Chapter XXII: Canto I: , stanza 70 (1)

_Enter_ LANDLORD, _dressed in a black gown and bands_, _and wearing an antique-fashioned wig_, _followed by the_ CLERK OF THE COURT, _also in appropriate costume_, _and carrying the registry-book and the horns_.

_Landlord_. DO you wish to be sworn at Highgate?

_Candidate_. I do, Father.

_Clerk_. _Amen_.

_The_ LANDLORD _then sings_, _or says_, _as follows_:—

Silence! O, yes! you are my son!
Full to your old father turn, sir;
This is an oath you may take as you run,
So lay your hand thus on the horn, sir.

_Here the_ CANDIDATE _places his right hand on the horn_.

You shall spend not with cheaters or cozeners your life,
Nor waste it on profligate beauty;
And when you are wedded be kind to your wife,
And true to all petticoat duty.

_The_ CANDIDATE _says_ ‘_I will_,’ _and kisses the horn in obedience to the command of the_ CLERK, _who exclaims in a loud and solemn tone_, ‘_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!’

And while you thus solemnly swear to be kind,
And shield and protect from disaster,
This part of your oath you must bear it in mind,
That you, and not she, is the master.

_Clerk_. ‘_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!’

You shall pledge no man first when a woman is near,
For neither ’tis proper nor right, sir;
Nor, unless you prefer it, drink small for strong beer,
Nor eat brown bread when you can get white, sir.

_Clerk_. ‘_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!’

You shall never drink brandy when wine you can get,
Say when good port or sherry is handy;
Unless that your taste on spirit is set,
In which case—you _may_, sir, drink brandy!

_Clerk_. ‘_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!’

To kiss with the maid when the mistress is kind,
Remember that you must be loth, sir;
But if the maid’s fairest, your oath doesn’t bind,—
Or you may, if you like it, kiss both, sir!

_Clerk_. ‘_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!’

Should you ever return, take this oath here again,
Like a man of good sense, leal and true, sir;
And be sure to bring with you some more merry men,
That they on the horn may swear too, sir.

_Landlord_. Now, sir, if you please, sign your name in that book, and
if you can’t write, make your mark, and the clerk of the court will
attest it.

_Here one of the above requests is complied with_.

_Landlord_. You will please pay half-a-crown for court fees, and what
you please to the clerk.

_This necessary ceremony being gone through_, _the important business terminates by the_ LANDLORD _saying_, ‘_God bless the King_ [_or Queen_] _and the lord of the manor_;’ _to which the_ CLERK _responds_, ‘_Amen_, _amen_!’

_N.B._ _The court fees are always returned in wines_, _spirits_, _or porter_, _of which the Landlord and Clerk are invited to partake_.

FAIRLOP FAIR SONG.

[THE following song is sung at Fairlop fair, one of the gayest of the numerous saturnalia kept by the good citizens of London. The venerable oak has disappeared; but the song is nevertheless song, and the curious custom of riding through the fair, seated in boats, still continues to be observed.]

COME, come, my boys, with a hearty glee,
To Fairlop fair, bear chorus with me;
At Hainault forest is known very well,
This famous oak has long bore the bell.

_Cho_. Let music sound as the boat goes round,
If we tumble on the ground, we’ll be merry, I’ll be bound;
We will booze it away, dull care we will defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

At Tainhall forest, Queen Anne she did ride,
And beheld the beautiful oak by her side,
And after viewing it from bottom to top,
She said that her court should be at Fairlop.

It is eight fathom round, spreads an acre of ground,
They plastered it round to keep the tree sound.
So we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

About a century ago, as I have heard say,
This fair it was kept by one Daniel Day,
A hearty good fellow as ever could be,
His coffin was made of a limb of the tree.

With black-strap and perry he made his friends merry,
All sorrow for to drown with brandy and sherry.
So we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

At Tainhall forest there stands a tree,
And it has performed a wonderful bounty,
It is surrounded by woods and plains,
The merry little warblers chant their strains.

So we’ll dance round the tree, and merry we will be,
Every year we’ll agree the fair for to see;
And we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

AS TOM WAS A-WALKING.

AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.

[THIS song, said to be translated from the Cornish, ‘was taken down,’ says Mr. Sandys, ‘from the recital of a modern Corypheus, or leader of a parish choir,’ who assigned to it a very remote, but indefinite, antiquity.]

AS Tom was a-walking one fine summer’s morn,
When the dazies and goldcups the fields did adorn;
He met Cozen Mal, with a tub on her head,
Says Tom, ‘Cozen Mal, you might speak if you we’d.’

But Mal stamped along, and appeared to be shy,
And Tom singed out, ‘Zounds! I’ll knaw of thee why?’
So back he tore a’ter, in a terrible fuss,
And axed cozen Mal, ‘What’s the reason of thus?’

‘Tom Treloar,’ cried out Mal, ‘I’ll nothing do wi’ ’ee,
Go to Fanny Trembaa, she do knaw how I’m shy;
Tom, this here t’other daa, down the hill thee didst stap,
And dab’d a great doat fig {193} in Fan Trembaa’s lap.’

‘As for Fanny Trembaa, I ne’er taalked wi’ her twice,
And gived her a doat fig, they are so very nice;
So I’ll tell thee, I went to the fear t’other day,
And the doat figs I boft, why I saved them away.’

