Chapter XXIII: Canto I: , stanza 70 (2)

She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck ten;
Young William caught her in his arms,
No more to part again:
For he’d been to buy the ring that day,
And O! he had been a long, long way;—
Then, how could Mary cruel prove,
To banish the lad she so dearly did love?

Up with the morning sun they rose,
To church they went away,
And all the village joyful were,
Upon their wedding-day:
Now in a cot, by a river side,
William and Mary both reside;
And she blesses the night that she did wait
For her absent swain, at the garden-gate.

THE NEW-MOWN HAY.

[THIS song is a village-version of an incident which occurred in the Cecil family. The same English adventure has, strangely enough, been made the subject of one of the most romantic of Moore’s _Irish Melodies_, viz., _You remember Helen_, _the hamlet’s pride_.]

AS I walked forth one summer’s morn,
Hard by a river’s side,
Where yellow cowslips did adorn
The blushing field with pride;
I spied a damsel on the grass,
More blooming than the may;
Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed,
Among the new-mown hay.

I said, ‘Good morning, pretty maid,
How came you here so soon?’
‘To keep my father’s sheep,’ she said,
‘The thing that must be done:
While they are feeding ‘mong the dew,
To pass the time away,
I sit me down to knit or sew,
Among the new-mown hay.’

Delighted with her simple tale,
I sat down by her side;
With vows of love I did prevail
On her to be my bride:
In strains of simple melody,
She sung a rural lay;
The little lambs stood listening by,
Among the new-mown hay.

Then to the church they went with speed,
And Hymen joined them there;
No more her ewes and lambs to feed,
For she’s a lady fair:
A lord he was that married her,
To town they came straightway:
She may bless the day he spied her there,
Among the new-mown hay.

THE PRAISE OF A DAIRY.

[THIS excellent old country song, which can be traced to 1687, is sung to the air of _Packington’s Pound_, for the history of which see _Popular Music_.]

IN praise of a dairy I purpose to sing,
But all things in order, first, God save the King! {224}
And the Queen, I may say,
That every May-day,
Has many fair dairy-maids all fine and gay.
Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme,
Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream.

The first of fair dairy-maids, if you’ll believe,
Was Adam’s own wife, our great grandmother Eve,
Who oft milked a cow,
As well she knew how.
Though butter was not then as cheap as ’tis now,
She hoarded no butter nor cheese on her shelves,
For butter and cheese in those days made themselves.

In that age or time there was no horrid money,
Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey;
No Queen you could see,
Of the highest degree,
But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she.
Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat,
And in plenty and peace all their joys wore complete.

Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce,
For a thousand of dainties it’s daily in use:
Now a pudding I’ll tell ’ee,
And so can maid Nelly,
Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly:
For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk,
Is a citizen’s wife, without satin or silk.

In the virtues of milk there is more to be mustered:
O! the charming delights both of cheesecake and custard!
If to wakes {225} you resort,
You can have no sport,
Unless you give custards and cheesecake too for’t:
And what’s the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh,
Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff?

Both pancake and fritter of milk have good store,
But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more;
Of no brew {226a} you can think,
Though you study and wink,
From the lusty sack posset to poor posset drink,
But milk’s the ingredient, though wine’s {226b} ne’er the worse,
For ’tis wine makes the man, though ’tis milk makes the nurse.

THE MILK-MAID’S LIFE.

[OF this popular country song there are a variety of versions. The following, which is the most ancient, is transcribed from a black-letter broadside in the Roxburgh Collection, entitled _The Milke-maid’s Life_; _or_, _a pretty new ditty composed and penned_, _the praise of the Milking-pail to defend_. To a curious new tune called the _Milke-maid’s Dump_. It is subscribed with the initials M. P.; probably those of Martin Parker.]

YOU rural goddesses,
That woods and fields possess,
Assist me with your skill, that may direct my quill,
More jocundly to express,
The mirth and delight, both morning and night,
On mountain or in dale,
Of them who choose this trade to use,
And, through cold dews, do never refuse
To carry the milking-pail.

The bravest lasses gay,
Live not so merry as they;
In honest civil sort they make each other sport,
As they trudge on their way;
Come fair or foul weather, they’re fearful of neither,
Their courages never quail.
In wet and dry, though winds be high,
And dark’s the sky, they ne’er deny
To carry the milking-pail.

Their hearts are free from care,
They never will despair;
Whatever them befal, they bravely bear out all,
And fortune’s frowns outdare.
They pleasantly sing to welcome the spring,
’Gainst heaven they never rail;
If grass well grow, their thanks they show,
And, frost or snow, they merrily go
Along with the milking-pail:

Base idleness they do scorn,
They rise very early i’ th’ morn,
And walk into the field, where pretty birds do yield
Brave music on every thorn.
The linnet and thrush do sing on each bush,
And the dulcet nightingale
Her note doth strain, by jocund vein,
To entertain that worthy train,
Which carry the milking-pail.

Their labour doth health preserve,
No doctor’s rules they observe,
While others too nice in taking their advice,
Look always as though they would starve.
Their meat is digested, they ne’er are molested,
No sickness doth them assail;
Their time is spent in merriment,
While limbs are lent, they are content,
To carry the milking-pail.

