambton, of Lambton, Esq., H.P., (elder brother to the late General Lambton,) would exactly reach Sir John Lambton, Knight of Rhodes. Sir Wm. Lambton, who was Colonel of a regiment of foot in the service of Charles I-, was slain at the bloody battle of Marston Moor, and his son William (his eldest son by his second wife) received his death-wound at Wakefield, at the head of a troop' of dragoons, in 1643. The fulfilment of the curse was inherent in the ninth of descent, and great anxiety prevailed during his life-time, amongst the hereditary depositaries of the tradition of the county, to know if the curse would hold good to the end. He died in his chariot, crossing the New-Bridge, thus giving the last link to the chain of circumstantial tradition connected with the history of ' The Worme of Lambton.'— X. H. Table- book. 195 [This ballad, written by William Carleton, author of * Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry/ is founded. upon a superstition, of which he gives the following account:—' In the church-yard of Erigle Truagh, in the barony of Truagh, county Monaghan, there is said to be a spirit which appears to persons whose families are there interred. Its appearance, which is generally made in the following manner, is uniformly fatal, being an omen of death to those who are so unhappy as to meet with it. When a funeral takes place, it watches the person who remains last in the grave-yard, over whom it possesses a fascinating influence. If the loiterer be a young man, it takes the shape of a beautiful female, inspires him with a charmed passion, and exacts a promise to meet in the church- yard on a month from that day ; this promise is sealed by a kiss, which communicates a deadly taint to the individual who receives it. It then disappears, and no sooner does the young man quit the church-yard, than he remembers the history of the spectre — which is well known in the parish — sinks intcdespair, dies, and is buried in the place of appoint- menton the day when the promise was to have been fulfilled. Jf,on tb e contrary, it appears to a female, it assumes the form of a young man of exceeding elegance and beauty.' Mr. Carleton then mentions two cases of the kind which have come * within his personal knowledge.' 'It appears,' he adds, * that the spectre does not confine its operations to the church-yard, as there have been instances mentioned of its appearance at weddings and dances, where it never failed to secure its victims by dancing them into pleuritic fevers. I am unable to say whether this is a strictly local superstition . In its female shape it somewhat resembles the Elle maids of Scandinavia.'] HE bride she bound her golden hair — Killeevy, O Killeevy! And her step was light as the breezy air When it bends the morning flowers so fair, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. THE CHURCH- YARD BRIDE. And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright, Killeevy, O Killeevy! As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's light, Her bridal vows of love to plight, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The bridegroom is come with youthful brow, Killeevy, O Killeevy! To receive from Eva her virgin vow; 'Why tarries the bride of my bosom nowP By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy? A cry! a cry! — 'twas her maidens spoke, Killeevy, O Killeevy! ' Tour bride is asleep — she has not awoke; And the sleep she sleeps will never be broke,' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And his cheek became like the marble stone, ' Oh the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen is loud, it comes again, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And rises sad from the funeral train, As in sorrow it winds along the plain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And oh, but the plumes of white were fair, Killeevy, O Killeevy! When they flutterd all mournful in the air, As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. There is a voice that but one can hear, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And it softly pours, from behind the bier, Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen is loud, but that voice is low, Killeevy, Killeevy! And it sings its song of sorrow slow, And names young Turlough's name with woe, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 797 SIR TURLOUGH; OR Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said, Killeevy, Killeevy! And the bride she. sleeps in her lonely bed, The fairest corpse among the dead, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The wreaths of virgin-white are laid, Killeevy, O Killeevy! By virgin hands, o'er the spotless maid; And the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade By the bonnie green woodk of Killeevy. ' Oh ! go not yet — not yet away, Killeevy, Killeevy! Let us feel that life is near our clay,' The long departed seem to say, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. But the tramp and the voices of life are gone, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And beneath each cold forgotten stone, The mouldering dead sleep all alone, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. But who is he who lingereth^yet? Killeevy, O Killeevy! The fresh green sod with his tearsis wet, . And his heart in the bridal grave is set, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young, the brave, Killeevy, O Killeevy!' Should bend him o'er that bridal grave, And to his death-bound Eva rave, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. ' Weep not— weep not,' said a lady fair, Killeevy, O Killeevy! ' Should youth and valour thus despair, And pour their vows to the empty air?' _ By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. There's charmed music upon her tongue, Killeevy, O Killeevy! Such beauty — bright and warm and young — Was never seen the maids among, 798 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. THE CHURCH- YARD BRIDE. A laughing light, a tender grace, Killeevy, O Kffleevy! Sparkled in beauty around her face, That grief from mortal heart might chase, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye, Killeevy, O Killeevy! His faithless tears are already dry, And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh,. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. ' The maid for whom thy salt tears fall, Killeevy, O Killeevy! Thy grief or love can ne'er recall; She rests beneath that grassy pall, By the bonnie green woods of Kijleevy. ' My heart it strangely cleaves, to thee, Killeevy, O KiUeeyyJ And now that thy plighted love is free, Give its unbroken pledge to me, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.' * To thee,' the charmed chief replied, Killeevy, O Killeevy! ' I pledge that love o'er my buried bride; Oh! come, and in Turlough's hall abide,' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Again the funeral voice came o'er Killeevy, Killeevy! The passing breeze, as it wailed before, And streams of mournful music bore, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. ' If I to thy youthful heart am dear, Killeevy, O Killeevy! , ■'" One month, from hence thou wilt meet me here, Where lay thy Eva's bridal bier,' '■' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. He presst her lips as the words were spoken, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And his banshee's wail — now far and broken — Murmurd * Death!' — as he gave the token, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 799 SIR TURLOUGH ; OR, ' Adieu! adieu!' said this lady bright, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And she slowly past like a thing of light, Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein, Killeevy, Killeevy! And there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain, And gold for those who will calm his brain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. ' Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, Killeevy, Killeevy! Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagh's pride, Has pledged his love to the church-yard bride,' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech groand loud, ' Come tell me this, Killeevy, O Killeevy! By all thy'hopes of weal and bliss, Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss?' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. ' The banshee's cry is loud and long, Killeevy, O Killeevy! At eve she weeps her funeral song, And it floats on the twilight breeze along,' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. * Then the fatal kiss is given; — the last, Killeevy, Killeevy! Of Turlough's race and name is past, His doom is sealed, his die is cast,' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. ' Leech, say not that thy skill is vain, Killeevy, O Killeevy! O, calm the power of his frenzied brain, And half his lands thou shalt retain,' By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech has failed, and the hoary priest, Killeevy, O Killeevy! With pious shrift his soul released, And the smoke is high of his funeral feast, 800 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. SIR TURLOUGH. The Shanachies now are assembled all, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall, To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And there is trophy, banner, and plume, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And the pomp of death, with its deepest gloom, O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The month is closed, and Green Truagh's pride, Killeevy, O Killeevy! Is married to Death — and, side by side, He slumbers now with his church-yard bride, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. [Stanza 6. The ' keen' is the Irish cry, or wailing for the dead. "For a very interesting notice of this practice, which still prevails in many parts of Ireland, the reader is referred to Mi*. Carleton's ' Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.' Stanza 7. * It is usual in the North of Ireland to celebrate mass for the dead in some green field between the house in which the deceased lived and the grave-yard. For this the shelter of a grove 'is usually selected, and the appearance of the ceremony is highly picturesque and solemn.' Stanza 25. * What rank the ' banshee' holds in the scale of spiritual beings,' says Miss Balfour, 'it is not easy to determine: but her favourite occupation seems to be that of foretelling the death of the different branches of the families over which she presided, by the most plaintive cries. Every family had formerly its 'banshee,' but the belief in her existence is now fast fading away, and in a few more years she will only be remembered in the storied records of her marvellous doings in days long since gone by.'] Sf 801 TRANSLATIONS. 