Chapter XI: Appendix

‘’Twas on Christmas Day,’ found on a slip, “Sold at No 42 Long Lane,” in a volume in the British Museum, 1876. e (not paged, but at what would be p. 57), and again in The New Covent Garden Concert, London, Printed and sold by J. Evans, No 41 Long-Lane, West Smithfield, Br. Mus. 1077. g. 47 (4), dated in the catalogue “1805?”

’Twas on Christmas Day
Father he did wed;
Three months after that
My mother was brought to bed.
My father he came home,
His head with liquor stord,
And found in mother’s room
A silver-hilted sword.
Fiddle de dum de de, etc.

‘How came this sword here?’
My mother says, says she,
‘Lovee, ’tis a poker
Antee sent to me.’
Father he stumbld and star’d;
’Twas the first, I ween,
Silver-headed poker
He had ever seen.

Father grumbled on,
But getting into bed
Egad! as luck fell out,
A man popd up his head;
‘That’s my milk-maid,’ says she;
Says dad, ‘I never heard
In all my travels yet
A milk-maid with a beard.’

My father found a whip,
And very glad was he;
‘And how came this whip here,
Without the leave of me?’
‘Oh! that’s a nice strap-lace
My antee sent to me;’
Egad! he lac’d her stays,
And out of doors went she.

FOOTNOTES:

[84] I am indebted for information concerning this song, and for a copy, to Mr P. Z. Round.

[85] Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Unsere Volksthümlichen Lieder, No 478. It begins:

Ich ging in meinen Stall, da sah ich, ei! ei! An Krippen standen Pferde, eins, zwei, drei.

[86] ‘O Violina, tu hai le gote rosse,’ a very pretty little _contrasto_ bundled by Tigri with his _rispetti_ (Canti p. toscani, p. 284, No 1023, ed. 1856), is a skirmish between father and daughter, after the fashion of our ballad. (‘My cheeks are stained with mulberries.’ ‘Show me the mulberries.’ ‘They are on the hedges.’ ‘Show me the hedges.’ ‘The goats have eaten them.’ ‘Show me the goats,’ etc.) Ferrari, in an excellent paper in the journal referred to above, tries to make out some historical relation between the two. He seems to me to take ‘La Violina’ quite too seriously.

275

GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR

=A. a.= ‘Get up and bar the Door,’ Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots
Songs, 1769, p. 330; Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, II,
159. =b.= [Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.

=B.= ‘John Blunt,’ Macmath MS., p. 74.

=C.= ‘Johnie Blunt,’ Johnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792.

The copy in Johnson’s Museum, volume three, No 300, p. 310, 1790, is =A a= with two slight changes; that in Ritson’s Scotish Song, I, 226, 1794, is =A a=. =A b= is substituted for =A a= in the third edition of Herd, 1791, II, 63. Christie, II, 262, who follows =A a=, but with changes, gives as a refrain, “common in the North of Scotland from time immemorial,”

And the barring o our door,
Weel, weel, weel!
And the barring o our door, weel!

=A, B.= A housewife is boiling puddings anight; a cold wind blows in, and her husband bids her bar the door; she has her hands in her work and will not. They come to an agreement that whoever speaks first shall bar the door. Two belated travellers are guided to the house by the light which streams through an opening. They come in, and, getting no reply to their questions or response to their greetings, fall to eating and drinking what they find; the goodwife thinks much, but says naught. One of the strangers proposes to the other to take off the man’s beard, and he himself will kiss the goodwife. Hot water is wanting (for scalding), suggests the second; but the boiling pudding-bree will serve, answers the first. The goodman calls out, Will ye kiss my wife and scald me? and having spoken the first word has to bar the door.

=C.= In =C= man and wife are in bed, and the travellers haul the woman out and lay her on the floor: this makes the husband give tongue.

Stenhouse notes that this ballad furnished Prince Hoare with the principal scene in his musical entertainment of “No Song, no Supper,” produced in 1790, and long a favorite on the stage. (Musical Museum, 1853, IV, 292.)

This tale is one of a group which may or may not have had a single archetype. Of the varieties, that which comes nearest is the first story in Straparola’s Eighth Day. Husband and wife are sitting near the entrance of their house one night; the husband says, It is time to go to bed, shut the door; she says, Shut it yourself. They make a compact that the one who speaks first shall shut the door. The wife, tired of silence and growing sleepy, goes to bed; the husband stretches himself on a bench. A gentleman’s servant, whose lantern has been put out by the wind, seeing the door open, asks for a light. There is no reply. Advancing a little way into the house, he finds the man lying on the bench with his eyes open, but can get no word from him though he shakes him. Looking round, he sees the woman in bed and addresses her, but she is as dumb as her husband; he gets into the bed. The woman says nothing till the intruder goes away; then calls out, A pretty man you, to leave the door open all night and let people get into your bed. Fool, he says, now go shut the door. The same, with insignificant divergences, in L’Élite des Contes du Sieur d’Ouville, Rouen, 1699, I, 159.

A wedding-feast over, neither bridegroom nor bride will consent to shut the street-door; the lady proposes that the one who speaks first shall do this, to which the bridegroom agrees. They sit looking at each other in silence for two hours. Thieves, seeing the door open, come in, pillage the house, and even strip the young pair of everything valuable that they have on them, but neither says a word. In the morning a patrol of police find the house door open, enter, and make an inspection. The chief demands an explanation of the state of things; neither man nor woman vouchsafes a response, and he orders their heads off. The executioner is beginning with the husband; the wife cries out, Spare him! the husband exclaims, You have lost, go shut the door. (The Arabian tale of Sulayman Bey and the Three Story-Tellers, cited by Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 29.)

Hemp-eaters, who have found a sequin and bought a mass of food, quarrel about fastening the gate of a tomb to which they have retired, to gorge unmolested. They come to an agreement that the man who first speaks shall close the gate. They let the victuals stand and sit mute. A troop of dogs rush in and eat all up clean. One of the party had secured some of the provender in advance of the rest, and bits are sticking to his mouth. A dog licks them away, and in so doing bites the lip of the fellow, who, in his pain, raps out a curse on the dog. The rest shout, Get up and shut the gate! (Turkish, Behrnauer, Die vierzig Veziere, p. 175 f.; Gibb, The History of the Forty Vezirs, p. 171 f.)

In the second Pickelheringsspiel, in the first part of Engelische Comedien und Tragedien, 1620, a married pair contend again about the shutting of a door. (R. Köhler; not seen by me.)

In other cases, speaking first entails a penalty different from shutting a door.

A young pair, lying in bed the first night after marriage, engage that whichever of the two gets up first or speaks first shall wash the dishes for a week. The husband, pretending to make his will by the process of expressing by signs his acceptance or rejection of the suggestions of a friend, bequeaths away from his wife a handsome article of dress belonging to her. The wife utters a protest, and has to wash the dishes. (Novelle di Sercambi, ed. d’Ancona, p. 16, No 3, ‘De simplicitate viri et uxoris.’)