Upon the first of May,
With garlands, fresh and gay,
With mirth and music sweet, for such a season meet,
They pass the time away.
They dance away sorrow, and all the day thorough
Their legs do never fail,
For they nimbly their feet do ply,
And bravely try the victory,
In honour o’ the milking-pail.

If any think that I
Do practise flattery,
In seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaids’ praise,
I’ll to them thus reply:—
It is their desert inviteth my art,
To study this pleasant tale;
In their defence, whose innocence,
And providence, gets honest pence
Out of the milking-pail.

THE MILKING-PAIL.

[THE following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one most commonly sung.]

YE nymphs and sylvan gods,
That love green fields and woods,
When spring newly-born herself does adorn,
With flowers and blooming buds:
Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,
On yonder pleasant vale,
Of those that choose to milk their ewes,
And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
To carry the milking-pail.

You goddess of the morn,
With blushes you adorn,
And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare
A concert on each green thorn;
The blackbird and thrush on every bush,
And the charming nightingale,
In merry vein, their throats do strain
To entertain, the jolly train
Of those of the milking-pail.

When cold bleak winds do roar,
And flowers will spring no more,
The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,
With winter all candied o’er,
See now the town lass, with her white face,
And her lips so deadly pale;
But it is not so, with those that go
Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,
And carry the milking-pail.

The country lad is free
From fears and jealousy,
Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,
With his lass upon his knee.
With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
And swears her charms won’t fail;
But the London lass, in every place,
With brazen face, despises the grace
Of those of the milking-pail.

THE SUMMER’S MORNING.

[THIS is a very old ditty, and a favourite with the peasantry in every part of England; but more particularly in the mining districts of the North. The tune is pleasing, but uncommon. R. W. Dixon, Esq., of Seaton-Carew, Durham, by whom the song was communicated to his brother for publication, says, ‘I have written down the above, _verbatim_, as generally sung. It will be seen that the last lines of each verse are not of equal length. The singer, however, makes all right and smooth! The words underlined in each verse are sung five times, thus:—_They ad-van-cèd_, _they ad-van-cèd_, _they ad-van-cèd_, _they ad-van-cèd_, _they ad-van-cèd me some money_,—_ten guineas and a crown_. The last line is thus sung:—_We’ll be married_, (as the word is usually pronounced), _We’ll be married_, _we’ll be married_, _we’ll be married_, _we’ll be married_, _we’ll be mar-ri-èd when I return again_.’ The tune is given in _Popular Music_. Since this song appeared in the volume issued by the Percy Society, we have met with a copy printed at Devonport. The readings are in general not so good; but in one or two instances they are apparently more ancient, and are, consequently, here adopted. The Devonport copy contains two verses, not preserved in our traditional version. These we have incorporated in our present text, in which they form the third and last stanzas.]

IT was one summer’s morning, as I went o’er the moss,
I had no thought of ’listing, till the soldiers did me cross;
They kindly did invite me to a flowing bowl, and down,
_They advancèd_ me some money,—ten guineas and a crown.

‘It’s true my love has listed, he wears a white cockade,
He is a handsome tall young man, besides a roving blade;
He is a handsome young man, and he’s gone to serve the king,
_Oh_! _my very_ heart is breaking for the loss of him.

‘My love is tall and handsome, and comely for to see,
And by a sad misfortune a soldier now is he;
I hope the man that listed him may not prosper night nor day,
_For I wish that_ the Hollànders may sink him in the sea.

‘Oh! may he never prosper, oh! may he never thrive,
Nor anything he takes in hand so long as he’s alive;
May the very grass he treads upon the ground refuse to grow,
_Since he’s been_ the only cause of my sorrow, grief, and woe!’

Then he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her flowing eyes,—
‘Leave off those lamentations, likewise those mournful cries;
Leave of your grief and sorrow, while I march o’er the plain,
_We’ll be married_ when I return again.’

‘O now my love has listed, and I for him will rove,
I’ll write his name on every tree that grows in yonder grove,
Where the huntsman he does hollow, and the hounds do sweetly cry,
_To remind me_ of my ploughboy until the day I die.’

OLD ADAM.

[WE have had considerable trouble in procuring a copy of this old song, which used, in former days, to be very popular with aged people resident in the North of England. It has been long out of print, and handed down traditionally. By the kindness, however, of Mr. S. Swindells, printer, Manchester, we have been favoured with an ancient printed copy, which Mr. Swindells observes he had great difficulty in obtaining. Some improvements have been made in the present edition from the recital of Mr. Effingham Wilson, who was familiar with the song in his youth.]

BOTH sexes give ear to my fancy,
While in praise of dear woman I sing;
Confined not to Moll, Sue, or Nancy,
But mates from a beggar to king.

When old Adam first was created,
And lord of the universe crowned,
His happiness was not completed,
Until that an helpmate was found.

He’d all things in food that were wanting
To keep and support him through life;
He’d horses and foxes for hunting,
Which some men love better than wife.

He’d a garden so planted by nature,
Man cannot produce in his life;
But yet the all-wise great Creator
Still saw that he wanted a wife.