8rove, Whose constant hearts in vain bewail The lot of early, blighted, love. A weary year in sullen mood With anxious memory he strove, But found at length that solitude But added deeper wounds to love. * Lai du Ch&vre-foil. + Roquefort. \ Ysenlt la Blonde, daughter of Argius, King of Ireland, and wife of Marc, King of Cornouailles, uncle of Tristan. 805 THE LAY OF THE EGLANTINE. " Alas !" he said, " why ling'ring stay, Why hover round this living tomb ? Where Yseult pines far far away, 'Twere meet I sought my final doom. " There to some forest haunt I'll go, And, hid from every human eye, Some solace yet my soul may know, Near where she dwells at least to die !" He went — and many a lonely night In Cornwall's deep retreats he lay, Nor ventured forth to mortal sight, An exile from the face of day. At length along the flowery plains He stole at eve with humble mien, To ask the simple shepherd swains Some tidings of the hapless queen.* Then told they how the baron bold Was banish'd to his distant home, And to Tintagel's mighty hold The king, with all his court, was come. For Pentecost, with pride elate, The feast, the tourney, they prepare, And, mistress of the regal state, The lovely Yseult would be there. Joy sprung in Tristan's eager heart — The queen must through the forest wend, While he, unnoticed, there apart Secure her coming could attend. But how to bid her understand, When close to him she loved she drew? He cut in haste a hazel wand, And clove the yielding wood in two. Then on the bark his name he traced, To lure her for a while to stay ; Each branch with trembling hand he placed At distance in fair Yseult's way. * Tristan de Leonois, Knight of the Bound Table, is the hero of one of the most pleasing of the romances of antiquity. The translation of it into French prose in the twelfth century is by Luces de Gast, a Norman, who lived at Salisbury. The celebrated poet.Chrestien de Troyes, -versified it, but his work'is unfortunately lost. Sir Walter Scott has published an edition of Sir Tristrem by Thomas the Rhymer of Ercildown. 806 THE LAY OF THE EGLANTINE. It was their sign of love before, And when she saw that name so dear, The deepest shade she would explore, To find if he were wand'ring near. " Oh ! well thou know'st, dear love," he said, " No life has Tristan but in thee .' And all my fondness is repaid, My Yseult lives alone for me ! " Thou know'st the tree around whose stem The eglantine so fondly clings, And hangs her flowery diadem From bough to bough in perfumed rings. " Clasp'd in each other's arms they smile, And flourish long in bliss and joy, As though nor time nor age the while Their tender union could destroy. " But if it chance by Fate's hard hest The tree is destined to decay, The eglantine droops on his breast, And both together fade away. " Ah, even such, dear love, are we, How can we learn to live apart ? To pine in absence thus from thee Will break this too devoted heart !" She came — she saw the dear loved name, So long to deep regret consigned, And rosy bright her cheek became, - As thoughts flash'd quipk across her mind. She bade her knights a space delay, While she reposed amidst the shade ; Obedient all at distance stay, vt--* Nor seek her slumber to invade. '5 i>a The faithful Brangian alone '"*' Companion of her search sbe'jchose, < To whom their early hopes were known, Their tender love and after woes! Nor long amidst; the woods she sought, Ere she beheld, with wild delight, Him whom she loved beyond all thought Bush forth to bless her eager sight. aw THE LAY OF THE EGLANTINE. Ob, boundless joy unspeakable ! After an age of absent pain, How much to say — how much to tell — To vow, regret, and vow again ! She bade him hope the time was near When his sad exile would be o'er, When the stern king her prayer would hear, And call him to his court once more. She told of many a bitter tear, Of hopes, of wishes, unsubdued, Ah ! why midst scenes so brief, so dear, Will thoughts of parting still intrude ! Yes — they must part — so lately met, For envious steps are lurking round, Delay can only bring regret, And danger wakes in every sound. " Adieu ! adieu !" and now 'tis past, And now each path far distant lies, Fair Yseult gains her train in haste, And through the forest Tristan hies. To Wales again his steps he bent, And there his life of care renew'd, Until, his uncle's fury spent, He call'd him from that solitude. 'Twas then, in mem'ry of the scene, To both with joy so richly fraught ; And to record how blest had been The signal love himself had taught : That Tristan waked the softest tone His lute had ever breath'd before, Though well to him, Love's slave, was known All the deep springs of minstrel lore. His strain to future times shall last, For 'twas a dream of joy divine: And that sweet record of the past He call'd < The Lay of Eglantine.'* * There is printed "Le Eoman du noble et vaillant Chevalier Tristan fils du noble roy Meliadus de Leonnoys, par Luce, chevalier, seigneur du chateau de Gast." Rouen, 1489, fol. In Caxton's ' Morte Arthur,' the 8th, 9th, and 10th books treat of ' Sir Trystram.' 808 Sis ft&mlteiiX The herd toots in his horn ; The earn scraighs, and the cock craws, As the husbande has gi'en him his corn. The Elfen were fivescore and seven, Sae laidly and sae grim ; And they the husbande's guests maun be, To eat and drink wi' him. The husbande, out o' Villenshaw; At his winnock the Elves can see : " Help me, now, Jesu, Mary's son ; Thir Elves they mint at me !" g31 THE ELFIN GRAY. 832 In every nook a cross he eoost, In his ehalmer maist ava ; The Elfen a' were fley'd thereat, And flew to the wild-wood shaw. And some flew east, and some flew west, And some to the norwart flew ; And some they flew to the deep dale down, There still they are, I trow. It was then the weiest Elf, In at the door braids he ; Agast was the husbande, for that Elf For cross nor sign wad flee. The huswife she was a canny wife, She set the Elf at the board ; She set before him baith ale and meat, Wi' mony a weel-waled word. " Hear thou, Gudeman o' Villenshaw, What now I say to thee ; Wha bade thee bigg within our bounds, Without the leave o' me ? " But, an thou in our bounds will bigg, And bide, as well as may be, Then thou thy dearest huswife maun To me for a lemman gie." Up spak the luckless husbande then, As God the grace him gae : " Eline she is to me sae dear, Her thou may nae-gate hae." Till the Elf he answer" d as he 'couth : 'Lat but my huswife be, And tak whate'er, o' gude or gear, Is mine, awa wi' thee." "Then I'll thy Eline tak and thee, Aneath my feet to tread ; And hide thy goud and white monie Aneath my dwalling stead." The husbande and his househald a' In sary re3e they join : "Far better that she be now forfairn, Nor that we a' should tyne." THE ELFIN GRAY. Up, will of rede, the husbande stood, Wi' heart fu' sad and sair ; And he has gien his huswife Eline Wi' the young Elfe to fare. Then blyth grew he, and sprang about ; He took her in his arm : The rud it left her comely cheek ; Her heart was clem'd wi' harm. A waefu' woman then she was ane. And the moody tears loot fa' : " God rew on me, unseely wife, How hard a weird I fa' ! " My fay I plight to the fairest wight That man on mold mat see ; — Maun I now mell wi' a laidly El, His light lemman to be 1" He minted ance — he minted twice, Wae wax'd her heart that syth : Syne the laidliest fiend he grew that e'er To mortal ee did kyth. When he the thirden time can mint To Mary's son she pray'd, ' And the laidly Elf was clean awa, And a fair knight in his stead. This fell under a linden green, That again his shape he found ; O' wae and care was the word nae mair, A' were sae glad that stound. " O dearest Eline, hear thou this, And thou my wife sail be, And a' the goud in merry England Sae freely I'll gi'e thee I " When I was but a little wee bairn, My mither died me fra ; My stepmither sent me awa fra her ; I turn'd till an Elfin Gray. " To thy husband I a gift will gie, Wi' mickle state and gear, As mends for Eline his huswife ; — Thou's be my heartis dear." — 3 H 833 THE ELFIN GRAY. " Thou nobil knyght, we thank now God That has freed us frae skaith j Sae wed thou thee a maiden free, And joy attend ye baith ! " Sin I to thee nae maik can be My dochter may be thine ; And thy gud will right to fulfill, Lat this be our propine." — "I thank thee, Eline, thou wise woman ; My praise thy worth sail ha'e ; And thy love gin I fail to win, Thou here at hame sail stay." The husbande biggit now on his 6e, And nae ane wrought him wrang ; His dochter wore crown in Engelantl, And happy lived and lang. Now Eline, the husbande's huswife, has Cour'd a' her grief and harms ; She's mither to a noble queen That sleeps in a kingis arms. !£©tR®t?