A man complains of dry bread which his wife has given him for his supper. She tells him to get up and moisten it; he bids her do this, but she refuses. It is finally settled that the one that speaks first shall moisten the bread. A visitor comes in and can make neither of them say a word. He kisses the wife, gives the husband a blow on the cheek; no word from either. He makes complaint to the kází; the husband will say nothing when brought before the kází, and is condemned to be hanged. At the moment of execution the wife ejaculates, Alas, my unfortunate husband! You devil, says he, go home and moisten the bread! (An Arabian story in Beloe’s Oriental Apologues, cited by Clouston, II, 21.)

A shoemaker and his wife agree that the one who speaks first shall carry back a frying-pan that they have borrowed. A soldier who requires a girth for his horse asks the shoemaker to cut him one, but gets no answer, though he threatens to take off the man’s head. Enraged at last, he seizes the shoemaker by the head to do what he had menaced, when the wife cries out, For mercy’s sake, don’t! Well done! says the husband, now carry back the pan. (Bernoni, Fiabe pop. veneziane, p. 67, No 13, ‘La Scomessa;’ Crane, Italian Popular Tales, p. 284.)

John makes terms with his wife that which of the two eats first of a soup which she has brought in, or speaks the first word, shall have a beating. William, of whom the husband is jealous, comes to offer his company to go to a fight which is to come off. Man and wife will neither eat nor speak, and he thinks them possessed. He takes the woman by the hand, and she goes with him. John cries out, Let my wife be! She says, John, you have spoken and lost. (Ayrers Dramen, ed. von Keller, III, 2006-08.)

A man who has been taunting his wife as a cackler is challenged by her to a trial at silence. A tinker comes in asking for kettles to mend. He can make neither of them open their mouth, and, as a last resource, offers to kiss the woman. The husband cannot contain himself; the wife says, You have lost! and remains mistress of the house, as she had been before. (Farce d’un Chauldronnier, Viollet Le Duc, Ancien Théâtre François, II, 109 ff.)[87]

* * * * *

A

=a.= Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 330. =b.=
[Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.

1
It fell about the Martinmas time,
And a gay time it was then,
When our goodwife got puddings to make,
And she’s boild them in the pan.

2
The wind sae cauld blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
‘Gae out and bar the door.’

3
‘My hand is in my hussyfskap,
Goodman, as ye may see;
An it shoud nae be barrd this hundred year,
It’s no be barrd for me.’

4
They made a paction tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,
That the first word whaeer shoud speak,
Shoud rise and bar the door.

5
Then by there came two gentlemen,
At twelve o clock at night,
And they could neither see house nor hall,
Nor coal nor candle-light.

6
‘Now whether is this a rich man’s house,
Or whether is it a poor?’
But neer a word wad ane o them speak,
For barring of the door.

7
And first they ate the white puddings,
And then they ate the black;
Tho muckle thought the goodwife to hersel,
Yet neer a word she spake.

8
Then said the one unto the other,
‘Here, man, tak ye my knife;
Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,
And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’

9
‘But there’s nae water in the house,
And what shall we do than?’
‘What ails ye at the pudding-broo,
That boils into the pan?’

10
O up then started our goodman,
An angry man was he:
‘Will ye kiss my wife before my een,
And scad me wi pudding-bree?’

11
Then up and started our goodwife,
Gied three skips on the floor:
‘Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word,
Get up and bar the door.’

B

Macmath MS. p. 74. “From the singing of Miss Jane Webster, 15th
October, 1886, and 26th August, 1887, who learned it at Airds of
Kells, Kirkcudbrightshire, many years ago, from James McJannet.”

1
There leeved a wee man at the fit o yon hill,
John Blunt it was his name, O
And he selld liquor and ale o the best,
And bears a wondrous fame. O
Tal lara ta lilt, tal lare a lilt,
Tal lara ta lilt, tal lara

2
The wind it blew frae north to south,
It blew into the floor;
Says auld John Blunt to Janet the wife,
Ye maun rise up and bar the door.

3
‘My hans are in my husseyskep,
I canna weel get them free,
And if ye dinna bar it yersel
It’ll never be barred by me.’

4
They made it up atween them twa,
They made it unco sure,
That the ane that spoke the foremost word
Was to rise and bar the door.

5
There was twa travellers travelling late,
Was travelling cross the muir,
And they cam unto wee John Blunt’s,
Just by the light o the door.

6
‘O whether is this a rich man’s house,
Or whether is it a puir?’
But never a word would the auld bodies speak,
For the barring o the door.

7
First they bad good een to them,
And syne they bad good morrow;
But never a word would the auld bodies speak,
For the barring o the door, O.

8
First they ate the white puddin,
And syne they ate the black,
And aye the auld wife said to hersel,
May the deil slip down wi that!

9
And next they drank o the liquor sae strong,
And syne they drank o the yill:
‘And since we hae got a house o our ain
I’m sure we may tak our fill.’

10
It’s says the ane unto the ither,
Here, man, tak ye my knife,
An ye’ll scrape aff the auld man’s beard,
While I kiss the gudewife.

11
‘Ye hae eaten my meat, ye hae drucken my drink,
Ye’d make my auld wife a whore!’
‘John Blunt, ye hae spoken the foremost word,
Ye maun rise up and bar the door.’

C

Johnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792. Contributed by Robert Burns.

1
There livd a man in yonder glen,
And John Blunt was his name; O
He maks gude maut and he brews gude ale,
And he bears a wondrous fame. O

2
The wind blew in the hallan ae night,
Fu snell out oer the moor;
‘Rise up, rise up, auld Luckie,’ he says,
‘Rise up, and bar the door.’

3
They made a paction tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,
Whaeer sud speak the foremost word
Should rise and bar the door.

4
Three travellers that had tint their gate,
As thro the hills they foor,
They airted by the line o light
Fu straught to Johnie Blunt’s door.

5
They haurld auld Luckie out o her bed
And laid her on the floor,
But never a word auld Luckie wad say,
For barrin o the door.

6
‘Ye’ve eaten my bread, ye hae druken my ale,
And ye’ll mak my auld wife a whore!’
‘A ha, Johnie Blunt! ye hae spoke the first word,
Get up and bar the door.’

* * * * *

=A. a.=

_Johnson’s Museum has these variations_:

2^4. Gat up and.

4^3. first who should speak the foremost word.

=b.=

1^3. That our gudewife had.

1^4. she boild.

2^1. wind blew cauld frae east.

2^4. Get up and.

3^3. hunder.

3^4. Its neer be barrd by.

4^2. word whaever spak.

5^1. come.

5^3. Whan they can see na ither house.

5^4. And at the door they light.

7^2. And syne.

7^3. Tho _wanting_.

8^1. Then ane unto the ither said.

9^3. bree.

11^1. O up then started.

11^3. you have spak the first word.

O _is added to the second and fourth lines for singing, in both of
the Museum copies and in_ =B=.