Then Adam he laid in a slumber,
And there he lost part of his side;
And when he awoke, with a wonder,
Beheld his most beautiful bride!

In transport he gazèd upon her,
His happiness now was complete!
He praisèd his bountiful donor,
Who thus had bestowed him a mate.

She was not took out of his head, sir,
To reign and triumph over man;
Nor was she took out of his feet, sir,
By man to be trampled upon.

But she was took out of his side, sir,
His equal and partner to be;
But as they’re united in one, sir,
The man is the top of the tree.

Then let not the fair be despisèd
By man, as she’s part of himself;
For woman by Adam was prizèd
More than the whole globe full of wealth.

Man without a woman’s a beggar,
Suppose the whole world he possessed;
And the beggar that’s got a good woman,
With more than the world he is blest.

TOBACCO.

[THIS song is a mere adaptation of _Smoking Spiritualized_; see _ante_, p. 39. The earliest copy of the abridgment we have been able to meet with, is published in D’Urfey’s _Pills to purge Melancholy_, 1719; but whether we are indebted for it to the author of the original poem, or to ‘that bright genius, Tom D’Urfey,’ as Burns calls him, we are not able to determine. The song has always been popular. The tune is in _Popular Music_.]

TOBACCO’S but an Indian weed,
Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve;
It shows our decay,
We are but clay;
Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The pipe that is so lily white,
Wherein so many take delight,
It’s broken with a touch,—
Man’s life is such;
Think of this when you take tobacco!

The pipe that is so foul within,
It shows man’s soul is stained with sin;
It doth require
To be purred with fire;
Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The dust that from the pipe doth fall,
It shows we are nothing but dust at all;
For we came from the dust,
And return we must;
Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The ashes that are left behind,
Do serve to put us all in mind
That unto dust
Return we must;
Think of this when you take tobacco!

The smoke that does so high ascend,
Shows that man’s life must have an end;
The vapour’s gone,—
Man’s life is done;
Think of this when you take tobacco!

THE SPANISH LADIES.

[THIS song is ancient, but we have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written. Captain Marryat, in his novel of _Poor Jack_, introduces it, and says it is _old_. It is a general favourite. The air is plaintive, and in the minor key. See _Popular Music_.]

FAREWELL, and adieu to you Spanish ladies,
Farewell, and adieu to you ladies of Spain!
For we’ve received orders for to sail for old England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.

We’ll rant and we’ll roar {234} like true British heroes,
We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.

Then we hove our ship to, with the wind at sou’-west, boys,
We hove our ship to, for to strike soundings clear;
We got soundings in ninety-five fathom, and boldly
Up the channel of old England our course we did steer.

The first land we made it was callèd the Deadman,
Next, Ram’shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight;
We passèd by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness,
And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland light.

Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor
All in the Downs, that night for to sleep;
Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters,
Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.

So let every man toss off a full bumper,
Let every man toss off his full bowls;
We’ll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,
So here’s a good health to all true-hearted souls!

HARRY THE TAILOR.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[THE following song was taken down some years ago from the recitation of a country curate, who said he had learned it from a very old inhabitant of Methley, near Pontefract, Yorkshire. We have never seen it in print.]

WHEN Harry the tailor was twenty years old,
He began for to look with courage so bold;
He told his old mother he was not in jest,
But he would have a wife as well as the rest.

Then Harry next morning, before it was day,
To the house of his fair maid took his way.
He found his dear Dolly a making of cheese,
Says he, ‘You must give me a buss, if you please!’

She up with the bowl, the butter-milk flew,
And Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue.
‘O, Dolly, my dear, what hast thou done?
From my back to my breeks has thy butter-milk run.’

She gave him a push, he stumbled and fell
Down from the dairy into the drawwell.
Then Harry, the ploughboy, ran amain,
And soon brought him up in the bucket again.

Then Harry went home like a drowned rat,
And told his old mother what he had been at.
With butter-milk, bowl, and a terrible fall,
O, if this be called love, may the devil take all!

SIR ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[FOR this old Northumbrian song we are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers. It was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The ‘Sir Arthur’ is no less a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]

AS noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride,
With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side,
He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,
He askèd her name, and she said ’twas Mollee.

‘Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall be,
To draw the red wine for yourself and for me!
I’ll make you a lady so high in degree,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!

‘I’ll give you fine ribbons, I’ll give you fine rings,
I’ll give you fine jewels, and many fine things;
I’ll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!’

‘I’ll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings,
None of your jewels, and other fine things;
And I’ve got a petticoat suits my degree,
And I’ll ne’er love a married man till his wife dee.’

‘Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife,
And I will go home, and I’ll kill my own wife;
I’ll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!’

‘Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so,
Go home to your wife, and let nobody know;
For seven long years I will wait upon thee,
But I’ll ne’er love a married man till his wife dee.’

Now seven long years are gone and are past,
The old woman went to her long home at last;
The old woman died, and Sir Arthur was free,
And he soon came a-courting to charming Mollee.

Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth ride,
With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side:
Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me,
And ne’er love a married man till his wife dee.