«<> (.This translation, by Mr. Taylor, of Norwich, of Burger's celebrated ballad, is taken from Lewis's ' Tales of Wonder/ London, 1801. It first appeared in the Monthly MagazinO for 1796. Mr. Lewis considered it * a master- piece of trans- lation ;' an opinion which the many versions since given of it have only served to confirm. With regard to the original, it was asserted, soon after the publication of the present version, that Burger took it from an old English Ballad, to be found in the * Collection of Old Ballads/ (London, 1723,) entitled, ' The Suffolk Miracle : or, a Relation of a Young Man, who, a month after his death appeared to his sweet-heart, and carried her on horseback behind him for forty miles, in two hours, and was never seen after but in his grave ;' of which there are two copies, (broadsides,) in the Roxburghe Collection in the British Museum. Burger, however, contradicted this assertion ; and declared that an old Low-Dutch Ballad furnished him with the idea of < Lenora.' That there was such an 'old Low-Dutch ballad' seems evident, from the statement of a correspondent of the Monthly Magazine, who says ' he had often heard it repeated by sundry persons of Glamlorf , and among others by a man of the age of 75 years ; as well as by his step-mother, then 71 years old, who in her youth bad often heard it related by several people.' The similarity however, in point of story, between the homely English ballad and the polished German, is such as to make the supposition of a common origin highly probable. The reader will find the means of judging for himself in the Appendix.] T break of day, with frightful dreams Lenora struggled sore ; — i" My William, art thou slaine," said she, " Or dost thou love no more ?" — 835 LENORA. He went abroade with Richard's host The Paynim foes to quell ; But he no word to her had writt, An he were sick or well. With sowne of trump and beat of drum, His fellow soldyers come ; Their helmes bedeckt with oaken boughs, They seeke their long'd-for home. And ev'ry roade, and ev'ry lane, Was full of old and young, To gaze at the rejoicing band, To hail with gladsome toung. — " Thank God !" their wives and children saide ; "Welcome 1" — the brides did say ; But greete or kiss Lenora gave To none upon that daye. She askte of all the passing traine, For him she wisht to see ; But none of all the passing traine Could tell if lived he. And when the soldyers all were bye. She tore her raven haire, And cast herself upon the growne In furious despaire. Her mother ran and lyfte her up, And clasped in her arme, — " My child, my child, what dost thou ail ? God shield thy life from harm !" — — " O mother, mother ! William's gone ! What's all besyde to me ? There is no mercye, sure, above ! All, all were spared but hee!" — — " Kneel downe, thy paternoster saye, 'Twill calm thy troubled spright : The Lord is wyse, the Lord is good : What hee hath done is right." — — " O mother, mother ! say not so ; Most cruel is my fate : I prayde, and prayde, but watte avayl'd? 836 'Tis now, alas ! too late !" — LENORA. — " Our Heavenly Father, if we praye, Will help a suff'ring childe ; Go take the holy sacrament, So shall thy grief grow milde." — " O mother, what I feel within, No sacrament can staye, No sacrament can teche the dead To bear the sight of daye." — — " May be, among the heathen folk Thy William false doth prove, And puts away his faith and troth And takes another love. Then wherefore sorrow for his loss ? Thy moans are all in vain ; And when his soul and body parte, His falsehode brings him paine.' ' — — " O mother, mother ! gone is gone, My hope is all forlorn ; The grave mie'onlye safeguarde is, O, had I neer been borne ! Go out, go out, my lampe of life, In grislie darkness die : There is no mercye, sure, above ! For ever let me he !" — " Almighty God ! O do not judge My poor unhappy childe ; She knows not what her lips pronounce, Her anguish makes her wilde. My girl, forget thine earthly woe, And think on God and bliss ; For so, at least, shall not thy soule, Its heavenly bridegroom miss." — — " O mother, mother ! what is blisse, And what the infernal celle ? With him 'tis heaven any where, Without my William, helle. Go out, go out, my lamp of life, In endless darkness die : Without him I must loathe the earth, Without him scorn the skye." — g „j LENORA. And so despaire did rave and rage Athwarte her boiling veins ; Against the providence of God She hurlde her impious strains. She bet her breaste, and wrung her hands, And rollde her tearless eye, From rise of morne, till the pale stars Again did freeke the skye. When harke ! abroade she hearde the trampe Of nimble-hoofed Steed ; She hearde a knighte with clank alighte, And climbe the staire in speede. And soon she herde a tinkling hande, That twirled at the pin ; And through her door, that open'd not, These words were breathed in. — " What ! what ho ! thy dore undoe ; Art watching or asleepe ? My love, dost yet remember mee, And dost thou laugh, or weep 1" — -" Ah ! William here so late at night ! Oh ! I have watchte and waked, Whence dost thou come ? for thy return My herte has sorely aked." — — " At midnight only we may ride ; I come o'er land and sea ; I mounted late, but soone I go, Aryse, and come with me." — " O William, enter first my bowre, And give me one embrace ; The blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss ; Awayte a little space." — — " Though blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss, I may not harbour here ; My spurre is sharpe, my courser pawes, My houre of flighte is nere. All as thou lyest upon thy couch, Aryse, and mount behinde ; To-night we'le ride a thousand miles, The bridal bed to finde."— 838 LENORA. — " How, ride to-night a thousand miles ? Thy love thou dost bemocke : Eleven is the stroke that still Rings on within the clocke." — — " Looke up, the moone is bright and we Outstride the earthlie men : I'll take thee to the bridal bed, And night shall end but then." — —"And where is, then, thy house and home, And where thy bridal bed?" — — "'Tis narrow, silent, chilly, dark ; Far hence I rest my head." — — " And is there any room for me, Wherein that I may creepe ?" « There's room enough for thee and mee, "Wherein that we may sleepe. All as thou lyest upon thy couch, Aryse, no longer stop ; The wedding guests thy coming waite, The chamber door is ope." — All in her sarke, as there she lay, Upon his horse she sprung, And with her lilly hands so pale About her William clung. And hurry-skurry forth they goe, Unheeding wet or drye ; And horse and rider snort and blow, And sparkling pebbles flye. How swift the flood, the mead, the wood, Aright, aleft, are gone ; The bridges thunder as they pass, But earthlie sowne is none. Tramp, tramp, across the land they speed, Splash, splash, across the see: « Hurrah! the dead can ride apace ! Dost feare to ride with mee? The moon is brighte, and blue the nyghte, Dost quake the blast to stem? Dost shudder, mayde, to seeke the dead ?"— " No, no, but what of them ? 339 LENORA. How glumlie sownes yon dirgye song, Night-ravens flappe the wing ; What knell doth slowlie toll ding dong ? The psalmes of death who sing ? It creeps, the swarfhie funeral traine, The corse is on the beere : Like croke of todes from lonely moores, The chaunt doth meet the eere." — — " Go, bear her corse when midnight's past, With song, and tear, and wayle j I've gott my wife, I take her home, My howre of wedlocke hayl. Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire, To swell our nuptial song ; Come, preaste, and read the blessing soone, For bed, for bed we long." — They heede his calle, and hushte the sowne, The biere was seen no more ; And followde him ore feeld and flood Yet faster than before. Halloo! halloo! away they goe, Unheeding wet or drye; And horse and rider snort and blowe, And sparkling pebbles flye. How swifte the hill, how swifte the dale, Aright, aleft, are gone; By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne, They gallop, gallop on. Tramp, tramp, acrosse the land they speede, Splash, splash, acrosse the see: — " Hurrah! the dead can ride apace; Dost fear to ride with me? Look up, look up, an airy crewe In roundel daunces reele; The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte, May'st dimlie see them wheele. Come to, come to, ye gostlie crew, Come to, and follow me, And daunce for us the wedding daunce, When we in bed shall be." — 840 LENORA. And brash, brush, brush, the gostlie crew Come wheeling ore their heads, All rustling like the wither' d leaves That wyde the whirlwind spreads. Halloo ! halloo ! away they goe, Unheeding wet or drye, And. horse and rider snorte and blowe, And sparkling pebbles flye. And all that in the moonshyne lay, Behynde them fled afar ; And backward scudded overhead, The skye and every star. Tramp, tramp, across the land they spcede, Splash, splash, across the see ; — " Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ; Dost fear to ride with me ? I weene the cock prepares to crowe, The sand will soone be runne; I snuff the earlye morning aire, Downe, downe ! our work is done. The dead, the dead can ryde apace, Oure wed bed here is fit ; Our race is ridde, oure journey ore, Our endless union knit." — And lo ! an yren-grated gate Soon biggens to their viewe ; He crackte his wbype, the clangynge boltes, The doores asunder flewe. They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode ; — " "fis hither we are bounde ;" — And many a tombstone gostlie white, Lay in the moonshyne round. And when he from his steede alytte, His armour, green with rust, Which damps of eharnel vaults had bred Straight fell away to dust. His head became a naked skull, Nor haire nor eyne had hee ; His body grew a skeleton, Whilome so blythe of blee. 341 LENORA. And att his dry and boney heele No spur was left to be : And inn his witherde hand you might The scythe and hour-glass e see. And lo ! his steede did thin to smoke, And charnel fires outbreathe ; And paled, and bleach' d, then vanish'd quite, The mayde from underneathe. And hollow bowlings hung in aire, And shrieks from vaults arose, Then knew the mayde she might no more Her living eyes unclose. But onwarde to the judgment seat, Through myste and moonlight dreare : The gostlie crewe, their flyghte persewe, And hollowe inn her eare : — " Be patient, though thyne herte should breke, Arrayne not heavn's decree ; Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte, Thie soule forgiven bee !" — 842 Sis MaUt ffl!ta%t#m«ffl;. K$ few ^ ^,„ [This is a translation, toy Walter Scott, or, to use his own words ('Poetical Works,' yi., 307, ed. 1830), 'rather an imitation of the Wilde Jager of the German poet Burger. It was first published, under the name of ' The Chase,' in 1796, in a volume entitled ' The Chase, and William and Helen; Two Ballads, from the German of Gottfried Augustus Burger.' Edinburgh, 4to. 'William and Helen' was the name Mr. Scott gave to what Burger himself called 'Lenore.' 'The tradition upon which it is founded,' says Sir Walter, 'bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, named Faulken- burg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed' amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression upon the poor peasants, who were under his vassalage. When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a super- stition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still^heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds, and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sounds of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated, but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible.' This super- stition is not confined to Germany, as the reader will find by consulting the notes, p. 849.] HE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn ; To horse, to horse, halloo, halloo! His fiery courser snuffs the morn, And thronging serfs their Lord pursue. 