FOOTNOTES:

[87] All the above have been cited by Reinhold Köhler, Jahrbuch für romanische u. englische Literatur, XII, 348 f., or by Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 15 ff.

276

THE FRIAR IN THE WELL

=A. a.= ‘The Fryer well fitted,’ etc., Rawlinson Ballads, 566, fol.
63, 4°. =b.= ‘The Fryer well fitted,’ etc., Roxburghe Ballads, II,
172; Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, 222. =c.= ‘The Fryer and the
Maid,’ Wit and Mirth, or, Pills to purge Melancholy, “I, 340, 1707,”
III, 325, 1719.

=B. a.= ‘The Friar and Fair Maid,’ Buchan’s MSS, II, 351. =b.= ‘The
Friar,’ Kinloch MSS, VI, 97. =c.= Kinloch MSS, V, 60.

The broadside, =A a=, =b=, is found in many other collections: Pepys, III, 145, No 143; Crawford, No 94, etc. (see Ebsworth). =B=, the Scottish ballad (an improvement on the English), is without doubt derived from print, but not directly from =A a=, =b=. In =B= the maid feigns to be afraid of her master, as in =A c=, not of her father. From Halliwell’s Notices of Fugitive Tracts, p. 37, No 49, Percy Society, vol. xxix, we learn that The Royal Garland of Protestant Delight, London, 1689, has a ballad with the title ‘The witty lass of Somersetshire, or the fryer servd in his kind,’ with an “answer,” in the last stanza of which ‘the inn-keeper, her master,’ laughs at the fryer’s disaster.

The tune of ‘The Friar in the Well’ occurs in The Dancing Master, from 1650 to 1686: Chappell’s Popular Music, p. 274. Munday, in his ‘Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntington,’ Act iv, Scene 2, 1598, refers to the ‘merry jest ... how the friar fell into the well, for love of Jenny, that fair bonny belle.’ A reference of Skelton’s in his Colyn Cloute[88] carries the story, and almost certainly the ballad, back to the first quarter of the sixteenth century.

The copy in Kinloch’s Ballad Book, p. 25, was compounded by the editor from =B b=, =c=.

A maid, solicited by a friar, says that she fears hell-fire; the friar reminds her that if she were in hell he could sing her out. She stipulates for money in advance; while the friar is gone to fetch some, she hangs (spreads) a cloth before (over) a well. The money in band, she calls out that her father (master) is coming; the friar runs to hide behind the cloth (a screen), and falls into the well. The friar cries for help; he is left to sing himself out. Extricated after a sufficient cooling, he asks his money back, but is told that he must pay for fouling the water.

This story, one might safely say, is not beyond the “imaginary forces” of any Western people, but an open well inside of an English house is at least of unusual occurrence, and if we find something of the kind to our hand in an Eastern tale of similar character, a borrowing seems more plausible than an invention. There is a considerable class of tales, mostly Oriental, in which a chaste wife discomfits two or three would-be seducers, bringing them to shame and ridicule in the end. In some, she exacts or receives money from her suitors at the outset; in some, an allegation that her husband is coming is the pretext for her concealing them. An example in English is ‘The Wright’s Chaste Wife,’ by Adam of Cobsam, edited for the Early English Text Society, in 1865, by Dr Furnivall. In this, three men successively are tumbled through a trap door into an underground room. But in the Persian Tútí Náma, or Book of the Parrot, of Nakhshabí, the wife lays a bed over a dry well, her suitors are invited to sit on it, and they fall in; and here, it is not extravagant to suppose, we may have the remote source of the trick in our ballad.[89]

There is a French ballad of the same general type: ‘Le lourdaud moine,’ Tarbé, Romancero de Champagne, II, 135; ‘Le moine Nicolas,’ Bujeaud, II, 284. A monk, enamored of a married woman, is appointed to come to her while her husband is away; he is told to lay off his frock, which she secures, and she takes money which he has brought. He is then sent to the door to see if the husband be coming, and is locked out. He asks to have his frock and money returned; she will keep them for her husband. The convent jeer at him when he comes back: ‘Dieu bénisse la commère qui t’a joué ce tour-là!’

‘Munken i Vaande,’ a rather flat Danish ballad from a MS. of the 16th century, tells of a monk who knocks at the door of a woman whom he has been courting, and calls to her to keep her word; she tells her husband to slip under the bed, and lets the monk in; the monk hands the woman gold rings which he had promised; the goodman comes out and gives him a beating; the monk leaps out of the window and goes to his cloister; his superior asks why he has been away; he has been shriving the farmer’s wife, and it has nearly cost him his life.

* * * * *

A

=a.= Rawlinson, 566, fol. 63, 4^o. =b.= Roxburghe, II, 172;
Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, 222. =c.= D’Urfey’s Pills to purge
Melancholy, ed. 1719, III, 325.

1
As I lay musing all alone,
fa, la, la, la, la
A pretty jeast I thought upon;
fa, la, la, la, la
Then listen a while, and I will you tell
Of a fryer that loved a bonny lass well.
fa, la, la, la, la
fa, la, la, lang-tre-down-dilly

2
He came to the maid when she went to bed,
Desiring to have her maidenhead,
But she denyëd his desire,
And told him that she feard hell-fire.

3
‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘thou needst not doubt
If thou wert in hell I could sing thee out:’
‘Then,’ quoth the maid, ‘thou shalt have thy request;’
The fryer was glad as a fox in his nest.

4
‘But one thing,’ quoth she, ‘I do desire,
Before you have what you require;
Before that you shall do the thing,
An angel of mony thou shalt me bring.’

5
‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘we shall agree,
No mony shall part my love and me;
Before that I will see thee lack,
I’le pawn the grey gown from my back.’

6
The maid bethought her of a wile
How she the fryer might beguile;
While he was gone, the truth to tell,
She hung a cloth before the well.

7
The fryer came, as his covenant was,
With money to his bonny lass;
‘Good morrow, fair maid!’ ‘Good morrow!’ quoth she.
‘Here is the mony I promised thee.’

8
She thankt the man, and she took his mony:
‘Now let us go to ’t,’ quoth he, ‘sweet hony:’
‘O stay,’ quoth she, ‘some respite make,
My father comes, he will me take.’

9
‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run,
To hide me till that he be gone?’
‘Behinde the cloath run thou,’ quoth she,
‘And there my father cannot thee see.’

10
Behind the cloath the fryer crept,
And into the well on the sudden he leapt;
‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I am in the well!’
‘No matter,’ quoth she,’ if thou wert in hell.

11
‘Thou sayst thou couldst sing me out of hell,
Now prithee sing thy self out of the well:’
The fryer sung with a pittiful sound,
Oh help me out, or I shall be dround!

12
‘I trow,’ quoth she, ‘your courage is coold.’
Quoth the fryer, I was never so foold,
I never was served so before.
‘Then take heed,’ quoth she, ‘thou comst there no more.’

13
Quoth he, For sweet Saint Francis sake
On his disciple some pitty take:
Quoth she, Saint Francis never taught
His scholars to tempt young maids to naught.