THERE WAS AN OLD MAN CAME OVER THE LEA.

[THIS is a version of the _Baillie of Berwick_, which will be found in the _Local Historian’s Table-Book_. It was originally obtained from Morpeth, and communicated by W. H. Longstaffe, Esq., of Darlington, who says, ‘in many respects the _Baillie of Berwick_ is the better edition—still mine may furnish an extra stanza or two, and the ha! ha! ha! is better than heigho, though the notes suit either version.’]

THERE was an old man came over the Lea,
Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won’t have him. {237}
He came over the Lea,
A-courting to me,
With his grey beard newly-shaven.

My mother she bid me open the door:
I opened the door,
And he fell on the floor.

My mother she bid me set him a stool:
I set him a stool,
And he looked like a fool.

My mother she bid me give him some beer:
I gave him some beer,
And he thought it good cheer.

My mother she bid me cut him some bread:
I cut him some bread,
And I threw’t at his head.

My mother she bid me light him to bed:
I lit him to bed,
And wished he were dead.

My mother she bid me tell him to rise:
I told him to rise,
And he opened his eyes.

My mother she bid me take him to church:
I took him to church,
And left him in the lurch;
With his grey beard newly-shaven.

WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES.

[A VERSION of this very favourite song may be found in Ramsay’s _Tea-Table Miscellany_. Though a sailor’s song, we question whether it is not a greater favourite with landsmen. The chorus is become proverbial, and its philosophy has often been invoked to mitigate the evils and misfortunes of life.]

HOW pleasant a sailor’s life passes,
Who roams o’er the watery main!
No treasure he ever amasses,
But cheerfully spends all his gain.
We’re strangers to party and faction,
To honour and honesty true;
And would not commit a bad action
For power or profit in view.
Then why should we quarrel for riches,
Or any such glittering toys;
A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches,
Will go through the world, my brave boys!

The world is a beautiful garden,
Enriched with the blessings of life,
The toiler with plenty rewarding,
Which plenty too often breeds strife.
When terrible tempests assail us,
And mountainous billows affright,
No grandeur or wealth can avail us,
But skilful industry steers right.
Then why, &c.

The courtier’s more subject to dangers,
Who rules at the helm of the state,
Than we that, to politics strangers,
Escape the snares laid for the great.
The various blessings of nature,
In various nations we try;
No mortals than us can be greater,
Who merrily live till we die.
Then why should, &c.

THE MERRY FELLOWS;

OR, HE THAT WILL NOT MERRY, MERRY BE.

[THE popularity of this old lyric, of which ours is the ballad-printer’s version, has been increased by the lively and appropriate music recently adapted to it by Mr. Holderness. The date of this song is about the era of Charles II.]

NOW, since we’re met, let’s merry, merry be,
In spite of all our foes;
And he that will not merry be,
We’ll pull him by the nose.
_Cho_. Let him be merry, merry there,
While we’re all merry, merry here,
For who can know where he shall go,
To be merry another year.

He that will not merry, merry be,
With a generous bowl and a toast,
May he in Bridewell be shut up,
And fast bound to a post.
Let him, &c.

He that will not merry, merry be,
And take his glass in course,
May he be obliged to drink small beer,
Ne’er a penny in his purse.
Let him, &c.

He that will not merry, merry be,
With a company of jolly boys;
May he be plagued with a scolding wife,
To confound him with her noise.
Let him, &c.

[He that will not merry, merry be,
With his sweetheart by his side,
Let him be laid in the cold churchyard,
With a head-stone for his bride.
Let him, &c.]

THE OLD MAN’S SONG.

[THIS ditty, still occasionally heard in the country districts, seems to be the original of the very beautiful song, _The Downhill of Life_. _The Old Man’s Song_ may be found in Playford’s _Theatre of Music_, 1685; but we are inclined to refer it to an earlier period. The song is also published by D’Urfey, accompanied by two objectionable parodies.]

IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate in a country town:—
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate;
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

In a country town, by a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance on which I may look;
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern, &c.

With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more
Of the best wits that lived in the age before;
With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal,
And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal.
May I govern, &c.

With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar;
With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine,
To drink the king’s health in as oft as I dine.
May I govern, &c.

When the days are grown short, and it freezes and snows,
May I have a coal fire as high as my nose;
A fire (which once stirred up with a prong),
Will keep the room temperate all the night long.
May I govern, &c.

With a courage undaunted may I face my last day;
And when I am dead may the better sort say—
‘In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,
He’s gone, and he leaves not behind him his fellow!’
May I govern, &c.

ROBIN HOOD’S HILL.

[RITSON speaks of a Robin Hood’s Hill near Gloucester, and of a ‘foolish song’ about it. Whether this is the song to which he alludes we cannot determine. We find it in _Notes and Queries_, where it is stated to be printed from a MS. of the latter part of the last century, and described as a song well known in the district to which it refers.]