843 THE WILD HUNTSMAN. The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash thro' the hush, the brier, the brake ; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallow'd day Had painted yonder spire with gold, And, calling sinful man to pray, * Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd. But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; Halloo, halloo ! and hark again ! When, spurring from opposing sides, Two stranger horsemen join the train. Who was each stranger, left and right, Well may I guess, hut dare not tell : The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell. The right-hand horseman, young and fair His smile was like the morn of May ; The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. He wav'd his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, " Welcome, welcome, noble Lord ! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase, afford ?" " Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," Cried the fair youth, with silver voice ;- " And for devotion's choral swell, Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise. To-day th' ill-omen'd chase forbear : Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; To-day the warning spirit hear, To-morrow thou may'st mourn in vain." " Away, and sweep the glades along !" The sable hunter hoarse replies ; " To muttering monks leave matin song, And bells, and books, and mysteries." The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, And, launching forward with a bound, 844 " Who for thy drowsy priestlike rede Would leave the jovial horn and hound 1 THE WILD HUNTSMAN. Hence, if our manly sport offend : With pious fools go chaunt and pray ; Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow' d friend, Halloo ! halloo ! and hark away t" The Wildgrave spurred his courser light, O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill, And on the left, and on the right, Each stranger horseman follow' d still. Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, A stag more white than mountain snow : And louder rung the Wildgrave' s horn, " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho !" A heedless wretch has cross'd the way,— He gasps the thundering hoofs below ; But, live who can, or die who may, Still forward, forward! On they go. See where yon simple fences meet, A field with autumn's blessings crown' d ; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, A husbandman with toil embrown'd. " O mercy ! mercy ! noble Lord ; Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry ; " Earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd In scorching hour of fierce July." Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey : The impetuous earl no warning heeds, But furious holds the onward way. " Away, thou hound, so basely born, Or dread the scourge's echoing blow !" Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho !" So said, so done— a single bound Clears the poor labourer's humble pale : Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, Like dark December's stormy gale. And man, and horse, and hound, and horn, Destructive sweep the field along ; While joying o'er the wasted corn, Fell Famine marks the madd'ning throng. 45 THE WILD HUNTSMAN. Again up roused, the timorous prey Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill Hard run, he feels his strength decay, And trusts for life his simple skill. Too dangerous solitude appear' d ; He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; Amid the flock's domestic herd His harmless head he hopes to shroud. O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, His track the steady blood -hounds trace ; O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, The furious Earl pursues the chase. Full lowly did the herdsman fall ; " O spare, thou noble Baron, spare These herds— a widow's little all ; These flocks — an orphan's fleecy care." Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey ; The Earl no prayer nor pity heeds, But furious keeps the onward way. ' Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits of thy sort Were tenants of these carrion kine !' Again he winds his bugle horn, * Hark forward, forward, holla, ho !' And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, He cheers his furious hounds to go. In heaps the throttled victims fall ; Down sinks their mangled herdsman near ; The murd'rous cries the stag appal, Again he starts, new-nerv'd by fear. With blood besmear' d, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks, amid the forest's gloom, The humble hermit's hallow'd bower. But man and horse, and horn and hound Fast rattling on his traces go ; The sacred chapel rung around With hark away, and holla, ho I THE WILD HUNTSMAN. All mild, amid the route profane, The holy hermit pour'd his prayer : ' Forhear with blood God's house to stain ; Revere his altar, and forbear ! ' The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wrong" d by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head : Be warn'd at length, and turn aside.' Still the fair horseman anxious pleads, The black, wild whooping, points the prey Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds, But fi antic keeps the forward way. ' Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar and its rights 1 spurn ; Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, Not God himself, shall make me turn.' He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, ' Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! ' But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne, The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. And horse and man, and horn and hound, And clamour of the chase was gone : For hoofs and howls, and bugle sound, A deadly silence reign'd alone. Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; He strove in vain to wake his horn, In vain to call ; for not a sound Could from his anxious lips be borne. He listens for his trusty hounds ; No distant baying reach' d his ears ; His courser, rooted to the ground, The quickening spur unmindful bears. Still dark and darker frown the shades, Dark as the darkness of the grave ; And not a sound the still invades, Save what a distant torrent gave. High o'er the sinner's humbled head At length the solemn silence broke ; And, from a cloud of swarthy red, The awful voice of thunder spoke. S47 THE WILD HUNTSMAN. ' Oppressor of creation fair ! Apostate spirit's harden'd tool! Scorner of God ! scourge of the poor ! The measure of -thy cup is full. Be chased for ever through the wood, For ever roam the affrighted wild ; And let thy fate instruct the proud, God's meanest creature is his child.' 'Twas hush'd : one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forests brown ; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone. Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill ; A rising wind began to sing ; And louder, louder, louder still, Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call — her entrails rend From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell. What ghastly huntsman next arose, Well may I guess, but dare not tell : His eye like midnight lightning glows, His steed the swarthy hue of hell. The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, With many a shriek of helpless woe ; Behind him hound, and horse, and horn, And hark away, and holla, ho ! With wild despair's reverted eye, Close, close behind, he marks the throng ; With bloody fangs, and eager cry, In frantic fear he scours along. Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, Till time itself shall have an end ; By day, they scour earth's cavern' d space, At midnight's witching hour, ascend. This is the horn, and hound, and horse, That oft the lated peasant hears : Appall' d, he signs the frequent cross, 1 When the wild din invades his ears. THE WILD HUNTSMAN. The wakeful priest oft drops a tear, For human pride, for human woe, When, at his midnight mass, he hears The infernal cry of holla, ho ! [' The French had a similar tradition* to that on -which the above ballad is founded, ' concern- ing an aerial hunter, who infests the Forest of Fontainbleau. He was sometimes visible, when he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure. Some account of him may be tbuud in ' Sully's Memoirs,' who says he was called Le Grand Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called Saint Hubert. The superstition seems to have been general, as appears from a fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Boss-shire, in a poem entitled * Albania,' reprinted in * Scottish Descriptive Poems,' pp. 167, 168. A posthumous miracle of Father Lesley, a Scottish capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his sainted relics had been deposited there, the noise was never heard more. The reader will find this, and other miracles, recorded in the life of Father Bonaventura, which is written in the choicest Italian. — Scott. In * this our England' the superstition is not unknown.' There is an old tale goes, that Heme the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, Doth all the winter time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragd horns; And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle ; And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain, Jn a most hideous and dreadful manner.' Shakespeare, Merry Wives of Windsor Ac Jf , Sc 4J 2 T 349 GLOSSARY. A, a,' all; at a, at all. An, whether. A dead of night, at dead of night. And ever, an' ever, if ever. &b\e,fit, suitable Ane, one. Ablins, perhaps. Aneath, beneath. Aboon, above. Anes, once. Abought, about. Anker, anchorite, hermit. Abiaide, abroad. Anone, anon, immediately. Abnne, above. Apele, apple. Abyde, abide, withstand Apon, upon. Acton, (Fr. Hocqueton,) a kind of body At, are, ere, before. armour. Archares, archers. Aocordyd, agreed. Arcir, archer. Adoun, down, at the bottom of. Aras, ^ Aros, r arrows. Arows, j Adue, adieu. Ae, a, an, one ; ae nicht, one night. A?, off. Aright, on the right hand. Afore, before. Arrayne, arraign. Aftui, by, on, upon. Asay, essayed, tried. Agayne, again, back again; 'that we Assay, essay, try. were again.' that we may go back A -sound, in a swoon. again. Athe i at *"*■ °f '* e ' °' ***' Athwarte, across. Agrevyd, agrieved. Attein, attain, reach. Aik, oak. Auld, old. Ain, own. Attnsetters, ancestors. Ainee, once. Aunters, adventures. Air, early ; late or air, late or early. Ausum, awsome, awful. Airt, direction; rade the airt, rode in AVa, at all. the direction. Awayte me scathe, lie in wait to harm Aith, oath. me. Aked, ached. Awet, await, wait to see. Al, all. A yen, again. Alane, alone. Ayont, beyond. Alang, along. Ayre, heir. Aleft, on the left hand. Alkone, each one, each. Bacheleere, knight. All hail, all whole, wholly, entirely. Baconie, balcony. Allone, all alone. Bacward, backward. Alse, else, otherwise. Bad, bade, ordered. Alytte, alighted, descended. Baird, beard. 