Says Mal, ‘Tom Treloar, ef that be the caase,
May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty faace;
Ef thee’st give me thy doat figs thee’st boft in the fear,
I’ll swear to thee now, thee shu’st marry me here.’

THE MILLER AND HIS SONS.

[A MILLER, especially if he happen to be the owner of a soke-mill, has always been deemed fair game for the village satirist. Of the numerous songs written in ridicule of the calling of the ‘rogues in grain,’ the following is one of the best and most popular: its quaint humour will recommend it to our readers. For the tune, see _Popular Music_.]

THERE was a crafty miller, and he
Had lusty sons, one, two, and three:
He called them all, and asked their will,
If that to them he left his mill.

He called first to his eldest son,
Saying, ‘My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?’

‘Father,’ said he, ‘my name is Jack;
Out of a bushel I’ll take a peck,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.’

‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man said,
‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne’er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.’

He called for his middlemost son,
Saying, ‘My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?’

‘Father,’ says he, ‘my name is Ralph;
Out of a bushel I’ll take a half,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.’

‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man said,
‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne’er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.’

He called for his youngest son,
Saying, ‘My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?’

‘Father,’ said he, ‘I’m your only boy,
For taking toll is all my joy!
Before I will a good living lack,
I’ll take it all, and forswear the sack!’

‘Thou art my boy!’ the old man said,
‘For thou hast right well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I give,’ he cried,—
And then he turned up his toes and died.

JACK AND TOM.

AN OULD BORDER DITTIE.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[THE following song was taken down from recitation in 1847. Of its history nothing is known; but we are strongly inclined to believe that it may be assigned to the early part of the seventeenth century, and that it relates to the visit of Prince Charles and Buckingham, under the assumed names of Jack and Tom, to Spain, in 1623. Some curious references to the adventures of the Prince and his companion, on their masquerading tour, will be found in Halliwell’s _Letters of the Kings of England_, vol. ii.]

I’M a north countrie-man, in Redesdale born,
Where our land lies lea, and grows ne corn,—
And such two lads to my house never com,
As them two lads called Jack and Tom!

Now, Jack and Tom, they’re going to the sea;
I wish them both in good companie!
They’re going to seek their fortunes ayont the wide sea,
Far, far away frae their oan countrie!

They mounted their horses, and rode over the moor,
Till they came to a house, when they rapped at the door;
And out came Jockey, the hostler-man.
‘D’ye brew ony ale? D’ye sell ony beer?
Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?’

‘Ne, we brew ne ale, nor we sell ne beer,
Nor we have ne lodgings for strangers here.’
So he bolted the door, and bade them begone,
For there was ne lodgings there for poor Jack and Tom.

They mounted their horses, and rode over the plain;—
Dark was the night, and down fell the rain;
Till a twinkling light they happened to spy,
And a castle and a house they were close by.

They rode up to the house, and they rapped at the door,
And out came Jockey, the hosteler.
‘D’ye brew ony ale? D’ye sell ony beer?
Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?’

‘Yes, we have brewed ale this fifty lang year,
And we have got lodgings for strangers here.’
So the roast to the fire, and the pot hung on,
’Twas all to accommodate poor Jack and Tom.

When supper was over, and all was _sided down_,
The glasses of wine did go merrily roun’.
‘Here is to thee, Jack, and here is to thee,
And all the bonny lasses in our countrie!’
‘Here is to thee, Tom, and here is to thee,
And look they may _leuk_ for thee and me!’

’Twas early next morning, before the break of day,
They mounted their horses, and so they rode away.
Poor Jack, he died upon a far foreign shore,
And Tom, he was never, never heard of more!

JOAN’S ALE WAS NEW.

[OURS is the common version of this popular song; it varies considerably from the one given by D’Urfey, in the _Pills to purge Melancholy_. From the names of Nolly and Joan and the allusion to ale, we are inclined to consider the song as a lampoon levelled at Cromwell, and his wife, whom the Royalist party nick-named ‘Joan.’ The Protector’s acquaintances (depicted as low and vulgar tradesmen) are here humorously represented paying him a congratulatory visit on his change of fortune, and regaling themselves with the ‘Brewer’s’ ale. The song is mentioned in Thackeray’s Catalogue, under the title of _Joan’s Ale’s New_; which may be regarded as circumstantial evidence in favour of our hypothesis. The air is published in _Popular Music_, accompanying three stanzas of a version copied from the Douce collection. The first verse in Mr. Chappell’s book runs as follows:—

THERE was a jovial tinker,
Who was a good ale drinker,
He never was a shrinker,
Believe me this is true;
And he came from the Weald of Kent,
When all his money was gone and spent,
Which made him look like a Jack a-lent.
And Joan’s ale is new, my boys,
And Joan’s ale is new.]

THERE were six jovial tradesmen,
And they all sat down to drinking,
For they were a jovial crew;
They sat themselves down to be merry;
And they called for a bottle of sherry,
You’re welcome as the hills, says Nolly,
While Joan’s ale is new, brave boys,
While Joan’s ale is new.