YE bards who extol the gay valleys and glades,
The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades,
Who prospects so rural can boast at your will,
Yet never once mentioned sweet ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

This spot, which of nature displays every smile,
From famed Glo’ster city is distanced two mile,
Of which you a view may obtain at your will,
From the sweet rural summit of ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow,
To supply and refresh the fair valley below;
No dog-star’s brisk heat e’er diminished the rill
Which sweetly doth prattle on ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

Here, gazing around, you find objects still new,
Of Severn’s sweet windings, how pleasing the view,
Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill
The sweet-smelling vale beneath ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare,
Few valleys can with it for herbage compare;
Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill
Direct to the praise of sweet ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

Here lads and gay lasses in couples resort,
For sweet rural pastime and innocent sport;
Sure pleasures ne’er flowed from gay nature or skill,
Like those that are found on sweet ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

Had I all the riches of matchless Peru,
To revel in splendour as emperors do,
I’d forfeit the whole with a hearty good will,
To dwell in a cottage on ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

Then, poets, record my loved theme in your lays:
First view;—then you’ll own that ’tis worthy of praise;
Nay, Envy herself must acknowledge it still,
That no spot’s so delightful as ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’

BEGONE DULL CARE.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[WE cannot trace this popular ditty beyond the reign of James II, but we believe it to be older. The origin is to be found in an early French chanson. The present version has been taken down from the singing of an old Yorkshire yeoman. The third verse we have never seen in print, but it is always sung in the west of Yorkshire.]

BEGONE, dull care!
I prithee begone from me;
Begone, dull care!
Thou and I can never agree.
Long while thou hast been tarrying here,
And fain thou wouldst me kill;
But i’ faith, dull care,
Thou never shalt have thy will.

Too much care
Will make a young man grey;
Too much care
Will turn an old man to clay.
My wife shall dance, and I shall sing,
So merrily pass the day;
For I hold it is the wisest thing,
To drive dull care away.

Hence, dull care,
I’ll none of thy company;
Hence, dull care,
Thou art no pair {243} for me.
We’ll hunt the wild boar through the wold,
So merrily pass the day;
And then at night, o’er a cheerful bowl,
We’ll drive dull care away.

FULL MERRILY SINGS THE CUCKOO.

[THE earliest copy of this playful song is one contained in a MS. of the reign of James I., preserved amongst the registers of the Stationers’ Company; but the song can be traced back to 1566.]

FULL merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the beechen tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the morn,
When of married men
Full nine in ten
Must be content to wear the horn.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the oaken tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the day!
For married men
But now and then,
Can ’scape to bear the horn away.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the ashen tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the noon,
When married men
Must watch the hen,
Or some strange fox will steal her soon.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the alder tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the eve,
When married men
Must bid good den
To such as horns to them do give.

Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the aspen tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the night,
When married men,
Again and again,
Must hide their horns in their despite.

JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.

[A VERSION of this song, not quite so accurate as the following was published from an old broadside in _Notes and Queries_, vol. vii., p. 49, where it is described as a ‘very celebrated Gloucestershire ballad.’ But Gloucestershire is not exclusively entitled to the honour of this genuine old country song, which is well known in Westmoreland and other counties. ‘Jockey’ songs constitute a distinct and numerous class, and belong for the most part to the middle of the last century, when Jockey and Jenny were formidable rivals to the Strephons and Chloes of the artificial school of pastoral poetry. The author of this song, whoever he was, drew upon real rural life, and not upon its fashionable masquerade. We have been unable to trace the exact date of this ditty, which still enjoys in some districts a wide popularity. It is not to be found in any of several large collections of Ranelagh and Vauxhall songs, and other anthologies, which we have examined. From the christian names of the lovers, it might be supposed to be of Scotch or Border origin; but _Jockey to the Fair_ is not confined to the North; indeed it is much better known, and more frequently sung, in the South and West.]

’TWAS on the morn of sweet May-day,
When nature painted all things gay,
Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play,
And gild the meadows fair;
Young Jockey, early in the dawn,
Arose and tripped it o’er the lawn;
His Sunday clothes the youth put on,
For Jenny had vowed away to run
With Jockey to the fair;
For Jenny had vowed, &c.

The cheerful parish bells had rung,
With eager steps he trudged along,
While flowery garlands round him hung,
Which shepherds use to wear;
He tapped the window; ‘Haste, my dear!’
Jenny impatient cried, ‘Who’s there?’
‘’Tis I, my love, and no one near;
Step gently down, you’ve nought to fear,
With Jockey to the fair.’
Step gently down, &c.

‘My dad and mam are fast asleep,
My brother’s up, and with the sheep;
And will you still your promise keep,
Which I have heard you swear?
And will you ever constant prove?’
‘I will, by all the powers above,
And ne’er deceive my charming dove;
Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love,
With Jockey to the fair.’
Dispel, &c.

‘Behold, the ring,’ the shepherd cried;
‘Will Jenny be my charming bride?
Let Cupid be our happy guide,
And Hymen meet us there.’
Then Jockey did his vows renew;
He would be constant, would he true,
His word was pledged; away she flew,
O’er cowslips tipped with balmy dew,
With Jockey to the fair.
O’er cowslips, &c.

In raptures meet the joyful throng;
Their gay companions, blithe and young,
Each join the dance, each raise the song,
To hail the happy pair.
In turns there’s none so loud as they,
They bless the kind propitious day,
The smiling morn of blooming May,
When lovely Jenny ran away
With Jockey to the fair.
When lovely, &c.