851 GLOSSARY. - Bairn, bale. Belive, immediately. Baitb, both. Belles, bells. Bald, bold. Bale, mischief, misery. ig£ }*.*** Baleful, sorrowful. Ben, be, are. Balke, beam. Balys, see bale. Balys bete, better our HSU- »~<'> bales ; remedy our misfortunes. Bent, long coarse grass; hence, the place Band, bound. where it grows,fields. Band, 1 , , _ ,' £ bond, promise, covenant. Ber, bear, carry. Berdyes, birds. Bane, bone. Bere, bear. Banis, bane, destruction. Berne, youth. t> ' ( bare, carried, bore, thrust. Beryed, buried. Bescro, beshrew. Bar'd, debarred from. Besprent, besprinkled, sprinkled. Bargain, battle. Bestead, beset, put to it. Barne, man, person. Bestes, beasts. Banis, bars. Bestraught, distracted. Basen, basinet. Basnetea, see basnite. t» 4.' f toot, did beat. Basnite, basenet ; kind of helmet. Beth, both. Batayle, battle. Betide, fortune. Bathe, both. Better clieape, cheaper. Bauld. bold. Bewray, betray, discover. Bawks, cross-beams. Bewtie, beauty. Baylleful, baleful, hurtful. Bey, buy. Baylyes, bailiffs. Beyre, bear, carry. Be, been. Bickarte, coursed about. Be, by. Bide, endure. Bealed, sheltered. Bigg, build. Beames, instruments or machines sus- Bigged, built. pended from the mast, and precipi- Biggens, appears. tated upoji the enemy's ships, for the Bigly, large. purpose of sinking them. &}»«■ Bear, lamentation, moaning, crying. Bearyng arowe, an arrow that carries Bin, been. well; a birring or whizzin arrow. Birk, birch tree. Bedde, beds. Birken, birchen. Bedeaft, deafened. Birnist, burnished. Bedeene, immediately. Blae, blue. Bedene, behind. Blane, ) (did Win) stopt, tarried, Blanne, ) gered. lin* Bedesman, one who tells his beads ; a priest. Blason, emblazoning. Bedight, bedeckt, adorned. Blate, sheepish, foolish. Bedyls, beadles. Blaw, blow, bloom. Bedyng, bidding. Blede, bleed. Beeres, }*"•.«««. Blee, complexion, colour. Bleid, bleed. Beette, did beat. Bleise, blaze. Beforne, before, in front of. Bleising, blazing. Begeck, trick. Blese, blaze. Begond, begun. Blew, blue. Begyled, beguiled, cheated. Blink, glimpse of light. Beheard, heard. Blinkand, blinking. Behote, promised. Blinked, extinguished, took away. Beir, bear, carry. Blinn, cease, give over. Bele-fire, born-fire. Bloschems, blossoms. 852 GLOSSARY. Blowen, blown. Braw, brave. Blnde, blood. Brayd, broad. Bhuer, dirty. Bread, breadth. Bljtlie, sprightly, joyous; Wythe of blee, Breck, break. of cheerful countenance. Bred, broad. Blyve, see belive. Breere, briar. Bob. bow. Breist, breast. Booking, flowing, running. Bren, barne, child, man. Bode, bidden. Breng, bring. Bokeler, buckler. Brenn, > , Brenn^J 6 "™- Boltys, bolts. Bomen, bow-men. Brent, flame. Bond, bound., beholden. »}•— ■ Bonnye, handsome. j, - ' f help, assistance, advantage. Brere, briar, bush. Brest, burst, brake. Bow-head, head of the board, head of Breyde, start ; quick, hasty step. the table. Brie, brow. Boide, board. Briddis, birds. Borit, bore. Brigue, bridge. Borowe, redeem, rescue, deliver. Brim, fierce. Borowes, sureties. Broche, sett a, broached. Bosked, busked ; which see. Brocht, brought. Bot, but, without ; bot doubt, without Brode, broad. doubt. Brodinge, pricking. Bot and, together with. Bote, boot, use, advantage. B mid' I brand, weapon, sword. Bottys, butts; which see. Browd, broad. Bou, bow. .ai 1 ^ Bougill, bugle. Bougies, bugles. Browiu, brewed. Boun, bound for. Browthe, brought. Bound, bounded, scampered away. Biuik,'brook. Bound, made ready, prepared. Bruiks, brooks, admits of, allows of. Bour, bower. Brust, burst, broke. Boustouslie, blusteringly. Brynie, cuirass. Bow, bough. Bowen, ready. Bry^nfe,}'""'*^ ofthe S ame - Bowes, bows. Burd, bird. Bowne, bound for, going to. Buske, prepare, make ready. Bowne, got ready. Buske ye, dress ye. Bowne, boon, request, favour. Buske and boune, make ready and go. Bonynd, prepared. Busshement, ambush. Bowndes, bounds. But, except, without, than, unless. Borowehode, security. But, butt, a mark to shoot at. Bowys, bows. Boyt, both. But™'} vn!ess - Bra', brave, fine. buttes, bulls, to shoot at. Blade, broad. By, buy, purchase. Biaded, thrust, rushed. By cause, because. Brades, thrusts, ruslies. Byde, bide, abide, remain, waitfoi Braids, strides forward quickly. Bydene, seeBedene. Braive, brave, dare, defy. Bydys, bides, abides, remains. Braken, fern. Bye, buy, purchase. Brand, sword. Byears, biers. Braudes, swords. By 11, bill, kind of battle-axe. Brash, sickness. Byn, been. Brast, burst. Bysshop, bishop. 853 GLOSSARY Byste, beest. Bystode, bestood, put to it. C, hundred. Ca', call. Caerle], Carlisle. Can, kens, knows. Can, 'gan, began. Cane, can, began. Cankardly, in an ill tempered manner. Canny, cunning. Capull hyde, horse-hide. Canst, Int owe st. Care-bed, bed of care. Carol, carle, churl, old fellow. Carlish, churlish, clownish. Carpe off care, complain of care, sorrow. Casey, causeway. Cast, mean, intend. Cative, caitiff, base fellow. Cauld, cold. Cauldrif, Canler, cool. Caward, awkward ; backward. Cawte, cautious. Cerstyn, Christian. Chaffar, hire. Chalmer, chamber. Chap, knock. Cbast, chastity. Chays, chase, hunting-ground Chefe, f Chcffe, > chief, chieftain. Cheften, J Chepe, cheapen, buy, purchase. Chere, \ cheer - Cherytye, charity. Cheys, choose. Cluld, knight ; " Child Harold." Children, knights. Cluven, blockhead. Chiver'd, quivered. ' Chirche, church. Choppe, exchange, barter Choukit, choked. Chyfe, chief. Cla'd, clawed, scratched. Claise, clothes. Claucht, clutched, grasped. Cled, clad, clothed. Cleffe, cleave, remain. Clem'd, starved) brought to a dying state. Cliding, clothing. Clerke, scliolar. Cloce, close. Clock, cloak. 854 Clotis, clots. Clouted, patched. Cliirlis, clouds. Coft, bought. Cok, cock. Com, ) Comen, > come. Comit, } Commytted, accounted. Comyn, come, coming. Comyn, common. Conquess, conquer, take possession of. Conseyence, consciences Contrair, against. Contre, country, neigbourhood. Coost, cast. Coresed, caparisoned. Corse, curse. Corsiare, courser, steed. Cortessey, ~) Corteys, > courteous. Cortys, J Co9b, hushed, silent. Cote, coat, armour. Coud, could. Conncelletb, counseleth, adviseth, Counceyle, counsel. Counsel, secret. Count, number. Countraye, country. Cour'd, recovered. Courteys, courteous. Couryng, cowerini/s. Couth, J Cowde, > could. Cowthe, 3 Cowed, could, knew. Crack, boast. Craws, crows. Crean'd, shrunk, diminished. Creves, crevice. Cristiante, Ohristendomm Croke, croak. Cronykle, chronicle. Crouse, briskly. Crowen, crows. Cruue, to bellow, roar. Cryance, fear. Cryd, cried, exclaimed. Cum, come. dimly, comely. Cnntre, country. Cum, hand-mill. Curtes, courteous Daes, does, female deer. Bam, dame. Dampned, condemned. GLOSSARY. Dar, dare. Dose, does. Darnit, crossed, traversed. Doucht, could, was able. Dan'd, darred, hit. Darre, door. Douffe, dull, flat, gloomy. Doun, down. Dart, hit. Dout, doubt. Day-prime, day-break. Dow, do, doth. Daw, dawn. Dow, can, be able. Dean, wood, forest. Deathes, death's. Dowghtye, doughty, formidable. Dowy, doleful. Ded, ) dead, Dowyn,down. Dede, Skilled. Doyn, done. Dede, deed. Doyt, doth, do. Dee, die. Drap, drop. Deep-fette, deep/etched, deep-drawn. Deere, dear. Draping, drooping, dropping. Dred, dreaded, feared. Deer-hair, coarse painted grass. Drede, 1 dread. Dreid, )_/«<»•. Deft, clever, skilful. Deid, deed. Dreips, o!™/>s, tfY«/>s. Deid, dead. Dreir, dreary. Deide, death. Dreyffe, drive. Deidis, deeds. Driche, dreadful, sad; tedious. Deil, devil. Droffe, drove. Deimd, doomed, judged. Drow, drew. Deir, dear, dearly. Drie, 1 bear, Drye, ) suffer, endure. Dele, deal, much. Dele, deal, behave, act. Dryfyng, driving. Denay, deny, refuse. Dwelle, tarry, delay. Depart, departure. Dale, dole, grief. Depe, deep. Dum, dumb. Dere, \ deer - Dung, beaten, overcome. Durk, dagger. Dere, dear; full dere, very dearly, at Duzty, doughty. great cost. D wnlling, dwelling ; dwalling-s eaJ, Dere, harm, hurt. dwelling-house, homestead. Derked, darkened. Dy, die. Descreeve, describe, tell. Deth, t, ., Dethe, \ death *fi \ did. Dyde, J Dyete, diet. Deyell, devil. Dyglit, ready. Deyne, dine. Dyne, dine. Deyned, dined. Dynere, dinner. Deythe, right, prepared. Dysgrate, degraded, decayed in for. Did of, doffed. tune. Dight, deckt, drest, put on. Dysherytye, disinherited, dispossessed Dill, dole, pain, grief. Dine, dinner. Eard, earth. Ding, knock down, beat, vpsei. Earn, to curdle, make cheese. Dinne, din, noise. Eche, each, every. Dint, indent, impress. Ee, eye. Dint, blows. Ee-bree, eye-broux Do, done. Een, j E'enin,}"™""*- D ichter, daughter. D je, rfo. Eer, ever. Doff, take off. Eere, ears. Dole, jrrie/; Eerysome, dark. Donne, dun, of a dun colour. Effen, pour forth. Dooms, luck, fate. Eie, eye. ' Dore, door. Eild, oW, a'/e>. 