The first that came in was a soldier,
With his firelock over his shoulder,
Sure no one could be bolder,
And a long broad-sword he drew:
He swore he would fight for England’s ground,
Before the nation should be run down;
He boldly drank their healths all round,
While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a hatter,
Sure no one could be blacker,
And he began to chatter,
Among the jovial crew:
He threw his hat upon the ground,
And swore every man should spend his pound,
And boldly drank their hearths all round,
While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a dyer,
And he sat himself down by the fire,
For it was his heart’s desire
To drink with the jovial crew:
He told the landlord to his face,
The chimney-corner should be his place,
And there he’d sit and dye his face,
While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a tinker,
And he was no small beer drinker,
And he was no strong ale shrinker,
Among the jovial crew:
For his brass nails were made of metal,
And he swore he’d go and mend a kettle,
Good heart, how his hammer and nails did rattle,
When Joan’s ale was new!

The next that came in was a tailor,
With his bodkin, shears, and thimble,
He swore he would be nimble
Among the jovial crew:
They sat and they called for ale so stout,
Till the poor tailor was almost broke,
And was forced to go and pawn his coat,
While Joan’s ale was new.

The next that came in was a ragman,
With his rag-bag over his shoulder,
Sure no one could be bolder
Among the jovial crew.
They sat and called for pots and glasses,
Till they were all drunk as asses,
And burnt the old ragman’s bag to ashes,
While Joan’s ale was new.

GEORGE RIDLER’S OVEN.

[THIS ancient Gloucestershire song has been sung at the annual dinners of the Gloucestershire Society, from the earliest period of the existence of that institution; and in 1776 there was an Harmonic Society at Cirencester, which always opened its meetings with _George Ridler’s Oven_ in full chorus.

The substance of the following key to this very curious song is furnished by Mr. H. Gingell, who extracts it from the _Annual Report of the Gloucestershire Society_ for 1835. The annual meeting of this Society is held at Bristol in the month of August, when the members dine, and a branch meeting, which was formerly held at the Crown and Anchor in the Strand, is now annually held at the Thatched House Tavern, St. James’s. _George Ridler’s Oven_ is sung at both meetings, and the late Duke of Beaufort used to lead off the glee in capital style. The words have a secret meaning, well known to the members of the Gloucestershire Society, which was founded in 1657, three years before the Restoration of Charles II. The Society consisted of Royalists, who combined together for the purpose of restoring the Stuarts. The Cavalier party was supported by all the old Roman Catholic families of the kingdom; and some of the Dissenters, who were disgusted with Cromwell, occasionally lent them a kind of passive aid.

_First Verse_.—By ‘George Ridler’ is meant King Charles I. The ‘oven’ was the Cavalier party. The ‘stwons’ that ‘built the oven,’ and that ‘came out of the Bleakney quaar,’ were the immediate followers of the Marquis of Worcester, who held out long and steadfastly for the Royal cause at Raglan Castle, which was not surrendered till 1646, and was in fact the last stronghold retained for the King. ‘His head did grow above his hair,’ is an allusion to the crown, the head of the State, which the King wore ‘above his hair.’

_Second Verse_.—This means that the King, ‘before he died,’ boasted that notwithstanding his present adversity, the ancient constitution of the kingdom was so good, and its vitality so great, that it would surpass and outlive every other form of government.

_Third Verse_.—‘Dick the treble, Jack the mean, and George the bass,’ mean King, Lords, and Commons. The injunction to ‘let every man sing in his own place,’ is a warning to each of the three estates of the realm to preserve its proper position, and not to encroach on each other’s prerogative.

_Fourth Verse_.—‘Mine hostess’s maid’ is an allusion to the Queen, who was a Roman Catholic, and her maid, the Church. The singer we must suppose was one of the leaders of the party, and his ‘dog’ a companion, or faithful official of the Society, and the song was sung on occasions when the members met together socially; and thus, as the Roman Catholics were Royalists, the allusion to the mutual attachment between the ‘maid’ and ‘my dog and I,’ is plain and consistent.

_Fifth Verse_.—The ‘dog’ had a ‘trick of visiting maids when they were sick.’ The meaning is, that when any of the members were in distress or desponding, or likely to give up the Royal cause in despair, the officials, or active members visited, counselled, and assisted them.

_Sixth Verse_.—The ‘dog’ was ‘good to catch a hen,’ a ‘duck,’ or a ‘goose.’—That is, to enlist as members of the Society any who were well affected to the Royal cause.

_Seventh Verse_.—‘The good ale tap’ is an allusion, under cover of the similarity in sound between the words ale and aisle, to the Church, of which it was dangerous at the time to be an avowed follower; and so the members were cautioned that indiscretion might lead to their discovery and ‘overthrow.’

_Eighth Verse_.—The allusion here is to those unfaithful supporters of the Royal cause, who ‘welcomed’ the members of the Society when it appeared to be prospering, but ‘parted’ from them in adversity.

_Ninth Verse_.—An expression of the singer’s wish that if he should die he may be buried with his faithful companion, as representing the principles of the Society, under the good aisles of the church.

The following text has been collated with a version published in _Notes and Queries_, from the ‘fragments of a MS. found in the speech-house of Dean.’ The tune is the same as that of the _Wassailers’ Song_, and is printed in _Popular Music_. Other ditties appear to have been founded on this ancient piece. The fourth, seventh, and ninth verses are in the old ditty called _My Dog and I_: and the eighth verse appears in another old song. The air and words bear some resemblance to _Todlen Hame_.]