LONG PRESTON PEG.

(A FRAGMENT.)

[MR. BIRKBECK, of Threapland House, Lintondale, in Craven, has favoured us with the following fragment. The tune is well known in the North, but all attempts on the part of Mr. Birkbeck to obtain the remaining verses have been unsuccessful. The song is evidently of the date of the first rebellion, 1715.]

LONG Preston Peg to proud Preston went,
To see the Scotch rebels it was her intent.
A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by,
On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye.

He called to his servant, which on him did wait,
‘Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate, {247}
That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet,
And in my name do her lovingly greet.’

THE SWEET NIGHTINGALE;

OR, DOWN IN THOSE VALLEYS BELOW.

AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.

[THIS curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the seventeenth century, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure-gardens of the Marienberg, on the Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The leader or ‘Captain,’ John Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:—

I have had a great deal of trouble about _The Valley Below_. It is
not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then
with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the
whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the
roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however,
as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there,
but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident
what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman
at Truro, and he says ‘It is pretty near the way we sing it.’

The tune is plaintive and original.]

‘MY sweetheart, come along!
Don’t you hear the fond song,
The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?
Don’t you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below?
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.

‘Pretty Betsy, don’t fail,
For I’ll carry your pail,
Safe home to your cot as we go;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below.’
But she was afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.

‘Pray let me alone,
I have hands of my own;
Along with you I will not go,
To hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
For I am afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.’

‘Pray sit yourself down
With me on the ground,
On this bank where sweet primroses grow;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.’

This couple agreed;
They were married with speed,
And soon to the church they did go.
She was no more afraid
For to {249} walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below:
Nor to hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sung in those valleys below,
As she sung in those valleys below.

THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.

[THIS traditional ditty, founded upon the old ballad inserted _ante_, p. 124, is current as a nursery song in the North of England.]

THERE was an old man, and sons he had three, {250}
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
A friar he being one of the three,
With pleasure he rangèd the north country,
For he was a jovial hunter.

As he went to the woods some pastime to see,
Wind well, Lion, good hunter,
He spied a fair lady under a tree,
Sighing and moaning mournfully.
He was a jovial hunter.

‘What are you doing, my fair lady!’
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
‘I’m frightened, the wild boar he will kill me,
He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty,
As thou art a jovial hunter.’

Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth,
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south,
And the wild boar from his den he came forth
Unto the jovial hunter.

A BEGGING WE WILL GO.

[THE authorship of this song is attributed to Richard Brome—(he who once ‘performed a servant’s faithful part’ for Ben Jonson)—in a black-letter copy in the Bagford Collection, where it is entitled _The Beggars’ Chorus in the_ ‘_Jovial Crew_,’ _to an excellent new tune_. No such chorus, however, appears in the play, which was produced at the Cock-pit in 1641; and the probability is, as Mr. Chappell conjectures, that it was only interpolated in the performance. It is sometimes called _The Jovial Beggar_. The tune has been from time to time introduced into several ballad operas; and the song, says Mr. Chappell, who publishes the air in his _Popular Music_, ‘is the prototype of many others, such as _A bowling we will go_, _A fishing we will go_, _A hawking we will go_, and _A fishing we will go_. The last named is still popular with those who take delight in hunting, and the air is now scarcely known by any other title.]

THERE was a jovial beggar,
He had a wooden leg,
Lame from his cradle,
And forced for to beg.
And a begging we will go, we’ll go, we’ll go;
And a begging we will go!

A bag for his oatmeal,
Another for his salt;
And a pair of crutches,
To show that he can halt.
And a begging, &c.

A bag for his wheat,
Another for his rye;
A little bottle by his side,
To drink when he’s a-dry.
And a begging, &c.

Seven years I begged
For my old Master Wild,
He taught me to beg
When I was but a child.
And a begging, &c.

I begged for my master,
And got him store of pelf;
But now, Jove be praised!
I’m begging for myself.
And a begging, &c.

In a hollow tree
I live, and pay no rent;
Providence provides for me,
And I am well content.
And a begging, &c.

Of all the occupations,
A beggar’s life’s the best;
For whene’er he’s weary,
He’ll lay him down and rest.
And a begging, &c.

I fear no plots against me,
I live in open cell;
Then who would be a king
When beggars live so well?
And a begging we will go, we’ll go, we’ll go;
And a begging we will go!

* * * * *

THE END.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES.

{24} This is the same tune as _Fortune my foe_.—See _Popular Music of the Olden Time_, p. 162.

{51} This word seems to be used here in the sense of the French verb _mettre_, to put, to place.

{61} The stall copies read ‘Gamble bold.’

{64} In the Roxburgh Collection is a copy of this ballad, in which the catastrophe is brought about in a different manner. When the young lady finds that she is to be drowned, she very leisurely makes a particular examination of the place of her intended destruction, and raises an objection to some nettles which are growing on the banks of the stream; these she requires to be removed, in the following poetical stanza:—

‘Go fetch the sickle, to crop the nettle,
That grows so near the brim;
For fear it should tangle my golden locks,
Or freckle my milk-white skin.’