856 GLOSSARY. til), e'en, even; ein thoucht, even though. Fach, fetch. Ein wae worth ze, misfortune light on Foe, foe. you. Faem,foam. Eir, e'er, before. Fail, doubt ; but fail, without doubt. Fir, ever. Fame, fain, glad. Eiry, frightened. Faing, falling. Eithly, easily. Fair, manner, ado. Effray,/ear, terror. Fal, fall. Eke, also. Fall, fallen. El, an elf, a spirit, an angel, an intel- Falsing, acting falsely, lying. ligence. Fand, found. Elles, ") Fang, take, accept E1Us ' {-else Ells, f etse - Fax, fared, got on. Fare, reckoning. Els, ) Fare, go, pass. Elfin, } a My Fare, manner; felon fare, in a felonious manner. Eliic, wild, hideous, ghastly, lonesome. Farley, fairly, wondrously. Erne, uncle, kinsman. Fast, bound fast. Emprize, undertaking. Faucht, ) „ , . Faught, \fi9 hU Emys, erne's, kinsman's En, on. Faut, fault. Ender, under. Fawkon, falcon. Endlong, along, up and down by. Fay, faith. Englysh-wode, see Tntrod. Notice to ' Adam Bell,' &c. Fayne, ( fain, fond, glad. Enshone, showed. . Fayned, feigned, false . Ensue, follow. Fayrere, fairer. Ere, ear, inherit. Fe,fee, reward, bribe. Fee, the tenure of Erlys, earl's. lands and tenements, and, metaphori- ' Ese, ease. cally, the lands and tenements them- E st, east. selves. Ete, ate, did eat. Feardest, most frightened. Ethar, either, each Fearia, fears; it feaiis me, I am afraid. Ether, either. Featour, a skilful fellow. Ettled, aimed. Feee,face. Ettling, aim, object, purpose. Feche, fetch. Euylle, evil, bad. Fecht,fight. Evell, evil; evell to thryve, to thrive ill, Feelde, field. to meet with misfortune. Feere, see Fere. Evel mote she speede, may ill-luck Feii, feud. attend her. Feignand, feigning, pretending to be. Ever wo may thou be, mayst thou ever Feir, fear. be woful, unfortunate. Feir, ) companion, Everichone, everyone. Feirs, J companions. Ewe, yew. Feite, feet. Eyne,' } «- Feith, ) .. ... Feithe, V mth - Eydent, diligent, busy. Filawe, fellow. Eylde, yield. Felon fare, fierce countenance or man* Eylle, evil, harm. ner. Eyr, year. Fend, support. Eyre, heir. Fiel, many. Eyther, either, each. FMe,feld. Felischepe, fellowship, friendship. Fa', fall. Fell, fierce. Fa, take, get, acquire, procure, have for Fell, many. one's lot. Felle, fell befell, happened. Sdu GLOSSARY. Felone, felon; qu., Jill one Felos, > fellows, Felowes, J companions. s i ■*<"•• Fere, companion; wedded fere, wife. Fered, J / eare< *» • from. Froo, j Frost, mischance, disaster. Fryndes, friends. Frjstjflrst. Full wo, woeJ'ull,Jull of woe. Faztf.,first, Fjei,fire. Fy\ie,fleld. Fyjxie,find. Fynly, goodly Ga, gave, go. Gae, go. Ga;d, went, (did go). Gaf, gave. Gaff a, sort of horse laugh. Gainstand, withstand, oppose. Gait, gate. Gale, gaol, prison. Galliard, a dance of a sprightly kino. Gallons, ) „ Galowes, \ ^ /o4ci - G an, began ; 'gan flye, began to fly. Game, gone. Gauge, } SO, walk. Ganyde, gained. S57 GLOSSARY. Gar, ) make, cause one to do any- Garre, ) thing. ^ a 'j' {made, caused. Garde, J ' Garris, gars, makes. Gart, made, caused. Gate, way, pass, path, journey. Gaung, go. Gear, goods, effects. Ged, went. Geffe, give. Gentlesse, gentleness, kindness. Ger, gear. Gereamarsey, see Gramarcy. Getes, gettest, hast. Getting, what was gotten, plunder, booty. Geven, given. Geven him there to dyne, brought him dinner there. Gi, give. Gied, gived, gave, Giff - i if. Giffe, J %Jm Gifted, given away. Gilloie, in plenty. Gin, the trick of opening tlie door ; if. Glamour, glimmering ; magical delusion. Glave, sword. Glede, red hot coal. Gledging, shining brightly. Glent, gleamed. Glent, glided. Glie, glee. Glisterand, glittering. Glour, stare, frown. Glumlie, gloomily. God, good. Godamarcey, God have mercy ; God be tlianked. Godef l 9 ° 0d! 9 °° dS - Gods-pennie, earnest-money (denier a Dieu.) Gowk, cuckoo. Goggling eyen, goggle eyes. Go, ) Gon, j S° ne - Golett, gullet, part going round the neck. Goo, 170. Gorgett, neck dress, Gorney, journey. Gos, I Gose.J 9»^, runs. Goud, gold. Goune, gown. Gowd, gold, golden. 858 Goy,joy. Gramarcy, ) (Fr Grandmercie,') many Grameroy, J thanks. Graith, ornament, girth, saddle ; make ready. Graithed, caparisoned. Grat, great. Grea-nono.es, grayhounds. Gree, satisfaction ; victory, prize. Greece, fat; a hart of greece, a fat hart. Greet, 1 Gresse, grazing. Gret, greeted. G^} #-. Greves, groves, bushes, Grevyd, grieved. Grewsome. \ -9ly, terrible. Grie, feared; and see gree. Grip, gripe, hold. Gripped, grasped, laid hold of. Grit, great. Grithe, grace, protection. Grome, a common man I G?owynde, } «~* Grae, sad, wo-begone. Grype, griffin, see note to ' Sir Alain- gar.' Sft } ** Guest, gest, deed, adventure. Gyde, guide, conduct, manage. Gyve, give. a', j hall, had. Ha, Ha', Hade, ) Hae, $ Haet, hath, has. Haff, } Haffe, > have. Haif, > Hald, hold. Haldis, lwlds, doth hold. Halds, holds, holding-places, supports. Halesome, wholesome, healthy. Halfendell, hay. Halke, low ground by a river side. Hals, neck. Haly, holy. Halyde. drew. Hambillet, ambles, Hame, home. Han, had. GLOSSARY. 1— i Hangit, hung, did hang. Hent, held, laid hold of, received. j Hansel], the seller of any wares is said Her, here. to receive hansel of his first cus- Her, their. tomer. Herd, shepherd, cowherd. Hantyd, haunted. Herd, 1 , . Herde, \ fte heart, hearts. Harowed, robbed, plundered, worried. Hertes, } " The Harrowing of Hell " is the title Hest, command. of one of the old " Mysteries." Hest, hast. Hart, heart. Het, eat. Hartely, heartily. Het, it. Hartt, heart. Hete, heat. Haryed, harried, harassed; see ha Hether, hither. ' rowed. Ease, has. Hevin, ) , HeyjB,l heaven - Hasell, hazel. Heygh, high. Hast, haste. Heynd, gentle, kind, obliging Hand, hold. Heyre, heir, heiress. Haue, have. Heyt, it. Hauld, hold ; draw to a hanld, stop. Hiche, high. Hautie, haughty. Hiest, highest, utmost. Hawt, aught, anything. Hight, name, call; named, called; engage, Hay, hie, hasten. engaged, promise, promised. Haye, hay. Hing, hang. Hayl, hail ' welcome ! Hings, hangs. llaylle, beautiful, fair. Hinny, honey ; sweet. Hayt, hath Hip, berry. He, high Hir, her. Heawyng, hewing, hading. Hit, it. Heal, conceal; hail. Ho, who. Heartis, heart's. Hode, hood. Hecht, promised Hogge, hog. Hed, } , , neie,\ head Hoi, whole, safe. Holde, tarry. Hede, heed. Hollin, holly-tree. Hedid, hooded. Hee, he Holtes, proves, woods, hills. Hee, high ; loud Holy, wholly, entirely. Heght, hi glil ; promised. Horn, home. Heidles, heedless, heaaslri nj. Honde, lw.net. Heigh, high. Hondert, 1 , , , Hondrith, J *"«*"*■ Heir, here Heir, hear Honge, hang. Heird, heard. Hongat, hanged. Hele, health. Hos, us. Helmes, helmets. Hotys, oats. Helps, benefits, advantages. Hount, hunt. Hem, them. Houre, hour. Hen, it. Houzle, to administer tin sacrament. K ft 1 *""'> J*""* ' civil, eoi rteous. Hoved, hovered. How, hill. Henge, hang. Hows, house. i H-yj GLOSSARY. out. Howt, > Howte, J Hugye, huge IIus, vs. Husbande, j husbandman, husbandmen; Husbouds, J farmer, farmers, Hye, } Aie * hasten - Hy'd, Ated, hastened. Hye, /» ril, 1 will. Ilka, -) like, ( , Ilkon, >™a> <™r,j Ilkone,3 111 to ken, difficult to recoqnuc Ime, / am Immert, emmet, ant In -fere C ™ com P an U> together 1 nocked, inlaid. Inow, enough. Intill, within. Ipyght, pitclied, set up I'se, I will Isette, set, set down Islayne, slain Itber, other Ive, I've, I have. Japes, jests; do way thy japes, have done with jests. Jear, jeer, jest Jimp, slender Jupe, upper garment, petticoat. Juste, joust, Kaims, combs. Kameing, combing. Keip, keep. Keipt, kept, remained. Sol) Kell, shroud. Kemperye man, fighting man, soldier, warrior. Kempes, soldiers. Ken, know. Kend, known. Kend, knowing, clever. Kene, keen, sharp. Kent, knew. Kepe, guard, take care Sf. Kercher, kerchief. Kipples, couples; beams joined at top to support a roof. Kirk, church- Kithe, acquaintance, KnieJ*" ee " Knelyd, kneeled. Knock, hillock, Kod, quoth. Kylle, kill. Kyngus, king's. Kyik, kirk, church. Kyrtle, petticoat, gown* Kyth, become known. Ladde, lad. Laidly, loathsome Laigh, low Lain, alone. Laist, least, lest Lang, long- Langer, longer Lap, leapt Lat, let, allow. Late, see Air. Late, let, hinder. Late, leave, leave off. Lauchit, laughed. Launde, lawn, green sward- Launsgay, kind of lance Laup, leaped. Law, low, below. Lawhyng, laughing- Layden, laid. Lay-laud, unploughed land Laye, law. Lay^'e, ( laid > WW Layne, lie, speak falsely. Lease', | W^g, speaking falsely Leal, loyal, true, faithful. Leanyde, leaned. Lede, lead, carry. Lede, led, borne, earned Lee, lie, speak falsely. Lee, fallow. GLOSSARY. Leeche,( dorfor, ^ A 2' sicion - List, listen, please. Lithe, attend, liear, hearken. Leechinge, doctoring, physicking. Lither, froward, worthless, idle. Leffe, leave, left. Litulle, little. Leel, loyal, honest, true. Liveray, delivery. SSwl*^- Lizt, light, merry. Loed, loved. Lefe, lovely, dear, pleasing. Loffe, love. Leffe, left. Logeed, lodged. Leffe, leave, farewell. Logeyry, lodging, quarters. Lege, liege. Loke, look, see. Leid, lied, spake falsely . Loked, looked. Leider, leader. Loketh, look. Leif, /eo/. Lokkis, locks. Lemman, lover, mistress. Longe, along of, because of; ' longe of Len, Aide, conceal. the,' your fault. l1£,H- 'Longes, belongs. Longut, longed, desired. Lende, meet. Loone, loon, rascal. Lenger, longer. Looset, loosened, set free. Lepe, /top. Loot, let. Lere, learn. Lope, leaped. Lere, look, face, countenance, cheek. Lordeyne, lordling, master. Lese, /ost'. Losel, a loose worthless fellow* Lesynge, see Leace. Lough, laugh. Let, hinder. Louped, lept. Lete, /i-;, allowed. Louid, lever, rather. Lethal, deadly. Loused, loosed. Lett, delayed. Lout, bow, stoop. Lett, stop. Louted, bowed. Lettest, delay est. Louys, loves. Lettetli, hinderelh, preventeth. Lettyng, hinderance, interruption. Lowe, } a lUtle hilU Leudly, loudly. Lown, knave, villain, rascal. Leugh, laughed. Lowns, blazes. Leve, leave, permission. Lowsed, loosed, let loose. Leve, leave, lay aside. Lowyst, lowest. Leve, 6e fe/2, tarry, remain. Luf, love. Leve, Zire. Lug, ear. Lever, rather. Luik, look. Leves, 1 , T ' > leaves. Levys, J Lukd, looked. Lum, chimney. Ley, fee ; which see. Lust, desire, wish. Lewte, loyalty, faith. Luve, love. Libbard, leopard. Ly, lie, lie down, rest. Licht, alight. Ly elite, light. Lichtly, lightly, nimbly. Lyed, gave the lie to, contradicted Lift, sky. Lyffe, life ; lyffe days, living days, days Lig, lie. of life. Liggan, lying. Lyfte, lifted. Liggs, lies, is situate. Lyght, see Lychte. Light, alight. Lyghtly, lightly, quietly. E&j **«■*«*«'* Lyghtly, cheerfully, gladly. Lyketh, liketh, pleaseth. Lightsome, cheerful, sprightly. Lynde, see Linde. Likes, bodies. Lyne, the lime, or linden tree. Lilide, the lime tree, trees in general. Lynage, lineage. Linkie, links, torches. Lytb, attend, hear, hearken. 