THE stwons that built George Ridler’s oven,
And thauy keam vrom the Bleakney quaar,
And George he wur a jolly old mon,
And his yead it grow’d above his yare.

One thing of George Ridler I must commend,
And that wur vor a notable thing;
He mead his brags avoore he died,
Wi’ any dree brooders his zons zshould zing.

There’s Dick the treble, and John the meean,
(Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace,)
And George he wur the elder brother,
And therevoor he would zing the beass.

Mine hostess’s moid, (and her neaum ‘twour Nell,)
A pretty wench, and I lov’d her well;
I lov’d her well, good reauzon why,
Because zshe loved my dog and I.

My dog is good to catch a hen;
A dug or goose is vood for men;
And where good company I spy,
O thether gwoes my dog and I.

My mwother told I, when I wur young,
If I did vollow the strong-beer pwoot,
That drenk would prov my awverdrow,
And meauk me wear a threadbare cwoat.

My dog has gotten zitch a trick,
To visit moids when thauy be zick;
When thauy be zick and like to die,
O thether gwoes my dog and I.

When I have dree zixpences under my thumb,
O then I be welcome wherever I come;
But when I have none, O, then I pass by,—
’Tis poverty pearts good companie.

If I should die, as it may hap,
My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap;
In voulded yarms there wool us lie,
Cheek by jowl, my dog and I.

THE CARRION CROW.

[THIS still popular song is quoted by Grose in his _Olio_, where it is made the subject of a burlesque commentary, the covert political allusions having evidently escaped the penetration of the antiquary. The reader familiar with the annals of the Commonwealth and the Restoration, will readily detect the leading points of the allegory. The ‘Carrion Crow’ in the oak is Charles II., who is represented as that bird of voracious appetite, because he deprived the puritan clergy of their livings; perhaps, also, because he ordered the bodies of the regicides to be exhumed—as Ainsworth says in one of his ballads:—

THE carrion crow is a sexton bold,
He raketh the dead from out of the mould.

The religion of the ‘old sow,’ whoever she may be, is clearly pointed out by her little pigs praying for her soul. The ‘tailor’ is not easily identified. It is possibly intended for some puritan divine of the name of Taylor, who wrote and preached against both prelacy and papacy, but with an especial hatred of the latter. In the last verse he consoles himself by the reflection that, notwithstanding the deprivations, his party will have enough remaining from the voluntary contributions of their adherents. The ‘cloak’ which the tailor is engaged in cutting out, is the Genevan gown, or cloak; the ‘spoon’ in which he desires his wife to bring treacle, is apparently an allusion to the ‘spatula’ upon which the wafer is placed in the administration of the Eucharist; and the introduction of ‘chitterlings and black-puddings’ into the last verse seems to refer to a passage in Rabelais, where the same dainties are brought in to personify those who, in the matter of fasting, are opposed to Romish practices. The song is found in collections of the time of Charles II.]

THE carrion crow he sat upon an oak,
And he spied an old tailor a cutting out a cloak.
Heigho! the carrion crow.

The carrion crow he began for to rave,
And he called the tailor a lousy knave!
Heigho! the carrion crow.

‘Wife, go fetch me my arrow and my bow,
I’ll have a shot at that carrion crow.’
Heigho! the carrion crow.

The tailor he shot, and he missed his mark,
But he shot the old sow through the heart.
Heigho! the carrion crow.

‘Wife, go fetch me some treacle in a spoon,
For the old sow’s in a terrible swoon!’
Heigho! the carrion crow.

The old sow died, and the bells they did toll,
And the little pigs prayed for the old sow’s soul!
Heigho! the carrion crow.

‘Never mind,’ said the tailor, ‘I don’t care a flea,
There’ll be still black-puddings, souse, and chitterlings for me.’
Heigho! the carrion crow.

THE LEATHERN BOTTEL.

SOMERSETSHIRE VERSION.

[IN Chappell’s _Popular Music_ is a much longer version of _The Leathern Bottèl_. The following copy is the one sung at the present time by the country-people in the county of Somerset. It has been communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys.]

GOD above, who rules all things,
Monks and abbots, and beggars and kings,
The ships that in the sea do swim,
The earth, and all that is therein;
Not forgetting the old cow’s hide,
And everything else in the world beside:
And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,
Who first invented this leathern bottèl!

Oh! what do you say to the glasses fine?
Oh! they shall have no praise of mine;
Suppose a gentleman sends his man
To fill them with liquor, as fast as he can,
The man he falls, in coming away,
And sheds the liquor so fine and gay;
But had it been in the leathern bottèl,
And the stopper been in, ‘twould all have been well!

Oh! what do you say to the tankard fine?
Oh! it shall have no praise of mine;
Suppose a man and his wife fall out,—
And such things happen sometimes, no doubt,—
They pull and they haul; in the midst of the fray
They shed the liquor so fine and gay;
But had it been in the leathern bottèl,
And the stopper been in, ’twould all have been well!

Now, when this bottèl it is worn out,
Out of its sides you may cut a clout;
This you may hang upon a pin,—
’Twill serve to put odd trifles in;
Ink and soap, and candle-ends,
For young beginners have need of such friends.
And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,
Who first invented the leathern bottèl!

THE FARMER’S OLD WIFE.

A SUSSEX WHISTLING SONG.