A request so elegantly made is gallantly complied with by the treacherous knight, who, while engaged in ‘cropping’ the nettles, is pushed into the stream.

{72a} A _tinker_ is still so called in the north of England.

{72b} This poor minstrel was born at the village of Rylstone, in Craven, the scene of Wordsworth’s _White Doe of Rylstone_. King was always called ‘the Skipton Minstrel;’ and he merited that name, for he was not a mere player of jigs and country dances, but a singer of heroic ballads, carrying his hearers back to the days of chivalry and royal adventure, when the King of England called up Cheshire and Lancashire to fight the King of France, and monarchs sought the greenwood tree, and hob-a-nobbed with tinkers, knighting these Johns of the Dale as a matter of poetical justice and high sovereign prerogative. Francis King was a character. His physiognomy was striking and peculiar; and, although there was nothing of the rogue in its expression, for an honester fellow never breathed, he might have sat for Wordsworth’s ‘Peter Bell.’ He combined in a rare degree the qualities of the mime and the minstrel, and his old jokes, and older ballads and songs, always ensured him a hearty welcome. He was lame, in consequence of one leg being shorter than the other, and his limping gait used to give occasion to the remark that ‘few Kings had had more ups and downs in the world.’ He met his death by drowning on the night of December 13, 1844. He had been at a ‘merry-making’ at Gargrave, in Craven, and it is supposed that, owing to the darkness of the night, he mistook the road, and walked into the river. As a musician his talents were creditable; and his name will long survive in the village records. The minstrel’s grave is in the quiet churchyard of Gargrave. Further particulars of Francis King may be seen in Dixon’s _Stories of the Craven Dales_, published by Tasker and Son, of Skipton.

{92} This is the ancient way of spelling the name of Reading. In Percy’s version of _Barbara Allen_, that ballad commences ‘In Scarlet town,’ which, in the common stall copies, is rendered ‘In Redding town.’ The former is apparently a pun upon the old orthography—_Red_ding.

{108a} The sister of Roger.

{108b} This gentleman was Mr. Thomas Petty.

{111} We here, and in a subsequent verse, find ‘daughter’ made to rhyme with ‘after;’ but we must not therefore conclude that the rhyme is of cockney origin. In many parts of England, the word ‘daughter’ is pronounced ‘dafter’ by the peasantry, who, upon the same principle, pronounce ‘slaughter’ as if it were spelt ‘slafter.’

{125a} Added to complete the sense.

{125b} That is, ‘said he, the wild boar.’

{129} Scott has strangely misunderstood this line, which he interprets—

‘Many people did she _kill_.’

‘Fell’ is to knock down, and the meaning is that she could ‘well’ knock down, or ‘fell’ people.

{130a} Went.

{130b} The meaning appears to be that no ‘wiseman’ or wizard, no matter from whence his magic, was derived, durst face her. Craven has always been famed for its wizards, or wisemen, and several of such impostors may be found there at the present day.

{130c} Scott’s MS. reads Ralph, but Raphe is the ancient form.

{130d} Scott reads ‘brim as beare,’ which he interprets ‘fierce as a bear.’ Whitaker’s rendering is correct. Beare is a small hamlet on the Bay of Morecambe, no great distance, as the crow files, from the _locale_ of the poem. There is also a Bear-park in the county of Durham, of which place Bryan might be an inhabitant. _Utrum horum_, &c.

{130e} That is, they were good soldiers when the _musters_ were—when the regiments were called up.

{131a} Fierce look.

{131b} Descended from an ancient race famed for fighting.

{131c} Assaulted. They were, although out of danger, terrified by the attacks of the sow, and their fear was shared by the kiln, which began to smoke!

{131d} Watling-street, the Roman way from Catterick to Bowes.

{132a} Lost his colour.

{132b} Scott, not understanding this expression, has inserted ‘Jesus’ for the initials ‘I. H. S.,’ and so has given a profane interpretation to the passage. By a figure of speech the friar is called an I. H. S., from these letters being conspicuously wrought on his robes, just as we might call a livery-servant by his master’s motto, because it was stamped on his buttons.

{133} The meaning here is obscure. The verse is not in Whitaker.

{134} Warlock or wizard.

{135a} It is probable that by guest is meant an allusion to the spectre dog of Yorkshire (the _Barguest_), to which the sow is compared.

{135b} Hired.

{137} The monastery of Gray Friars at Richmond.—See LELAND, _Itin._, vol. iii, p. 109.

{141} This appears to have been a cant saying in the reign of Charles II. It occurs in several novels, jest books and satires of the time, and was probably as unmeaning as such vulgarisms are in general.

{142} A cake composed of oatmeal, caraway-seeds, and treacle. ‘Ale and parkin’ is a common morning meal in the north of England.