861 GLOSSARY. fSI^ Mell, mix, mingle. Mends, amends, recompense. Lythlye, easily, gently. Mense, measure. Lyre, live. Meny, Mary ; and see Meiny. Menzie, retinue, company. Maik, wnfe, componton, wife Merch, march. Mair, > ,, Maire, ]more, rather. Mervayle, marvel. Messes, masses. Maist, mayest. Moist, most; maist ova, most of all. Mae,\ measured - Mait, may. Met, might. Make, et/MaJ, Mfte. Mete, meet with. Makes, see Maik. Mete, meat, victuals. Male, coai! of mail. Meyny, see Meiny. Mane, man. Meyt, might, could. Maney, attendants, retinue, tram. Meythe, might, power. Mane, moan. Mi, my. Manere, manner Micht, might. Manhead, manhood. Micht, was able (to do, or say.) Mani, many. Mickle, much, great, strong. Manis, > , MannesJ""™ 8 ' Mids, midst. Minged, mentioned, named. Marche-man, an inhabitant of the Mint, aim at. marslies. Mint, make faces at, stare at. Mare, more. Minted, attempted, meant, minded. Marke, marks, (coins.) Mirk, dark, black. Marrow, equal. Mime, merry. Masterye, trial of skill. Mister, need, necessity, occasion. Mat, might. Mither, mother. Mauger (Fr. maugre,) ire spite of. &J~- Maun, must. Mavis, thrush. Moche, much. m!?,} maid - Mode ( mood, manner, way. Modnr, mother. Mayre, mayor. Moil, qu. turmoil f trouble. Maystry, trial of skill. Mold, earth Mazer-dish, a maple drinking cup Mone, moon. Me longeth, I long Mone, moan, moaning, grieving. Meal, oatmeal. Moneth, month. Meal-poke, meal-bag Monnyn day, Monday. Meany, see Meiny. Mony, many. Meare, mare. Mores, Moor's. Mearveile, marvel. Mornynge, mourning, bewailing. Mease, soften, mitigate. Mort, death of the deer ; blast of the horn Mede — to quyte hym will his mede, to to announce its death. reward him to some purpose. 'Most, almost. Medys, midst. Mot, ") . , , , . ^,tie,\ reward ' deserL Mote l ma y> might; 'mot I the, Mought, } may I thrive, prosper. Meed, mood, manners. Mountenance, amount, duration. Meid, see Meed. Mowe, may, might. Mcin, mean, intend. Muckil, much. Meikle, much, great. Mude, mood. Meiny, company, retinue, train. Mun, must. Meit, meal, table. Munke, monk. Meit, meet, proper. Munt, mount. Meit, meet, assemble. Muntyd, mounted. Meke, meek. Muve, move, excite. 862 GLOSSARY. Noise, Norway. Muvit, moved. Norwart, northward. Myche, much. Nought, not ; not at all- Myd, middle ; ' myd of the day,' mid day. Nourice, nurse. Myght, might, power, help. Nouther, f Myldf' } ""?%' stron S' powerful. Nouthir, > neither. Nowther, ) Myld, mild, meek. Nunry, nunnery. Myllan, Milan steel. Mylner's, miller's. Nvp i n ^S^> near, close. Mynde, mind, memory. Nyest, nighest. Myne-ye-ple, many plaits or folds ? an Nyghe, nigh, near ; ' nyghe hym by,' epithet of a shield. close by him. Myrthes, mirth, merriment; a man that Nyne, nine. myrthes can, a man that can make Nyzt, night. mirth. Mysse, miss, fail. 0,o/. Obraid, upbraid. Si.}-- Oe, an island of the second magnitude ; one of the first being called a land; Nae-gate, no-wise, by no means. of the third, a holm. Natgs,C" ffl? ' yo " 3 ' ; na9$ ' P° nies - Of, off. Off, of. Nane, none, nobody. Okerer, usurer. Nappy, strong. On, put on ; dyd on, did put on. j.* 1 ' > nor, than. On, one ; on case, one thing. On live, alive. Ne, nor, not. On-slepe, asleep. Near near, very near. One, on. Nede, need. Ones, once. Nede, need, necessity. Onfere, in company, togetner. Nee, nigh, come nigh, approach. Ony, any. Neicherit, neared, got nearer. Onys, once. Neid, need. Op, up. Neigh him neare, J acft ^ him _ Neigh him nye, J rr Or, before ; or thou go, before thougoest. Ore, o'er, over. Neigh, eome near. Os, us. Neir, never. Ost, > , . Otto, J* 8 * Neist, next. Noke, neck. Ouer, over. Ner, near; ner ney, at all near. Owres, hours. Ner, were it not. Onther, either. Nere, near; nearer. Out-home, a horn blown to call out Nere, never. soldiers, or others, to arms. Nethe, beneath, underneath. Outmet, measured out. Newe, now. Oware off none, hour of noon. Ney, see Ner. Owerword, last word, burden of a song. Nicht, night. Owr, our. Nicked him if nay, nicked him with no. Owr, over; out owr, all over, through- Nightis, nights. out. Nip, pinch. Owsen, oxen. Nobellyes, nobles, a coin — value 6s. 8d. SwkH Nodur^ofAer. Nombles, entrails; the parts usually Owtlay, outlaw. baked in a pie. Non, none, not one. None, noon. p ..' > cloak, or mantle of state. Norlan, northern. Pallace, palace. 863 GLOSSARY. Pang, to fill, stuff. Proudli, proudly. Parde, verily, (par dieu). Prove, proof. Parti, part ; uppon a parti, apart, at one Prycke, a mark to shoot at. side. Pryce, prize. Pastes, pasties, patties. Pryme, day-break. Paughty, saucy, insolent. Puding- pricks, skewers to fasten pud- Pavag, ltoll paid for passing over the Pawage, $ land of another. ding-bags. Pair, poor. Pavyleon, pavilion, tent. Puirly, poorly, softly. Paynim, pagan. Pygtat, pitched. Payre, pair. Pyte, pity. Pearily, peeringly, inquisitively. Peere, peer, equal, match, Qua t, quitted, left, let go. Peirles, peerless. Queue, queen. Peirs, peers, appears. Queyuer, quiver. Pens, pence. Quest, inquest. Peny, penny. Queyt, requite. Perelous, perilous, fearful. Quha, wha, who. Perced, pierced. Quhair, where. Perte, part, side. Quhat, what. Pertyd, parted, divided. Quhen, when. Pese, peace. Qnhilk, which. Pestilett, pistol. Quhill, while, until. Petye, pity. Quhite, white. Peyses, pieces. Quhy, why. Peysse, peace. Quo, quoth. Pitt&,pity. Quyny, quarry, slaughtered game. Plaint, complaint. Quyt, quit, requited. Vies, place. Quyte, requite. Plate-jack, coat-armour. Playand, playing. Rati, afraid. ¥lee,plea, amends. Bade, rode. Plett, platted. Eaide, early. Plooky, pimpled. Raine, reign. Ploy, play, game. Silked, walked guickly. Poke, bag. Eape, rope. Polle, pull, cut down, lop. Baught, readied, laid hold of. Pondes, pounds. Rave, tore. Pottys, pots. Bay, battle-array. Pouir, power. Raw, row. Pow, poll, head. Reachless, reckless, careless. Praye, prey, booty. Beade, advice. Preaste, priest. Beane, rain. Prece, press, throng. Beas, raise, rouse. Preced, pressed, thronged. Beaste, rest, quiet. Prees, price, estimation. Reave, bereave, deprive Prese, press, company. Reaving, robbing, plundering. Preson, prison ; brokyn preson, broken Recht, reached. out of prison. Beck, hand-basket. Prestlye, quickly, readily, already. Beculd, retreated. Pricked, spurred {his horse,') rode Beeken, reckon. quickly. Bed, rid, clear. Pris, prize. Bed, advice, advise. Priue, privy ; priue seelle, privy seal. Bed, read. Prive, prove. Bedd, red. Proldej^ Redd, see Rede. Bede, read; imagine, think ; advice, ad- ' Propine, earnest of intention, pledge, gift. vise. 864 GLOSSARY. Bede, aware. Byght, right, direct. Beden, rode. Byghtuys, righteous, just. Bedy, ready. Bygzt, right, very. Beeke, smoke. Bynde, torn to pieces. Eeft, bereft, deprived. Byse, rouse. Beide, red. Bekeless, reckless, regardless, rash. Sae, so. Benisht, glittering. Saffe, save. Benne, run. Saft, soft, pleasant, lovely. Benyies, reins of a bridle. Saif, safe. Berd, roar, rush t Saim, same. Bescous, rescue. Sair, sore. Beve, steal. Sairly, sorely. Bevers, rovers, robbers; pirates. Sail, shall. Bevere, river. Salved, saluted. Beves, bailiffs, stewards, Sang, song, idle tale. Bew, pity. Sare, sore. Bew ) Sarke, shirt. Sary, sorry. Bewarde, rewarded. Saue, safe. Bewtb, l™*-. Eewyth,^- Saugh, saw. Saul, soul. Bicht, right, privilege. Saulted, assaulted. Bidde, ridden. Saut, salt. Bidynge, riding. Sauyour, Saviour. Bight, just; right-now, just-now, even- Sawman, spokesman. now. Say, saw. Ein > I «™ Binne, i ran - Sayne, said. Saytced, blessed. Binnes, runs, Scant, scarcely. Bipe, clean out. Scapyd, escaped. Bobbyt, robbed. Scath, injury, harm. Boddes, rods. .Schapped, swapped t Bode, road, way. Schereff, sheriff. Bofe, roof. Scbetyng, shooting. Boke, rook. Scho, she. Borne, room. Schomer, summer. Boo, roe Schoote, shot, let go. Boode, rood, cross ; holy rood, cross of Schowte, shout. Christ. Sclo, slay. Bop, rope. Scoper, supper. Boun, round. Scraiclis, screeches, screams. B.ouai'ije, fast, at a good round pace. Scraighs, screams, screeclies. Boute, rabble, company. Screfe, ") Bow, roll. Screffe, > sheriff, sheriffs. Bowght, rout. Screffeys, ) Rowynde, round. Scrog bush, scraggy-bush} Bud, redness, ruddiness, bloom. Se, see, saw, seen. Rude, rood, cross. Se, ? Sea,r°- Budds, makes ruddy, reddens. Eugg, rugged, rough. Seche, such. Bngged, torn, pulled violently. Securly, surely, certainly. Bulde, ruled, reigned over. See, sea. Rule, rough sport. Seel, seal, signet. ■ Bung, staff. Seely, silly. Buthe, pity, compassion. Ryall, royal. seem, / a pp earancet bearing Rydere, rider, ranger. Seid, said. 865 3 K GLOSSARY. Seimly, seemly, proper. Sein, seen. Selcouth, uncouth, strange, Selerer, cellarer, butler. Sel, self. Semblaimse, semblance, appearance, countenance. Semblyd, assembled. Semelie, ) , Semely, '\* e ™k' Sen, since, Sene, see, seen. Sent, saint* Sertanly, } . . 7 Sert e ^y,l certamh J- Serten, certain ; in serten, in truth. Seruyd, served. Set, bent upon, determined. Sete, set, style. Sets, suits, becomes. Setten, sat, been sitting. Sew, sow. Sey, say. Sey, essay, strive. Seyd, said. Seydys, sides. Seyng, seeing. Seynt, saint. Seyt, sight. Shaw'd, showed. Shaws C sma " ar *d wods. Shear, sheer, entirely ; sydis shear, on all sides. Sheene, shining, bright, Shefe, slieaves. Shoklis, shackles. Shende, hurt, annoy, Shent, disgraced. Sherpe, sharp. Shet, shot. Shete, slwot. Shetes, shootest. Shetes, sheets. Sheyne, see Sheene. Shimmering, shining by glances. Sbind, shone. Sholde, should. Shone, } shoes ; hose and shone, stock- Shoon, S ings and slioes. Shope, shaped,formed. Shote, shoot. Shot-wyndow, a small window or loop- hole, from which to shoot without being seen ? Shomr, shower. Shradds, shrubs, coppices. Shroggs, shrubs. 