[THIS is a countryman’s whistling song, and the only one of the kind which we remember to have heard. It is very ancient, and a great favourite. The farmer’s wife has an adventure somewhat resembling the hero’s in the burlesque version of _Don Giovanni_. The tune is _Lilli burlero_, and the song is sung as follows:—the first line of each verse is given as a solo; then the tune is continued by a chorus of whistlers, who whistle that portion of the air which in _Lilli burlero_ would be sung to the words, _Lilli burlero bullen a la_. The songster then proceeds with the tune, and sings the whole of the verse through, after which the strain is resumed and concluded by the whistlers. The effect, when accompanied by the strong whistles of a group of lusty countrymen, is very striking, and cannot be adequately conveyed by description. This song constitutes the ‘traditionary verses’ upon which Burns founded his _Carle of Killyburn Braes_.]

THERE was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,

[_Chorus of whistlers_.]

There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,
And he had a bad wife, as many knew well.

[_Chorus of whistlers_.]

Then Satan came to the old man at the plough,—
‘One of your family I must have now.

‘It is not your eldest son that I crave,
But it is your old wife, and she I will have.’

‘O, welcome! good Satan, with all my heart,
I hope you and she will never more part.’

Now Satan has got the old wife on his back,
And he lugged her along, like a pedlar’s pack.

He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate,
Says he, ‘Here! take in an old Sussex chap’s mate!’

O! then she did kick the young imps about,—
Says one to the other, ‘Let’s try turn her out.’

She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains,
She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains.

She knocked the old Satan against the wall,—
‘Let’s try turn her out, or she’ll murder us all!’

Now he’s bundled her up on his back amain,
And to her old husband he took her again.

‘I have been a tormenter the whole of my life,
But I ne’er was tormenter till I met with your wife.’

OLD WICHET AND HIS WIFE.

[THIS song still retains its popularity in the North of England, and, when sung with humour, never fails to elicit roars of laughter. A Scotch version may be found in Herd’s Collection, 1769, and also in Cunningham’s _Songs of England and Scotland_, London, 1835. We cannot venture to give an opinion as to which is the original; but the English set is of unquestionable antiquity. Our copy was obtained from Yorkshire. It has been collated with one printed at the Aldermary press, and preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Collection. The tune is peculiar to the song.]

O! I went into the stable, and there for to see, {206}
And there I saw three horses stand, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she;
‘O! what do these three horses here, without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! can’t you very well see,
These are three milking cows my mother sent to me?’
‘Ods bobs! well done! milking cows with saddles on!
The like was never known!’
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the kitchen, and there for to see,
And there I saw three swords hang, by one, by two, quoth she;
O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’
‘O! what do these three swords do here, without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! can’t you very well see,
These are three roasting spits my mother sent to me?’
‘Ods bobs! well done! roasting spits with scabbards on!
The like was never known!’
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the parlour, and there for to see,
And there I saw three cloaks hang, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she;
‘O! what do these three cloaks do here, without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! can’t you very well see,
These are three mantuas my mother sent to me?’
‘Ods bobs! well done! mantuas with capes on!
The like was never known!’
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the pantry, and there for to see,
And there I saw three pair of boots, {207} by one, by two, and by
three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she;
‘O! what do these three pair of boots here, without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! can’t you very well see,
These are three pudding-bags my mother sent to me?’
‘Ods bobs! well done! pudding-bags with spurs on!
The like was never known!’
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the dairy, and there for to see,
And there I saw three hats hang, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she;
‘Pray what do these three hats here, without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! can’t you very well see,
These are three skimming-dishes my mother sent to me?’
‘Ods bobs! well done! skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!
The like was never known!’
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the chamber, and there for to see,
And there I saw three men in bed, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she;
‘O! what do these three men here, without the leave of me?’

‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! can’t you very well see,
They are three milking-maids my mother sent to me?’
‘Ods bobs! well done! milking-maids with beards on!
The like was never known!’
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

THE JOLLY WAGGONER.

[THIS country song can be traced back a century at least, but is, no doubt, much older. It is very popular in the West of England. The words are spirited and characteristic. We may, perhaps, refer the song to the days of transition, when the waggon displaced the packhorse.]

WHEN first I went a-waggoning, a-waggoning did go,
I filled my parents’ hearts full of sorrow, grief, and woe. {208a}
And many are the hardships that I have since gone through.
And sing wo, my lads, sing wo!
Drive on my lads, I-ho! {208b}
And who wouldn’t lead the life of a jolly waggoner?

It is a cold and stormy night, and I’m wet to the skin,
I will bear it with contentment till I get unto the inn.
And then I’ll get a drinking with the landlord and his kin.
And sing, &c.

Now summer it is coming,—what pleasure we shall see;
The small birds are a-singing on every green tree,
The blackbirds and the thrushes are a-whistling merrilie.
And sing, &c.

Now Michaelmas is coming,—what pleasure we shall find;
It will make the gold to fly, my boys, like chaff before the wind;
And every lad shall take his lass, so loving and so kind.
And sing, &c.

THE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALER.