{149} The popularity of this West-country song has extended even to Ireland, as appears from two Irish versions, supplied by the late Mr. T. Crofton Croker. One of them is entitled _Last New-Year’s Day_, and is printed by Haly, Hanover-street, Cork. It follows the English song almost verbatim, with the exception of the first and second verses, which we subjoin:—

‘Last New-Year’s day, as I heard say,
Dick mounted on his dapple gray;
He mounted high and he mounted low,
Until he came to _sweet Raphoe_!
Sing fal de dol de ree,
Fol de dol, righ fol dee.
‘My buckskin does I did put on,
My spladdery clogs, _to save my brogues_!
And in my pocket a lump of bread,
And round my hat a ribbon red.’

The other version is entitled _Dicky of Ballyman_, and a note informs us that ‘Dicky of Ballyman’s sirname was Byrne!’ As our readers may like to hear how the Somersetshire bumpkin behaved after he had located himself in the town of Ballyman, and taken the sirname of Byrne, we give the whole of his amatory adventures in the sister-island. We discover from them, _inter alia_, that he had found ‘the best of friends’ in his ‘Uncle,’—that he had made a grand discovery in natural history, viz., that a rabbit is a _fowl_!—that he had taken the temperance pledge, which, however, his Mistress Ann had certainly not done; and, moreover, that he had become an enthusiast in potatoes!

DICKY OF BALLYMAN.

‘On New-Year’s day, as I heard say,
Dicky he saddled his dapple gray;
He put on his Sunday clothes,
His scarlet vest, and his new made hose.
Diddle dum di, diddle dum do,
Diddle dum di, diddle dum do.

‘He rode till he came to Wilson Hall,
There he rapped, and loud did call;
Mistress Ann came down straightway,
And asked him what he had to say?

‘‘Don’t you know me, Mistress Ann?
I am Dicky of Ballyman;
An honest lad, though I am poor,—
I never was in love before.

‘‘I have an uncle, the best of friends,
Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends;
And many other dainty fowl,
To please my life, my joy, my soul.

‘‘Sometimes I reap, sometimes I mow,
And to the market I do go,
To sell my father’s corn and hay,—
I earn my sixpence every day!’

‘‘Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your mark,—
You only wander in the dark;
Sixpence a day will never do,
I must have silks, and satins, too!

‘‘Besides, Dicky, I must have tea
For my breakfast, every day;
And after dinner a bottle of wine,—
For without it I cannot dine.’

‘‘If on fine clothes our money is spent,
Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent?
He’ll expect it when ’tis due,—
Believe me, what I say is true.

‘‘As for tea, good stirabout
Will do far better, I make no doubt;
And spring water, when you dine,
Is far wholesomer than wine.

‘‘Potatoes, too, are very nice food,—
I don’t know any half so good:
You may have them boiled or roast,
Whichever way you like them most.’

‘This gave the company much delight,
And made them all to laugh outright;
So Dicky had no more to say,
But saddled his dapple and rode away.
Diddle dum di, &c.’

{151} We have heard a Yorkshire yeoman sing a version, which commenced with this line:—

‘It was at the time of a high holiday.’

{153} Bell-ringing was formerly a great amusement of the English, and the allusions to it are of frequent occurrence. Numerous payments to bell-ringers are generally to be found in Churchwarden’s accounts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.—CHAPPELL.

{154} The subject and burthen of this song are identical with those of the song which immediately follows, called in some copies _The Clown’s Courtship_, _sung to the King at Windsor_, and in others, _I cannot come everyday to woo_. The Kentish ditty cannot be traced to so remote a date as the _Clown’s Courtship_; but it probably belongs to the same period.

{165a} The common modern copies read ‘St. Leger’s Round.’

{165b} The common stall copies read ‘Pan,’ which not only furnishes a more accurate rhyme to ‘Nan,’ but is, probably, the true reading. About the time when this song was written, there appears to have been some country minstrel or fiddler, who was well known by the sobriquet of ‘Pan.’ Frequent allusions to such a personage may be found in popular ditties of the period, and it is evidently that individual, and not the heathen deity, who is referred to in the song of _Arthur O’Bradley_:—

‘Not Pan, the god of the swains,
Could e’er produce such strains.’—See _ante_, p. 142.

{167} A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ says that, although there is some resemblance between Flora and Furry, the latter word is derived from an old Cornish term, and signifies jubilee or fair.

{171} There is another version of these concluding lines:—

‘Down the red lane there lives an old fox,
There does he sit a-mumping his chops;
Catch him, boys, catch him, catch if you can;
’Tis twenty to one if you catch him or Nan.’

{174} A cant term for a fiddle. In its literal sense, it means trunk, or box-belly.

{175} ‘Helicon,’ as observed by Sir C. Sharp, is, of course, the true reading.

{177} In the introduction of the ‘prodigal son,’ we have a relic derived from the old mysteries and moralities. Of late years, the ‘prodigal son’ has been left out, and his place supplied by a ‘sailor.’

{179} Probably the disease here pointed at is the sweating sickness of old times.

{180} Robert Kearton, a working miner, and librarian and lecturer at the Grassington Mechanics’ institution, informs us that at Coniston, in Lancashire, and the neighbourhood, the maskers go about at the proper season, viz., Easter. Their introductory song is different to the one given above. He has favoured us with two verses of the delectable composition; he says, ‘I dare say they’ll be quite sufficient!’