866 Shuld, should. Shuldis, slwuldst. Shuteth, shootcth. Shyars, shires, counties. Shynand, shining. Shyrife, sheriff. Sic, such. Sich, sigh. Sicht, sight. Sied, saw, did see. Silk, such. Siller, silver. Sin, since. Sindle, seldom. Sine, afterwards. Sith, since. Skaith, harm, hurt; feared forits skaith, for the harm it might rfo I linn. Skalit, scaled, flew over. Skomfit, discomfited, routed, Skottyssh, Scottish. Skrieh, peep, dawn. Skugg, shade. Slade, a breadth of greensward between plough-lands or woods. — Percy. Slaited, accustomed to a place. Slean, slain. Sleuth, sloth. Sledde, sledge. Sleive, sleeve. Sleip, sleep, die. Slike, such. Slode, slit, split. Sloe, slay. Slon ' Klain Slone, S stam - Sloughe, slew. Sma, 1 Sma', > small. Smale, ) Smithers, smothers. Smot, smote, struck. Smyth, smith. Snae, snow. Snawy, snowy, snow-white. Socht, sought. Sojournyng, sojourning, tarrying ; ' shall be at onr sojournying,' shall wait for us. Sold, should. Soil, soul. Som, some. Somer, summer. Somers, sumpter-horses. Son, sun. Sondry, sundry, Sone, soon. Songe, song. GLOSSARY. Sonnes, sons. Stour, J Soo, so. Sothe, sooth, truth , for sotlie, in truth. StOY/er,\ disturbance ' »»#**> J^**- Soudion, southron. Stowre, J Sotisit, soused. Stown, stolen. Southron, southern. Strade, strode, (did stride.) Sowles, souls. Strae, straw. Sowne, sound. Straiht,_ strait. Soyt, sooth. Strake, struck. Sparred, fastened. Straught, ) , trctched Strecht, J sketched. Spear, ask, inquire. Spede, speed, fare. Streght, straight. Speere, the hole in a door or window by Streim, stream. which it was speered, i.e., fastened. Streitly, straightly, immediately. Speik, speak. Strekene, stricken. Speir, spear. Strenthy, strong. Speir, ask. Strete, street. Speire, question. Streyght, strait. Speke, speak. Strunge, strung, stringed. Spendyd, spanned ? grasped. Stude, stood; withstood, endured. Spercles, sparkles. Styll, still, quiet; quietly. Spere, spear. Styntyde, stinted, stopt. Sperthe, battle-axe.. Styrande, stirring, rousing. Spille, spoil, be spoilt; be hurt. Suar, sure. Spores, spurs. Suith, sooth, indeed. Spreat, kind of water-rush. Sum, some. Spright, spirit. Sane, soon. Spurn, kick; see Tear. Suner, sooner. Spyrred, asked, demanded. Supp, sup, take supper. Struyers, esquires. Surest, safest. Stack, stuck. Swaged, assuaged. ari-» Swaipin, swapping. ' Swapped, exchanged, exchanged blows. Stair' i, stared. fought. Stang, sting. Sweard, sword. Stapt, stopped. Sweaven, dream. Starte, started. Sweer, neck. Stean, stone. Sweite, ) , c ' > sweet. Swete, J Stede, steed. Steek, stitch. Swette, sweat, did sweat. Steelly, made of steel. Swonying, swooning, fainting. Steids, steeds, horses. Swounit, swooned. Step-minnie, step-mother. Swith, quickly, immediately. Stern, struck. Swyne, swine. Sterte, started. Swyth, quick, quickly. Steven, voice ; time. Syde, side. Stew, fright, fear. Stime, spark, ray of light. since, then, afterwards. Stint, stopped. Syngit, singed. Stirre, stir. Syth, lime. Sto', store, plenty. Syth, since. !!&}*"• Syttes, sits. Stole, garment. Taiken, token, sign. Stonders, standers, bystanders. Tain, 1 Take, r taken, Tane,) Stondes, stands. Stound, time, while. Stoup of weir, pillar of war. Taks, takes. 867 GLOSSARY. Takyll, shooting apparatus. Throout, throughout. Taryed, tarried. Throwe, space. Tauld, told. Thrue, threw. Tayne, taken. Thryes, thrice, three times. Tear began this spurn, tearing or pull- Thud, noise. mg began this spurning or kicking, of Thyckust, thickest. one against another. Teche, teach. Til ) T .,j > till, until; to, unto. Teene, sorrow, grief, injury. Till, draw, entice. Teenefu, sorrowful, grievous. Timber, lance, (being made of wood.) Tein, see Teene. Tine, lose. Teind, tenth, furth. Tint, lose, lost. Teirs, tears. Tither, t'other, the other. Til, tell. Tithyngus, tidings. Tene, see Teene. To, two. Teyne, see Teene. Todes, toads. Thair, there. Toke, took. Thame, them. To longe, too long. Than, then. Tharrow, dare. T ' C one or the other. Tharrow, thoroughly, quite. Too, two. The, thee ; they. Too-hond, two-handed. The, thrive. Toots, blows, sounds. The, die. Tome, turns. Thee, thrive. Tortyll, twirled, twined, twisted. Thei, they. Touir, tower. Thefe, thief. Toun, town. Ther, their; there. Toung, tongue. Thes, thus. S&H Thew, thong, whip. They, thy. Tow, thou. The/a, they shall. Tow, let down by a rope. Thi, thy. Towyn, town. Thidurward, thitherward, to that place. Trailit, trailed, dragged. Thillr, these. Traine, trick, purpose. Thin, begin. Traytiir, traitor. Thir, iftej. Tre, tree, wood, staff. Tho, they. Treneyte, trinity. Tho, i/iere. Trew, > . Trewe.r'™- Thoe, them. Thoct, thought. Trewd, trowed, thought. Thole, suffer, bear, put up with, allow. Treyffe, thrive. Thonke, thank. Tride, tried. Thorow, through. Triest furth, draw forth, bring out, to Thos, thus. an assignation. Thoucht, though; see Kin. Tristil tre, trysting-tree, place of meet- Thowt, thought. ing, rendezvous. Thrall, thraldom, captivity. Trouthe, troth, tfuth. Thrang, throng, crowd. Trow, true. Thrast, thrust (themselves,) thronged. Trow, trust, believe. Thrawn, thrown. Trowet, truth. Thraws, throes. Tru, true. Threeds, threads. Tuik, took. Thrie, three. Tuzzlit, tuzzled. Throly, thronginghj, in a crowd. Twayne, twain, two. Throng, cbmbat, fight. Twirtle twist, twirled twist. Thronce C thronged, hurried, rushed. Twomyle way, while one might walk two miles. 868 GLOSSARY. Tyde, time. Wan, won, did win. „J. e ' [ tied, bound, fastened. Wan, got, arrived. Wane, ane, one. Tyll, to, unto. Ware, number of people. Tymeouslye,.i« time; rycht tymeonslye, War, 1 ,„ ' >was, were. Ware.J ' iu the nick of time. Tyne, perish, be lost. War, wares, goods. War ) w ,' J aware; was war, became aware. Undergoe, undertake. Unkempt, uncombed. Waran, guardian, keeper. Uuketh, uncouth, strange. Ward, watch, guard, sentinel. Unmacklye, misshapen. Warde, warn. Unneth, uneasily, scarcely. Warison, reward. Unseely, unhappy, unblest. Warle, ) . , Warlock, \ wizard " Unrest, uneasy, ill at ease. Unseely, unfortunate, Warse, worse. Unsett steven, unappointed time, unex- Warst-faurd, worst favoured, most ill- pectedly. looking. Unsonsie, unlucky, unfortunate. Waryson. see Warison. Until, unto. Was, wash. Untyll, against; 'shut them untyll,' Wat, wot, know. shut against them. Wate, blamed. Up-chaunce, perchance. , Watte, what. Urchin, liedgehog. Wanld, would. Usd, used, accustomed. Waur, worse. Wavis, waves. Vain, vein. Wax, waxed, became. Vale, valley. We, with. Valeies, valleys. Weal, wail. Vaunt-brace, armour for the. body. Wean, child. Venge, revenge. Wed bed, wedding-bed, bridal-bed. Verament, verily, truly. Wed, pawn, pledge, deposit. Villeins, menial servants. Wedde, pledge ; sett to wedde, put in Vittles, victuals, food. pledge, mortgaged. Vnbonde, unbound. Wedous, widows. Vndur, under. Wedyns day, Wednesday. Voyded, avoided, left, quitted. Weedes, clothes. Vp, up. ■ Weel-waled, well-meant, kind. Vs., jive shillings. Weene, know, think. Weened, thought, supposed. Wa', wall. Weel, will. , Wache, watch, spy. Weet, know, understand. Wad, would. Weiest, smallest. Wae, woe, grief. Weil, well. Wae, loth, sorry. Weine, see Weene. Waefo, woful. Weip, weep. Waged, hired, at wages. Weir, war ; see Stoup. Waighe, weigh. Weird,/aie, destiny, lot. Waight, weight; biggis waight, more Weird her in a great sin, placed her in importance. danger of committing a great sin. Wake, watch. Weird, wizard, witch. Wakenit, wakened, awaken.. I, aroused. Weit, wet. Walde, would. Weke, weak, poor. Wale, clioose. Wei, \well, much, good, very good Wele, \ luck ; wel good, very good. Wallis, walls. Walowit, withered, faded. Wel-a-way ! an interjection of grief. Waltering, weltering. WelJe, would. Waly, an interjection of grief. Welde, wield. ,,869 GLOSSARY. Well, will, wish. Welth, wealth. Well them at his will, did as he pleased with iliem. Wemyng, women. Wen, win, go. Wend, } Wend;, S 9 "' We " U Wends, dwells. Went, thought. Weppyned, weafoned, furnished with weapons. Weppynlesse, weaponless. Wepe, weep. Wepiiig, weeping. Wer, wear. Werde, word, words. Werke, work. Werre, war. Werschep, worship, admire. Werthe, worth. West, wist, known* Westlin, western. y. T et J l know, see, discover. Wete, S Wete, wet. Weyffe, wife, laiswife. Wezilis, weazels. Wha, who. Whan, when. Whang, thong. Whar, where. Whase, whose. Wheder, whither. Wheele, wheel about, turn about. Whell, quell, destroy. Whens, whence. Wher, where. Whidderan', quivering, whizzing. Whilome, formerly, before. White-monie, silver. Whoard, hoard, heap. Whyle, while, time ; but a whyle, more than a short time. Whyll, while, until. Wicht, person ; lusty, strong. wges, !l"~« Wighty, stout, lusty, strong. Wightlye, stoutly, lustily, boldly. Will, wish. Will, wild, amazed. Will of rede, bewildered in mind. Win, get ; win away, get away. Winna, will not. Winne, get, obtain ; reach, arrive at. Winnock, window. Winsome, pleasant, agreeable, engaging. 870 Wis, know, think. Wist, knew ; wist my brethren, if my brethren knew. Withowghten, without. Witless, without wit, foolish. Wode,H orf '> reS '- Wodde, woods. Wode, mad. Wodys, woods. Woe, sad. Wold, would ; wold he, would he go. Wold, wood, woody place. Wolde, would. Wolle, will. Wolwarde, wearing a flannel shirt i» penance. Womyne, woman. Won, dwell. Wonder, wonderfully. Wone, one. Wonnynge wan, dwelling-place. Woo, woe, grief. Woo, who. Wot, know. Womanhede, womanhood. Wotes, knows. Wouche, mischief, harm. Woundyt, wounded, did wound. Wrack, ruin, destruction. Wrang, } wrong. Wrange, Wreak, revenge. Wrocht, wrought, caused. Wroken, revenged, avenged. Wurds', words. Wycked, wicked. Wyde, wide, large. Wyght, see Wight. Wyld, wild deer. Wyle, wile, trick. Wyll, will; at wyll, at liberty. Wynn, win, get in. Wynne, joy. Wynne, wend, go. Wynde, wind. Wyne-sellei, wine-cellar. Wyrke, work, cause. Wysse, guess, reckon ; and see Wis. Wyte, blame. Wyth, with, by means of. Wyvis, wives. Y,I. Yammerings, shoutings. Yate, gate. Ych, each. Ychone, each one. GLOSSARY. Ycleped, called, named. Yonder, under. Yebent, bent. Yonge, young. Y „■' Jtoeni, should go. Yongemen, young men. Yontheid, youth. Yeelde,) . ,, Yelde, P teld - Yow, you. Yowls, howls. Yeldyde, yielded. Yren, iron. Yef, ,/. Ys, is. Yeffell, evil. Yslaw, slain. Yemen, yeomen. Ystreen, yesterday at evening. Yender, \^ on ' yond ' y ondeT ' Yt ' lit Yer, your. Yth, in the. Yere, years. Ywunder, yonder. Yeitdt, jerked. Y-were, were. Yerlle, earl. Y-wis, I wis, I trow, assuredly. Yerly, early. Yestreen, yester-even. Zade, gaed, did go, went. Yette, yet. Zare, there. Yetts, gates. Zatis, ryatcs. Yf, if. Ze, you, ye. Y-fere, together. Ze, yet. Ygo, gone. Zede, went. Yit, yet. Zellow, yellow. Ylke , same, very ; this ylke day, this very Zemen, yeomen. day. Zete, ate, did eat ; got, did get. Yll, ifl. Zistnrday, yesterday. Yn, "K Ynne, J Zoman, yeoman. Zour, your. Ynglond, England. Zonr-lane, your lane, alone, by yourself. Ynglyssh, English. Zouth, youth. Ynough, enough. Zow, you. Yode, wentest. Zee, you, ye. Yole, Yule, Christ ma*. - 871 IiONDOJT 1 BAVH.1 AWD EDWABDa, PEIMTEBS, 4, CHANDOB STBBIT, covbmt SAEDBS.