[THIS ludicrous and genuine Yorkshire song, the production of some unknown country minstrel, obtained considerable popularity a few years ago from the admirable singing of Emery. The incidents actually occurred at the close of the last century, and some of the descendants of ‘Tommy Towers’ were resident at Clapham till within a very recent period, and used to take great delight in relating the laughable adventure of their progenitor. Abey Muggins is understood to be a _sobriquet_ for a then Clapham innkeeper. The village of Clapham is in the west of Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and Kendal.]

BANE {209a} ta Claapam town-gate {209b} lived an ond Yorkshire tike,
Who i’ dealing i’ horseflesh hed ne’er met his like;
’Twor his pride that i’ aw the hard bargains he’d hit,
He’d bit a girt monny, but nivver bin bit.

This ond Tommy Towers (bi that naam he wor knaan),
Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an’ baan;
Ta hev killed him for t’ curs wad hev bin quite as well,
But ’twor Tommy opinion {209c} he’d dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat,
Thowt ta diddle ond Tommy wad be a girt treat;
Hee’d a horse, too, ’twor war than ond Tommy’s, ye see,
Fort’ neet afore that hee’d thowt proper ta dee!

Thinks Abey, t’ oud codger ‘ll nivver smoak t’ trick,
I’ll swop wi’ him my poor deead horse for his wick, {210a}
An’ if Tommy I nobbut {210b} can happen ta trap,
’Twill be a fine feather i’ Aberram cap!

Soa to Tommy he goas, an’ the question he pops:
‘Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?
What wilt gi’ me ta boot? for mine’s t’better horse still!’
‘Nout,’ says Tommy, ‘I’ll swop ivven hands, an’ ye will.’

Abey preaached a lang time about summat ta boot,
Insistin’ that his war the liveliest brute;
But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,
Till Abey shook hands, and sed, ‘Well, Tommy, done!

‘O! Tommy,’ sed Abey, ‘I’ze sorry for thee,
I thowt thou’d a hadden mair white i’ thy ’ee;
Good luck’s wi’ thy bargin, for my horse is deead.’
‘Hey!’ says Tommy, ‘my lad, soa is min, an it’s fleead?’

Soa Tommy got t’ better of t’ bargin, a vast,
An’ cam off wi’ a Yorkshireman’s triumph at last;
For thof ’twixt deead horses there’s not mitch to choose,
Yet Tommy war richer by t’ hide an’ fower shooes.

THE KING AND THE COUNTRYMAN.

[THIS popular favourite is a mere abridgment and alteration of a poem preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, called _The King and Northern Man_, _shewing how a poor Northumberland man_ (_tenant to the King_) _being wronged by a lawyer_ (_his neighbour_) _went to the King himself to make known his grievance_. _To the tune of __Slut_. Printed by and for Alex. Melbourne, at the Stationer’s Arms in Green Arbour Court, in the Little Old Baily. The Percy Society printed _The King and Northern Man_ from an edition published in 1640. There is also a copy preserved in the Bagford Collection, which is one of the imprints of W. Onley. The edition of 1640 has the initials of Martin Parker at the end, but, as Mr. Collier observes, ‘There is little doubt that the story is much older than 1640.’ See preface to Percy Society’s Edition.]

THERE was an old chap in the west country,
A flaw in the lease the lawyers had found,
’Twas all about felling of five oak trees,
And building a house upon his own ground.
Right too looral, looral, looral—right too looral la!

Now, this old chap to Lunnun would go,
To tell the king a part of his woe,
Likewise to tell him a part of his grief,
In hopes the king would give him relief.

Now, when this old chap to Lunnun had come,
He found the king to Windsor had gone;
But if he’d known he’d not been at home,
He danged his buttons if ever he’d come.

Now, when this old chap to Windsor did stump,
The gates were barred, and all secure,
But he knocked and thumped with his oaken clump,
There’s room within for I to be sure.

But when he got there, how he did stare,
To see the yeomen strutting about;
He scratched his head, and rubbed down his hair,
In the ear of a noble he gave a great shout:

‘Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King;
Is that the King that I see there?
I seed an old chap at Bartlemy fair
Look more like a king than that chap there.

‘Well, Mr. King, pray how d’ye do?
I gotten for you a bit of a job,
Which if you’ll be so kind as to do,
I gotten a summat for you in my fob.’

The king he took the lease in hand,
To sign it, too, he was likewise willing;
And the old chap to make a little amends,
He lugg’d out his bag, and gave him a shilling.

The king, to carry on the joke,
Ordered ten pounds to be paid down;
The farmer he stared, but nothing spoke,
And stared again, and he scratched his crown.

The farmer he stared to see so much money,
And to take it up he was likewise willing;
But if he’d a known King had got so much money,
He danged his wig if he’d gien him that shilling!

JONE O’ GREENFIELD’S RAMBLE.

[THE county of Lancaster has always been famed for its admirable _patois_ songs; but they are in general the productions of modern authors, and consequently, however popular they may be, are not within the scope of the present work. In the following humorous production, however, we have a composition of the last century. It is the oldest and most popular Lancashire song we have been able to procure; and, unlike most pieces of its class, it is entirely free from grossness and vulgarity.]

SAYS Jone to his wife, on a hot summer’s day,
‘I’m resolved i’ Grinfilt no lunger to stay;
For I’ll go to Owdham os fast os I can,
So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, un fare thee weel, Nan;
A soger I’ll be, un brave Owdham I’ll see,
Un I’ll ha’e a battle wi’ th’ French.’