14
The fryer did entreat her still
That she should help him out of the well;
She heard him make such pittious moan
She helpd him out, and bid him be gone.

15
Quoth he, Shall I have my mony again,
Which thou from me hast beforehand tane?
‘Good sir,’ said she, ‘there’s no such matter;
I’le make you pay for fouling my water.’

16
The fryer went all along the street,
Droping wet, like a new-washd sheep;
Both old and young commended the maid
That such a witty prank had plaid.

B

=a.= Buchan’s MSS, II 351. =b.= Kinloch MSS, VI, 97, in Kinloch’s
handwriting. =c.= Kinloch MSS, V, 60, in the handwriting of James
Beattie.

1
O hearken and hear, and I will you tell
Sing, Faldidae, faldidadi
Of a friar that loved a fair maiden well.
Sing, Faldi dadi di di (_bis_)

2
The friar he came to this maiden’s bedside,
And asking for her maidenhead.

3
‘O I would grant you your desire,
If ’t werena for fear o hell’s burning fire.’

4
‘O hell’s burning fire ye need have no doubt;
Altho you were in, I could whistle you out.’

5
‘O if I grant to you this thing,
Some money you unto me must bring.’

6
He brought her the money, and did it down tell;
She had a white cloth spread over the well.

7
Then the fair maid cried out that her master was come;
‘O,’ said the friar, ‘then where shall I run?’

8
‘O ye will go in behind yon screen,
And then by my master ye winna be seen.’

9
Then in behind the screen she him sent,
But he fell into the well by accident.

10
Then the friar cried out with a piteous moan,
O help! O help me! or else I am gone.

11
‘Ye said ye wad whistle me out o hell;
Now whistle your ain sel out o the well.’

12
She helped him out and bade him be gone;
The friar he asked his money again.

13
‘As for your money, there is no much matter
To make you pay more for jumbling our water.’

14
Then all who hear it commend this fair maid
For the nimble trick to the friar she played.

15
The friar he walked on the street,
And shaking his lugs like a well-washen sheep.

* * * * *

=A.= =a=, =b=.

The Fryer well fitted, or,
A pretty jest that once befell,
How a Maid put a Fryer to cool in the well.
To a merry tune.

=a.= London. Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, and J. Wright.

=b.= Printed for W. Thackeray and T. Passinger.

=a.=

3^{1,3}, 7^3, 8^2, 3, 9^{1,3}, 10^4, 12^4, qd. _for_ quoth.

7^3. qd. he.

8^2. too’t.

8^3. Oh.

10^1. did crept.

16^2. Drooping.

=b.=

5^4. my grey.

7^3. quoth she.

10^1. fryer crept.

10^2. on a.

11^3. sung on.

12^2. never was.

14^2. she would.

15^2. Which from me thou.

16^2. Dropping.

=c.= _The variations are insignificant until we come to 8^3; from that point this copy (which is abridged) runs as follows_:

8^3.
‘Nay, stay a while, some respite make;
If my master should come he would us take.

9
‘Alas,’ quoth the maid, ‘my master doth come!’
‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run?’
‘Behind yon cloth run thou,’ quoth she,
‘For there my master cannot see.’

10.
Behind the cloth the fryer went,
And was in the well incontinent.
‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I’m in the well!’
‘No matter,’ quoth she, ‘if thou wert in hell.

11^{1,2}.
‘Thou saidst thou could sing me out of hell,
I prithee sing thy self out of the well.
Sing out,’ quoth she, ‘with all thy might,
Or else thou’rt like to sing there all night.’

11^{3,4}.
The fryer sang out with a pitiful sound,
Oh help me out, or I shall be drownd!

14^{3,4}.
She heard him make such pitiful moan
She hope [=holp] him out and bid him go home.

12^{3,4}.
Quoth the fryer, I never was servd so before:
‘Away,’ quoth the wench, ‘come here no more.’

16^{1,2}.
The fryer he walkd along the street
As if he had been a new-washd sheep.

Sing, hey down a derry, and let’s be merry,
And from such sin ever keep.

_The_ fa la _burden is not given_.

=B. b.= _Apparently_ =a= _revised by Kinloch_.

4^2. sing _for_ whistle.

7^2. then _wanting_.

10^1. a _wanting_.

15^2. sheet _for_ sheep.

=c.=

1.
Listen and I will you tell
Wi a falaldirry, falaldirry
How a friar in love wi a lassie fell.
Wi a falee and latee and a lee-tiddle-tiddle-tee

7.
The lassie cries, My master comes!
The friar cries, Where shall I run?

8.
‘O you’ll do you in below this cloth;
That you be seen I wad be loth.’

10.
The friar cries, I’m in the well!
‘I care na tho you were in hell.

11.
‘You said you w[a]d sing me out of hell;
Sing yoursell out o the well.’

12.
‘If you’ll help me out, I will be gone,
Back to you I’ll neuer come.’

She helped him out, and he was begone;
Back to her he never came.

15.
The frier he gaed up the street,
Hanging his lugs like a washen sheet.

2-6, 9, 13, 14, _wanting_.

FOOTNOTES:

[88]

But when the freare fell in the well He coud not syng himselfe therout But by the helpe of Christyan Clout.

(vv. 879-91.)

[89] For the class of tales referred to, see von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, III, XXXV f., LXXXIII f.; Reinhold Köhler, in Jahrbuch für romanische und englische Literatur, VIII, 44-65; Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 289-310.

277

THE WIFE WRAPT IN WETHER’S SKIN

=A. a.= ‘Sweet Robin,’ Jamieson’s Popular Ballads, I, 319. =b.=
Macmath MS., p. 100, three stanzas.

=B.= ‘Robin he’s gane to the wude,’ Harris MS., fol. 26 =b.=

=C.= ‘The Cooper of Fife,’ Whitelaw, The Book of Scottish Song, p.
333.

=D.= Jamieson-Brown MS., Appendix, p. iii.

=E.= Jamieson’s Popular Ballads, I, 324.

Jamieson cites the first two stanzas of =A a= in a letter of inquiry to The Scots Magazine, October, 1803, p. 700, and the first half of =D= (with alterations) in his preface, Popular Ballads, I, 320. The ballad, he says, is very popular all over Scotland.

Robin has married a wife of too high kin to bake or brew, wash or wring. He strips off a wether’s skin and lays it on her back, or prins her in it. He dares not beat her, for her proud kin, but he may beat the wether’s skin, and does. This makes an ill wife good.

A fragment in Herd’s MSS, I, 105, II, 161, belongs, if not to this ballad, at least to one in which an attempt is made to tame a shrew by castigation.

‘Now tak a cud in ilka hand
And bace[90] her up and doun, man,
And she’ll be an o the best wives
That ever took the town, man.’

* * * * *

And Jammie’s turnd him round about,
He’s done a manly feat:
‘Get up, get up, ye dirty slut,
And gie to me my meat.’