‘Dear Jone,’ then said Nan, un hoo bitterly cried,
Wilt be one o’ th’ foote, or tha meons to ride?’
‘Odsounds! wench, I’ll ride oather ass or a mule,
Ere I’ll kewer i’ Grinfilt os black as te dule,
Booath clemmink {213} un starvink, un never a fardink,
Ecod! it would drive ony mon mad.

‘Aye, Jone, sin’ wi’ coom i’ Grinfilt for t’ dwell,
We’n had mony a bare meal, I con vara weel tell.’
‘Bare meal! ecod! aye, that I vara weel know,
There’s bin two days this wick ot we’n had nowt at o:
I’m vara near sided, afore I’ll abide it,
I’ll feight oather Spanish or French.’

Then says my Aunt Marget, ‘Ah! Jone, thee’rt so hot,
I’d ne’er go to Owdham, boh i’ Englond I’d stop.’
‘It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham I’ll go,
I’ll naw clam to deeoth, boh sumbry shalt know:
Furst Frenchman I find, I’ll tell him meh mind,
Un if he’ll naw feight, he shall run.’

Then down th’ broo I coom, for we livent at top,
I thowt I’d reach Owdharn ere ever I’d stop;
Ecod! heaw they stared when I getten to th’ Mumps,
Meh owd hat i’ my hond, un meh clogs full o’stumps;
Boh I soon towd um, I’r gooink to Owdham,
Un I’d ha’e battle wi’ th’ French.

I kept eendway thro’ th’ lone, un to Owdham I went,
I ask’d a recruit if te’d made up their keawnt?
‘No, no, honest lad’ (for he tawked like a king),
‘Go wi’ meh thro’ the street, un thee I will bring
Where, if theaw’rt willink, theaw may ha’e a shillink.’
Ecod! I thowt this wur rare news.

He browt me to th’ pleck where te measurn their height,
Un if they bin height, there’s nowt said about weight;
I retched me, un stretched me, un never did flinch,
Says th’ mon, ‘I believe theaw ’rt meh lad to an inch.’
I thowt this’ll do, I’st ha’e guineas enow,
Ecod! Owdham, brave Owdham for me.

So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, a soger I’m made,
I’n getten new shoon, un a rare cockade;
I’ll feight for Owd Englond os hard os I con,
Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it’s o one,
I’ll make ’em to stare like a new-started hare,
Un I’ll tell ’em fro’ Owdham I coom.

THORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS.

A CELEBRATED NOTTINGHAMSHIRE POACHER’S SONG.

[NOTTINGHAMSHIRE was, in the olden day, famous in song for the achievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times the reckless daring of the heroes of the ‘greenwood tree’ has descended to the poachers of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exult over _their_ lawless exploits; and in _Thornehagh-Moor Woods_ we have a specimen of one of these rude, but mischievous and exciting lyrics. The air is beautiful, and of a lively character; and will be found in _Popular Music_. There is it prevalent idea that the song is not the production of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written about the middle of the last century by a gentleman of rank and education, who, detesting the English game-laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the peasantry with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the village of Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or Moor-fields, was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called by the ancient designation. It contains eight hundred acres. The manor of Thornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who have a residence on the estate.]

IN Thornehagh-Moor woods, in Nottinghamshire,
Fol de rol, la re, right fol laddie, dee;
In Robin Hood’s bold Nottinghamshire,
Fol de rol, la re da;

Three keepers’ houses stood three-square,
And about a mile from each other they were;—
Their orders were to look after the deer.
Fol de rol, la re da.

I went out with my dogs one night,—
The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light;
Over hedges and ditches, and steyls
With my two dogs close at my heels,
To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields.

Oh! that night we had bad luck,
One of my very best dogs was stuck;
He came to me both breeding and lame,—
Right sorry was I to see the same,—
He was not able to follow the game.

I searched his wounds, and found them slight,
Some keeper has done this out of spite;
But I’ll take my pike-staff,—that’s the plan!
I’ll range the woods till I find the man,
And I’ll tan his hide right well,—if I can!

I ranged the woods and groves all night,
I ranged the woods till it proved daylight;
The very first thing that then I found,
Was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground;
I knew my dogs gave him his death-wound.

I hired a butcher to skin the game,
Likewise another to sell the same;
The very first buck he offered for sale,
Was to an old [hag] that sold bad ale,
And she sent us three poor lads to gaol.

The quarter sessions we soon espied,
At which we all were for to be tried;
The Chairman laughed the matter to scorn,
He said the old woman was all forsworn,
And unto pieces she ought to be torn.

The sessions are over, and we are clear!
The sessions are over, and we sit here,
Singing fol de rol, la re da!
The very best game I ever did see,
Is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me!
In Thornehagh-Moor woods this night we’ll be!
Fol de rol, la re da!

THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER.