* * * * *

‘Say’t oer again, say’t oer again,
Ye thief, that I may hear ye;
I’se gar ye dance upon a peat,
Gin I sall cum but near ye.’

The story of the ballad was in all likelihood traditionally derived from the good old tale of the wife lapped in Morrel’s skin.[91] Here a husband, who has put up with a great deal from an excessively restive wife, flays his old horse Morrell and salts the hide, takes the shrew down cellar, and, after a sharp contest for mastery, beats her with birchen rods till she swoons, then wraps her in the salted hide: by which process the woman is perfectly reformed.[92]

A

Jamieson’s Popular Ballads, I, 319. “From the recitation of a friend
of the editor’s in Morayshire.”

1
She wadna bake, she wadna brew,
Hollin, green hollin
For spoiling o her comely hue.
Bend your bow, Robin

2
She wadna wash, she wadna wring,
For spoiling o her gay goud ring.

3
Robin he’s gane to the fald
And catched a weather by the spauld.

4
And he has killed his weather black
And laid the skin upon her back.

5
‘I darena pay you, for your kin,
But I can pay my weather’s skin.

6
‘I darena pay my lady’s back,
But I can pay my weather black.’

7
‘O Robin, Robin, lat me be,
And I’ll a good wife be to thee.

8
‘It’s I will wash, and I will wring,
And never mind my gay goud ring.

9
‘It’s I will bake, and I will brew,
And never mind my comely hue.

10
‘And gin ye thinkna that eneugh,
I’se tak the goad and I’se ca the pleugh.

11
‘Gin ye ca for mair whan that is doon,
I’ll sit i the neuk and I’ll dight your shoon.’

B

Harris MS., fol. 26 b, No 25, from Miss Harris.

1
Robin he’s gane to the wast,
Hollin, green hollin
He’s waled a wife amang the warst.
Bend your bows, Robin

2
She could neither bake nor brew,
For spoilin o her bonnie hue.

3
She could neither spin nor caird,
But fill the cup, an sair the laird.

4
She could neither wash nor wring,
For spoilin o her gay goud ring.

5
Robin’s sworn by the rude
That he wald mak an ill wife gude.

6
Robin he’s gaun to the fauld,
An taen his blaik [wither] by the spauld.

7
He’s taen aff his wither’s skin
An he has preened his ain wife in.

8
‘I daurna beat my wife, for a’ her kin,
But I may beat my wither’s skin.’

9
‘I can baith bake an brew;
What care I for my bonnie hue?

10
‘I can baith wash an wring;
What care I for my gay gowd ring?

11
‘I can baith spin an caird;
Lat onybodie sair the laird.’

12
Robin’s sworn by the rude
That he has made an ill wife gude.

C

Whitelaw’s Book of Scottish Song, p. 333.

1
There was a wee cooper who lived in Fife,
Nickity, nackity, noo, noo, noo
And he has gotten a gentle wife.
Hey Willie Wallacky, how John Dougall,
Alane, quo Rushety, roue, roue, roue

2
She wadna bake, nor she wadna brew,
For the spoiling o her comely hue.

3
She wadna card, nor she wadna spin,
For the shaming o her gentle kin.

4
She wadna wash, nor she wadna wring,
For the spoiling o her gouden ring.

5
The cooper’s awa to his woo-pack
And has laid a sheep-skin on his wife’s back.

6
‘It’s I’ll no thrash ye, for your proud kin,
But I will thrash my ain sheep-skin.’

7
‘Oh, I will bake, and I will brew,
And never mair think on my comely hue.

8
‘Oh, I will card, and I will spin,
And never mair think on my gentle kin.

9
‘Oh, I will wash, and I will wring,
And never mair think on my gouden ring.’

10
A’ ye wha hae gotten a gentle wife
Send ye for the wee cooper o Fife.

D

Jamieson-Brown MS., Appendix, p. iii, letter of R. Scott to Jamieson,
June 9, 1805.

1
There livd a laird down into Fife,
Riftly, raftly, now, now, now
An he has married a bonny young wife.
Hey Jock Simpleton, Jenny[’s] white petticoat,
Robin a Rashes, now, now, now

2
He courted her and he brought her hame,
An thought she would prove a thrifty dame.

3
She could neither spin nor caird,
But sit in her chair and dawt the laird.

4
She wadna bake and she wadna brew,
An a’ was for spoiling her delicate hue.

5
She wadna wash nor wad she wring,
For spoiling o her gay goud ring.

6
But he has taen him to his sheep-fauld,
An taen the best weather by the spauld.

7
Aff o the weather he took the skin,
An rowt his bonny lady in.

8
‘I dare na thump you, for your proud kin,
But well sall I lay to my ain weather’s skin.’
* * * * *

E

Jamieson’s Popular Ballads, I, 324.

1
There lives a landart laird in Fife,
And he has married a dandily wife.

2
She wadna shape, nor yet wad she sew,
But sit wi her cummers and fill hersell fu.

3
She wadna spin, nor yet wad she card,
But she wad sit and crack wi the laird.

4
He is down to his sheep-fald
And cleckit a weather by the back-spald.

5
He’s whirpled aff the gude weather’s-skin
And wrappit the dandily lady therein.

6
‘I darena pay you, for your gentle kin,
But weel I may skelp my weather’s-skin.’
* * * * *

=A.=

=a.= _The refrain, altered by Jamieson, has been restored from his
preface. Five stanzas added by him at the end have been dropped._

=b.= From the recitation of Miss Agnes Macmath, 29th April, 1893;
learned by her from her mother, who had it from _her_ mother, Janet
Spark, Kirkcudbrightshire.

2.
She could na wash and she could na wring,
Hey, Wullie Wyliecot, noo, noo, noo
For the spoiling o her gay gold ring.
Wi my Hey, Wullie Wyliecot, tangie dooble,
That robes in the rassiecot, noo, noo, noo

(_Refrain perhaps corrupt._)

3.
He’s gane oot unto the fauld,
He’s catched a wather by the spaul.

5.
‘I darena thrash ye, for yer kin,
But I may thrash my ain wather-skin.’

FOOTNOTES:

[90] _Bace_ in the second copy, rightly, that is, _bash_, beat; _bare_ in the first (probably mistranscribed).

[91] A merry jeste of a shrewde and curste wyfe lapped in Morrelles skin for her good behauyour. Imprinted at London in Fleetestreete, beneath the Conduite, at the signe of Saint John Euangelist, by H. Jackson; without date, but earlier than 1575, since the book was in Captain Cox’s library. Reprinted in Utterson’s Select Pieces of Early Popular Poetry, 1825, II, 169; The Old Taming of the Shrew, edited by T. Amyot for the Shakespeare Society, 1844, p. 53; W. C. Hazlitt’s Early Popular Poetry, IV, 179.

[92] These passages are worth noting:

She can carde, she can spin, She can thresh and she can fan. (v. 419 f.)

In euery hand a rod he gate And layd vpon her a right good pace. (v. 955 f.)