[THIS very old ditty has been transformed into the dialects of Somersetshire, Northamptonshire, and Leicestershire; but it properly belongs to Lincolnshire. Nor is this the only liberty that his been taken with it. The original tune is that of a Lancashire air, well known as _The Manchester Angel_; but a florid modern tune has been substituted. _The Lincolnshire Poacher_ was a favourite ditty with George IV., and it is said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of Berkshire ploughmen. He also commanded it to be sung at his harvest-homes, but we believe it was always on such occasions sung to the ‘playhouse tune,’ and not to the genuine music. It is often very difficult to trace the locality of countrymen’s songs, in consequence of the licence adopted by printers of changing the names of places to suit their own neighbourhoods; but there is no such difficulty about _The Lincolnshire Poacher_. The oldest copy we have seen, printed at York about 1776, reads ‘Lincolnshire,’ and it is only in very modern copies that the venue is removed to other counties. In the Somersetshire version the local vernacular is skilfully substituted for that of the original; but the deception may, nevertheless, be very easily detected.]

WHEN I was bound apprentice, in famous Lincolnsheer,
Full well I served my master for more than seven year,
Till I took up with poaching, as you shall quickly hear:—
Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As me and my comrades were setting of a snare,
’Twas then we seed the gamekeeper—for him we did not care,
For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o’er everywhere:—
Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As me and my comrades were setting four or five,
And taking on him up again, we caught the hare alive;
We caught the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:—
Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnsheer; {217}
Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare;
Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:—
Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

SOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG.

[THIS following song, which is very popular with the peasantry of Somersetshire, is given as a curious specimen of the dialect still spoken in some parts of that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant’s ditty, it is heard in other circles, and frequently roared out at hunting dinners. It is here reprinted from a copy communicated by Mr. Sandys.]

THERE’S no pleasures can compare
Wi’ the hunting o’ the hare,
In the morning, in the morning,
In fine and pleasant weather.

_Cho_. With our hosses and our hounds,
We will scamps it o’er the grounds,
And sing traro, huzza!
And sing traro, huzza!
And sing traro, brave boys, we will foller.

And when poor puss arise,
Then away from us she flies;
And we’ll gives her, boys, we’ll gives her,
One thundering and loud holler!
_Cho_. With our hosses, &c.

And when poor puss is killed,
We’ll retires from the field;
And we’ll count boys, and we’ll count
On the same good ren to-morrer.
_Cho_. With our bosses and our hounds, &c.

THE TROTTING HORSE.

[THE common copies of this old highwayman’s song are very corrupt. We are indebted for the following version, which contains several emendations, to Mr. W. H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably be referred to the age of Charles II., is a spirited specimen of its class.]

I CAN sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town,
To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I’ll bet you fifty crown;
He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in,
And throw the dust in people’s face, and think it not a sin.
For to ride away, trot away,
Ri, fa lar, la, &c.

He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any swan,
A foot light as the stag’s, the while his back is scarce a span;
Kind Nature hath so formed him, he is everything that’s good,—
Aye! everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood.
For to ride away, &c.

If you drop therein, he’ll nod his head, and boldly walk away,
While others kick and bounce about, to him it’s only play;
There never was a finer horse e’er went on English ground,
He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound.
For to ride away, &c.

If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town,
I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging
down;
With large jack-towels round their necks, they think they’re first and
fast,
But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they are last.
Whilst I ride away, &c.

If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness never mind,
My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind;
Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot,
But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot.
For I ride away, &c.

If Fortune e’er should fickle be, and wish to have again
That which she so freely gave, I’d give it without pain;
I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse,
Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse!
That I may ride away, &c.

THE SEEDS OF LOVE.

[THIS very curious old song is not only a favourite with our peasantry, but, in consequence of having been introduced into the modern dramatic entertainment of _The Loan of a Lover_, has obtained popularity in higher circles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in _Popular Music_. The words are quaint, but by no means wanting in beauty; they are, no doubt, corrupted, as we have derived them from common broadsides, the only form in which we have been able to meet with them. The author of the song was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham, of Habergham, in the county of Lancaster. ‘Ruined by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows,’ says Dr. Whitaker, ‘by some stanzas yet remembered among the old people of her neighbourhood.’—_History of Whalley_. Mrs. Habergham died in 1703, and was buried at Padiham.]

I SOWED the seeds of love, it was all in the spring,
In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do sing;
My garden’s well planted with flowers everywhere,
Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the flower that I loved
so dear.

My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose for me,
He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused all
three;
The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon,
The lily and the pink I did o’erlook, and I vowed I’d stay till June.

In June there’s a red rose-bud, and that’s the flower for me!
But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the
willow-tree;
The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will twice,—
O! I wish I was in the dear youth’s arms that once had the heart of
mine.

My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care,
For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there;
I told him I’d take no care till I did feel the smart,
And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the
heart.

I’ll make me a posy of hyssop,—no other I can touch,—
That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much;
My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew—
For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with rue?
{221a}

THE GARDEN-GATE.

[ONE of our most pleasing rural ditties. The air is very beautiful. We first heard it sung in Malhamdale, Yorkshire, by Willy Bolton, an old Dales’-minstrel, who accompanied himself on the union-pipes. {221b}]

THE day was spent, the moon shone bright,
The village clock struck eight;
Young Mary hastened, with delight,
Unto the garden-gate:
But what was there that made her sad?—
The gate was there, but not the lad,
Which made poor Mary say and sigh,
‘Was ever poor girl so sad as I?’

She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck nine;
Which made poor Mary sigh, and say,
‘You shan’t, you shan’t be mine!
You promised to meet at the gate at eight,
You ne’er shall keep me, nor make me wait,
For I’ll let all such creatures see,
They ne’er shall make a fool of me!’