Where art thou, wife? shall I haue any meate? (v. 839.)

(Compare Herd’s fragments with the last two, and with 903-10.)

278

THE FARMER’S CURST WIFE

=A.= ‘The Farmer’s Old Wife,’ Dixon, Ancient Poems, Ballads, and
Songs of the Peasantry of England, p. 210, Percy Society, vol. xvii.
The same in Bell, p. 204.

=B.= Macmath MS., p. 96.

The devil comes for a farmer’s wife and is made welcome to her by the husband. The woman proves to be no more controllable in hell than she had been at home; she kicks the imps about, and even brains a set of them with her pattens or a maul. For safety’s sake, the devil is constrained to take her back to her husband.

=B.= The ballad of ‘Kellyburnbraes,’ Johnson’s Museum, No 379, p. 392, was composed by Burns, as he has himself informed us, “from the old traditional version.” “The original ballad, still preserved by tradition,” says David Laing, “was much improved in passing through Burns’s hands:” Museum, IV, *389, 1853. Cromek, Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, p. 83, 1810, gives us what he calls the “Original of Burns’s Carle of Kelly-Burn Braes,” remarking, with some effrontery, that there is reason to believe that Burns had not seen the whole of the verses which constitute this copy. Allan Cunningham, Songs of Scotland, II, 199, undertook “to make a more complete version than has hitherto appeared” out of Burns, Cromek, and some “fugitive copies.” So we get the original from none of them, but are, rather, further from it at each step. Whether =B= has come down pure, unaffected by Burns and Cromek, it is impossible to say. That it shows resemblances to both copies is not against its genuineness, if there was a fair leaven of the popular ballad in each of these reconstructions; and it is probable that there would be, at least in Burns’s.

A curst wife who was a terror to demons is a feature in a widely spread and highly humorous tale, Oriental and European. See Benfey, Pantschatantra, I, 519-34; and, for a variety which is, at the beginning, quite close to our ballad, Ralston, Russian Folk-Tales, p. 39 (Afanasief, I, No 9).

* * * * *

Cromek’s ballad is translated by Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 93, Hausschatz, p. 230.

A

Dixon, Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs, p. 210, Percy Society, vol.
xvii.

1
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_)

2
Then Satan came to the old man at the plough:
‘One of your family I must have now.

3
‘It is not your eldest son that I crave,
But it is your old wife, and she I will have.’

4
‘O welcome, good Satan, with all my heart!
I hope you and she will never more part.’

5
Now Satan has got the old wife on his back,
And he lugged her along, like a pedlar’s pack.

6
He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate;
Says he, Here, take in an old Sussex chap’s mate.

7
O then she did kick the young imps about;
Says one to the other, Let’s try turn her out.

8
She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains,
She up with her pattens and beat out their brains.

9
She knocked the old Satan against the wall:
‘Let’s turn her out, or she’ll murder us all.’

10
Now he’s bundled her up on his back amain,
And to her old husband he took her again.

11
‘I have been a tormentor the whole of my life,
But I neer was tormented so as with your wife.’

B

Macmath MS., p. 96. Taken down by Mr Macmath from the recitation of
his aunt, Miss Jane Webster, Crossmichael, Kirkcudbrightshire, August
27th, 1892; learned many years ago, at Airds of Kells, from the
singing of Samuel Galloway.

1
The auld Deil cam to the man at the pleugh,
Rumchy ae de aidie
Saying, I wish ye gude luck at the making o yer sheugh.
Mushy toorin an ant tan aira.

2
‘It’s neither your oxen nor you that I crave;
It’s that old scolding woman, it’s her I must have.’

3
‘Ye’re welcome to her wi a’ my gude heart;
I wish you and her it’s never may part.’

4
She jumped on to the auld Deil’s back,
And he carried her awa like a pedlar’s pack.

5
He carried her on till he cam to hell’s door,
He gaed her a kick till she landed in the floor.

6
She saw seven wee deils a sitting in a raw,
She took up a mell and she murdered them a’.

7
A wee reekit deil lookit owre the wa:
‘O tak her awa, or she’ll ruin us a’.’

8
‘O what to do wi her I canna weel tell;
She’s no fit for heaven, and she’ll no bide in hell.’

* * * * *

9
She jumpit on to the auld Deil’s back,
And he carried her back like a pedlar’s pack.

* * * * *

10
She was seven years gaun, and seven years comin,
And she cried for the sowens she left in the pot.

279

THE JOLLY BEGGAR

=A.= ‘Ther was a wife in yon toun,’ “Old Lady’s Collection,” No. 36.

=B.= =a.= ‘The Jolly Beggar,’ Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots
Songs, 1769, p. 46; ed. 1776, II, 26. =b.= ‘The Jolly Beggars,’
Curious Tracts, Scotland, British Museum, 1078. m. 24. No 30 (a
collection made by James Mitchell at Aberdeen in 1828). =c.= ‘The
Jolly Beggar-Man,’ Macmath MS., p. 103, a fragment. =d.= The same, a
fragment.

I have not found this piece in any printed collection older than Herd, 1769, but it is cited in the second edition of Percy’s Reliques, 1767, II, 59 (preface to ‘The Gaberlunyie-Man’) and was known before that to Horace Walpole, who, as Percy remarks, confounds it with ‘The Gaberlunyie-Man,’ or gives it that title: Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, II, 202 f., second edition, 1759 (not mentioned in the first edition). It was probably in circulation as a flying-sheet.[93]

We are regularly informed by editors that tradition imputes the authorship of both ‘The Jolly Beggar’ and ‘The Gaberlunyie-Man’ to James Fifth of Scotland. ‘The Gaberlunyie-Man’ was, so far as can be ascertained, first printed in the Tea-Table Miscellany (in 1724), and I am not aware that it is mentioned anywhere before that date. Ramsay speaks of it as an old piece, but says nothing about the authorship. The tradition as to James Fifth is, perhaps, not much older than the publication in either case, and has no more plausibility than it has authority.

The copies in Pinkerton’s Select Scotish Ballads, II, 35, 1783, Johnson’s Museum, p. 274, No 266, 1790, Ritson’s Scotish Songs, I, 168, 1794, etc., are all from Herd’s second edition, 1776. In this we have, instead of the Fa la la burden, the following, presumably later (see Herd’s MSS, I, 5):

And we’ll gang nae mair a roving,
Sae late into the night,
And we’ll gang nae mair a roving, boys,
Let the moon shine neer sae bright,
And we’ll gang nae mair a roving.

Motherwell’s MS., p. 124, has a recited copy which seems to be =B a= as in Herd, 1776, corrupted by oral transmission. It does not seriously differ from the original until we come to the end, where we find an absurd stanza which is derived from =B b=.

The variations of =B b= are not the accidents of tradition, but deliberate alterations. ‘The Jovial Beggarman,’ in The Forsaken Lover’s Garland, No 15 of a collection of garlands, British Museum, 11621. e. 1 (“Newcastle? 1750?”), is a _rifacimento_, and a very inferior piece. Of this Rev. S. Baring-Gould took down a copy from the singing of a laborer on Dartmoor, in 1889.[94]

‘The Jovial Tinker and Farmer’s Daughter,’ British Museum, 1346. m. 7 (31), ‘The Tinker and Farmer’s Daughter’s Garland,’ British Museum, 11621. a. 6 (34), is another _rifacimento_, with less of the original in it. The tinker, we are told at the outset, is a noble lord disguised.

An English broadside ballad of the second half of the seventeenth century, Pepys, III, 73, No 71, has the same story as the Scottish popular ballad, and may have been the foundation of it, but the Scottish ballad is a far superior piece of work. The English broadside is given, substantially, in the notes.

‘Der Bettelman,’ Hoffmann u. Richter, Schlesische Volkslieder, p. 45, No 24, has a generic resemblance to this ballad.[95] So, more remotely, a Flemish ballad, ‘Ein schöner Krüppel,’ Hoffmann, Niederländische Volkslieder, p. 129 and elsewhere. Again, a very pretty and innocent Portuguese ballad, ‘O Cego,’ Almeida-Garrett, III, 191, No 35, Braga, Romanceiro Geral, p. 147, No 55, and Cantos pop. do Archipelago Açoriano, p. 372, No 76 (all in Hartung, II, 103 ff.), which Almeida-Garrett, quite extravagantly, supposed might be derived from ‘The Gaberlunyie-Man,’ brought home from Scotland by Portuguese sailors. There is an accidental similarity in one or two points with the Spanish ballad ‘Tiempo es, el caballero,’ Duran, I, 163, No 307, Primavera, II, 91, No 158.

‘The Gaberlunyie-Man’ is given in an appendix.

* * * * *

A

“Old Lady’s Collection,” No 36.

1
‘Ther is a wife in yone toun-end, an she has dothers three,
An I wad be a beager for ony of a’ the three.’

2
He touk his clouty clok him about, his peak-staff in his hand,
An he is awa to yon toun-end, leak ony peare man.

3
‘I ha ben about this fish-toun this years tua or three,
Ha ye ony quarters, deam, that ye coud gie me?’

4
‘Awa, ye pear carl, ye dinne kean my name;
Ye sudd ha caed me mistress fan ye called me bat deam.’

5
He tuke his hat in his hand an gied her juks three:
‘An ye want manners, misstres, quarters ye’ll gie me.’

6
‘Awa, ye pear carle, in ayont the fire,
An sing to our Lord Gray’s men to their hearts’ disire.’

7
Some lowked to his goudie lowks, some to his milk-whit skine,
Some to his ruffled shirt, the gued read gold hang in.

8
Out spak our madin, an she was ay shay,
Fatt will the jolly beager gett afore he gaa to lay?

9
Out spak our goudwife, an she was not sae shay,
He’se gett a dish of lang kell, besids a puss pay.

10
Out spak the jolly beager, That dish I dou denay;
I canne sup yer lang kell nor yet yer puss pay.

11
Bat ye gett to my supper a capon of the best,
Tuo or three bottels of yer wine, an bear,
an we sall ha a merry feast.

12
‘Ha ye ony siler, carll, to bint the bear an wine?’
‘O never a peney, misstress, had I lang sine.’

13
The beager wadne lay in the barn, nor yett in the bayr,
Bat in ahind the haa-dor, or att the kitchen-fire.

14
The beager’s bed was well [made] of gued clean stray an hay,
. . . . . . . . .

15
The madin she rose up to bar the dor,
An ther she spayed a naked man, was rinen throu the flour.

16
He tuke her in his arms an to his bed he ran;
‘Hollie we me, sir,’ she says, ‘or ye’ll waken our pear man.’

17
The begger was a cuning carle, an never a word he spake
Till he got his turn dean, an sayn began to crak.

18
‘Is ther ony dogs about this toun? madin, tell me nou:’
‘Fatt wad ye dee we them, my hony an my dou?’

19
‘They wad ravie a’ my meall-poks an die me mukell wrang:’
‘O doll for the deaing o it! are ye the pear man?

20
‘I thought ye had ben some gentelman, just leak the leard of Brody!
I am sorry for the doing o itt! are ye the pore boddie?’

21
She tuke the meall-poks by the strings an thrue them our the waa:
‘Doll gaa we meall-poks, madinhead an a’!’

22
She tuke him to her press, gave him a glass of wine;
He tuke her in his arms, says, Honey, ye’ss be mine.

23
He tuke a horn fra his side an he blue loud an shill,
An four-an-tuenty belted knights came att the beager’s will.

24
He tuke out a pean-kniff, lute a’ his dudes faa,
An he was the braest gentelman that was among them a’.

25
He patt his hand in his poket an gaa her ginnes three,
An four-an-tuenty hunder mark, to pay the nires feea.

26
‘Gin ye had ben a gued woman, as I thought ye had ben,
I wad haa made ye lady of castels eaght or nine.’

B

=a.= Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 46. =b.=
Curious Tracts, Scotland, British Museum, 1078, m. 24, No 30.

1
There was a jolly beggar, and a begging he was bound,
And he took up his quarters into a landart town.
Fa la la, etc.

2
He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in byre,
But in ahint the ha-door, or else afore the fire.

3
The beggar’s bed was made at een wi good clean straw and hay,
And in ahint the ha-door, and there the beggar lay.

4
Up raise the goodman’s dochter, and for to bar the door,
And there she saw the beggar standin i the floor.

5
He took the lassie in his arms and to the bed he ran,
‘O hooly, hooly wi me, sir! ye’ll waken our goodman.’

6
The beggar was a cunnin loon, and neer a word he spake
Until he got his turn done, syne he began to crack.

7
‘Is there ony dogs into this town? maiden, tell me true.’
‘And what wad ye do wi them, my hinny and my dow?’

8
‘They’ll rive a’ my mealpocks, and do me meikle wrang.’
‘O dool for the doing o’t! are ye the poor man?’

9
Then she took up the mealpocks and flang them oer the wa:
‘The d--l gae wi the mealpocks, my maidenhead and a’!

10
‘I took ye for some gentleman, at least the Laird of Brodie;
O dool for the doing o’t! are ye the poor bodie?’

11
He took the lassie in his arms and gae her kisses three,
And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the nurice-fee.

12
He took a horn frae his side and blew baith loud and shrill,
And four-and-twenty belted knights came skipping oer the hill.

13
And he took out his little knife, loot a’ his duddies fa,
And he was the brawest gentleman that was amang them a’.

14
The beggar was a cliver loon and he lap shoulder height:
‘O ay for sicken quarters as I gat yester-night!’

=A.=

6^2. disere.

9^2. puss _might be_ russ _here, but is unquestionable in the next
stanza_.

24^2. blaest _for_ braest. 26^2. ninge (nigne _may be what was
intended_).

=B. b.= _A slip with no imprint. Dated in the Museum catalogue 1800?_

1
There was a jolly beggar, and a begging he had been,
With his fal de diddle de dal dal
And he took up his quarters in a house in Aberdeen.
With his toran oran ad de odi

2
This beggar would not lye in barn nor yet would he in byre,
But he would lye into the ha, or beyond the kitchen-fire.

3
The beggar’s bed it was well made, with clean straw and hay,
And beyond the kitchen-fire, there the jolly beggar lay.

4
The lassie then she did get up to bar the kitchen-door,
An there she met the jolly beggar, standing naked on the floor.

5
He gript the lassie by the middle jimp, laid her against the wa,
‘O kind sir,’ she said, ‘be civil, for ye will wake my dadda.’

6
He never minded what she said, but carried on his stroke,
Till he got his job done, then he began to joke.

7
‘Have you got any dogs about the house, or any cats ava?
For I’m feared she’ll cut my mealpocks before I gang awa.’

8
The lassie took up the mealpocks, threw them against the wa,
‘O deil tak your mealpocks! my maidenhead’s awa.’

9
The lassie she got up again the hour before ’twas day,
For to gie the beggar hansel before he went away.

10
She went into the cellar, to draw a pot of ale,
The beggar followed after, and did the job again.

11
He laid her on the ringle-tree, and gave her kisses three,
And he gave her twenty guineas, to pay the nurse’s fee.

12
‘Had you been an honest lass, as I took you to be,
You might have rode in your carriage and gone along with me.’

13
The beggar he took a horn and blew it wondrous shrill;
There was four-and-twenty belted knights came riding oer the hill.

14
‘Now if you are afraid you should miscall your child,
You may call him for the daddy o’t, the great Duke of Argyle.’

1^1, jelly: _but_

3^2, 4^2, jolly.

3^1. hay and straw.

9^1. hours.

13^2. kinpa _for_ knights.

_There are many other misprints; some, perhaps, which are not
corrected, as_ she’ll cut, 7^2.

_The copy in Motherwell’s MS, p. 124, ends_:

He louted oure the saddle to her and gave her kisses three,
And he gave her fifty guineas, to pay the nourice-fee.

‘Oh had you been an honest maid, as I thocht ye wud hae been,
I would have made you lady of a’ the land,
and then the Scotish queen.’

=B. c.=

From the recitation of Miss Jane Webster, Crossmichael, August 8,
1893; learned by her many years ago from her mother, Janet Spark.

1
There was a jolly beggar, as mony a ane has been,
An he’s taen up his lodging in a house near Aberdeen.
Wi his yi yi yanti O, his eerie eerie an
Wi his fine tan taraira, the jolly beggar-man

2
He wadna lie in barn, nor he wadna lie in byre,
But he wad lie at the ha-door or the back o the kitchen-fire.

=B. d.=

From the recitation of the same, on the same occasion; learned in
youth at Airds of Kells, from the singing of Thomas Duffy, joiner,
Parton.

_Refrain_:

Wi his long staff, and ragged coat, and breeches to his knee,
And he was the bauldest beggar-man that eer my eyes did see.

=a.=

4
Up rose the farmer’s daughter, for to bar the door,
There she beheld a naked man, was standing on the floor.

* * * * *

7
‘Hae ye ony cats or dogs, or hae ye eer a grew?
I’m feared they rive my meal-pokes, when I am kissing you.’

9
She’s taen up his meal-pokes an thrown them owre the wa:
‘O the deil gang wi your meal-pokes! for my maidenhead’s awa.’

* * * * *

‘It’s fare ye weel, gudewife, an it’s fare ye weel, gudeman,
Ye hae a gude fat doughter, an I rattled on her pan.

=b.=

12
‘If she had been an honest lass, as I took her to be,
She micht hae ridden in her coach-an-four this day along wi me.’

=a.=

12
Then he took oot a whistle, an he’s blawn baith loud and shrill,
There was four-an-twenty foresters cam at their master’s will.

13
Then he took oot a wee pen-knife, an let his duddies fa,
And he was the brawest gentleman that was amang them a’.

The English broadside, Pepys Ballads, III, 73, No 71.

THE POLLITICK BEGGER-MAN.

Who got the love of a pretty maid
And on her cittern sweetly plaid;
At last she slung her milk-pail over the wall,
And bid the De’l take milk-pail, maidenhead and all.

Tune is, There was a jovial begger.[96]

Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clarke.

1
There was a jovial begger-man,
a begging he was bound,
And he did seek his living
in country and in town.
With a long staff and a patcht coat,
he prancd along the pad,
And by report of many a one
he was a proper lad.
His cheeks were like the crimson rose,
his forehead smooth and high,
And he was the bravest begger-man
that ever I saw with eye.

2
He came unto a farmer’s gate
and for an alms did crave;
The maid did like the begger-man
and good relief she gave.
She took him by the lilly hand
and set him to the fire,
Which was as well as tongue could tell
Or heart of man desire.

3
A curious mess of firmaty
for him she did provide,
With a lovely cup of nut-brown
and sugar sops beside.
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .

4
‘Sweet-heart, give me some lodging,
that I all night may stay,
Or else give me my answer,
that I may go away.’
The maid went to the hay-mow
and fetcht a bottle of hay,
And laid it behind the parlor-door,
On which the begger-man lay.

5
‘Resolve me,’ said the maiden,
‘if that you will or can,
For I do verily believe
thou art a gentleman.’
‘In truth then,’ said the begger,
‘my parents they are poor,
And I do seek my living
each day from door to door.’

6
‘’Tis pity,’ said this maiden fair,
‘that such a lively lad
Should be a begger’s only heir,
a fortune poor and bad.
I wish that my condition
were of the same degree,
Then hand in hand I’de quickly wend
throughout the world with thee.’

7
When he perceivd the maiden’s mind,
and that her heart was his,
He did embrace her in his arms
And sweetly did her kiss.
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .

8
In lovely sport and merriment
the night away they spent
In Venus game, for their delight
and both their hearts content:
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .

9
Betimes in the morning then,
as soon as it was day,
He left the damosel fast asleep
and nimbly budgd away.
When he from her an hour was gone
the damosel she did wake,
And seeing the begger-man not there
her heart began to ake.

10
Then did she sigh and wring her hands,
the tears did trickling pour,
For loosing her virginity
and virgins maiden flower.
When twenty weeks were come and gone
her heart was something sad,
Because she found herself with barn,
and does not know the dad.

11
‘There is, I see, no remedy
for what is past and gone,
And many a one that laughs at me
may do as I have done.’
Then did she take her milk-pail,
and flung it over the wall:
‘O the Devil go with my milk-pail,
my maidenhead and all!’

12
You maidens fair, where ere you are,
Keep up your store and goods,
For when that some have got their wills
They’l leave you in the suds.
Let no man tempt you nor entice,
be not too fond and coy,
But soon agree to loyalty,
Your freedom to enjoy.

4^4. go that way.