Part 3 out of 6

As the gilded coach stood ready,
The young lawyer and his lady
Rode together, till they came
To her house of state and fame;

Which appeared like a castle,
Where you might behold a parcel
Of young cedars, tall and straight,
Just before her palace gate.

Hand in hand they walked together,
To a hall, or parlour, rather,
Which was beautiful and fair, -
All alone she left him there.

Two long hours there he waited
Her return; - at length he fretted,
And began to grieve at last,
For he had not broke his fast.

Still he sat like one amazed,
Round a spacious room he gazed,
Which was richly beautified;
But, alas! he lost his bride.

There was peeping, laughing, sneering,
All within the lawyer's hearing;
But his bride he could not see;
'Would I were at home!' thought he.

While his heart was melancholy,
Said the steward, brisk and jolly,
'Tell me, friend, how came you here?
You've some bad design, I fear.'

He replied, 'Dear loving master,
You shall meet with no disaster
Through my means, in any case, -
Madam brought me to this place.'

Then the steward did retire,
Saying, that he would enquire
Whether it was true or no:
Ne'er was lover hampered so.

Now the lady who had filled him
With those fears, full well beheld him
From a window, as she dressed,
Pleased at the merry jest.

When she had herself attired
In rich robes, to be admired,
She appeared in his sight,
Like a moving angel bright.

'Sir! my servants have related,
How some hours you have waited
In my parlour, - tell me who
In my house you ever knew?'

'Madam! if I have offended,
It is more than I intended;
A young lady brought me here:' -
'That is true,' said she, 'my dear.

'I can be no longer cruel
To my joy, and only jewel;
Thou art mine, and I am thine,
Hand and heart I do resign!

'Once I was a wounded lover,
Now these fears are fairly over;
By receiving what I gave,
Thou art lord of what I have.'

Beauty, honour, love, and treasure,
A rich golden stream of pleasure,
With his lady he enjoys;
Thanks to Cupid's kind decoys.

Now he's clothed in rich attire,
Not inferior to a squire;
Beauty, honour, riches' store,
What can man desire more?


Giving an account of a nobleman, who, taking notice of a poor man's
industrious care and pains for the maintaining of his charge of
seven small children, met him upon a day, and discoursing with him,
invited him, and his wife and his children, home to his house, and
bestowed upon them a farm of thirty acres of land, to be continued
to him and his heirs for ever.


[THIS still popular ballad is entitled in the modern copies, THE
preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, with which our version has
been collated. It is taken from a broadside printed by Robert
Marchbank, in the Custom-house Entry, Newcastle.]

A NOBLEMAN lived in a village of late,
Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great;
For he had seven children, and most of them small,
And nought but his labour to support them withal.

He never was given to idle and lurk,
For this nobleman saw him go daily to work,
With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of beer,
As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.

Thus careful, and constant, each morning he went,
Unto his daily labour with joy and content;
So jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing,
As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.

One morning, this nobleman taking a walk,
He met this poor man, and he freely did talk;
He asked him [at first] many questions at large,
And then began talking concerning his charge.

'Thou hast many children, I very well know,
Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low,
And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true,
How can you maintain them as well as you do?'

'I carefully carry home what I do earn,
My daily expenses by this I do learn;
And find it is possible, though we be poor,
To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.

'I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow,
Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go;
No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I plough,
Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.

'My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke,
We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke;
We both of us strive, like the labouring ant,
And do our endeavours to keep us from want.

'And when I come home from my labour at night,
To my wife and my children, in whom I delight;
To see them come round me with prattling noise, -
Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.

'Though I am as weary as weary may be,
The youngest I commonly dance on my knee;
I find that content is a moderate feast,
I never repine at my lot in the least.'

Now the nobleman hearing what he did say,
Was pleased, and invited him home the next day;
His wife and his children he charged him to bring;
In token of favour he gave him a ring.

He thanked his honour, and taking his leave,
He went to his wife, who would hardly believe
But this same story himself he might raise;
Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze.

Betimes in the morning the good wife she arose,
And made them all fine, in the best of their clothes;
The good man with his good wife, and children small,
They all went to dine at the nobleman's hall.

But when they came there, as truth does report,
All things were prepared in a plentiful sort;
And they at the nobleman's table did dine,
With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.

The feast being over, he soon let them know,
That he then intended on them to bestow
A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land;
And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.

'Because thou art careful, and good to thy wife,
I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life;
It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs,
Because I beheld thy industrious cares.'

No tongue then is able in full to express
The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness;
With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground, -
Such noblemen there are but few to be found.


First, giving an account of a gentlemen a having a wild son, and
who, foreseeing he would come to poverty, had a cottage built with
one door to it, always kept fast; and how, on his dying bed, he
charged him not to open it till he was poor and slighted, which the
young man promised he would perform. Secondly, of the young man's
pawning his estate to a vintner, who, when poor, kicked him out of
doors; when thinking it time to see his legacy, he broke open the
cottage door, where instead of money he found a gibbet and halter,
which he put round his neck, and jumping off the stool, the gibbet
broke, and a thousand pounds came down upon his head, which lay hid
in the ceiling. Thirdly, of his redeeming his estate, and fooling
the vintner out of two hundred pounds; who, for being jeered by his
neighbours, cut his own throat. And lastly, of the young man's
reformation. Very proper to be read by all who are given to

[PERCY, in the introductory remarks to the ballad of THE HEIR OF
LINNE, says, 'the original of this ballad [THE HEIR OF LINNE] is
found in the editor's folio MS.; the breaches and defects of which
rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These it
is hoped the reader will pardon, as, indeed, the completion of the
story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject.' The
ballad thus alluded to by Percy is THE DRUNKARD'S LEGACY, which, it
may be remarked, although styled by him a MODERN ballad, is only so
comparatively speaking; for it must have been written long anterior
to Percy's time, and, by his own admission, must be older than the
latter portion of the HEIR OF LINNE. Our copy is taken from an old
chap-book, without date or printer's name, and which is decorated
with three rudely executed wood-cuts.]

YOUNG people all, I pray draw near,
And listen to my ditty here;
Which subject shows that drunkenness
Brings many mortals to distress!

As, for example, now I can
Tell you of one, a gentleman,
Who had a very good estate,
His earthly travails they were great.

We understand he had one son
Who a lewd wicked race did run;
He daily spent his father's store,
When moneyless, he came for more.

The father oftentimes with tears,
Would this alarm sound in his ears;
'Son! thou dost all my comfort blast,
And thou wilt come to want at last.'

The son these words did little mind,
To cards and dice he was inclined;
Feeding his drunken appetite
In taverns, which was his delight.

The father, ere it was too late,
He had a project in his pate,
Before his aged days were run,
To make provision for his son.

Near to his house, we understand,
He had a waste plat of land,
Which did but little profit yield,
On which he did a cottage build.

The WISE MAN'S PROJECT was its name;
There were few windows in the same;
Only one door, substantial thing,
Shut by a lock, went by a spring.

Soon after he had played this trick,
It was his lot for to fall sick;
As on his bed he did lament,
Then for his drunken son he sent.

He shortly came to his bedside;
Seeing his son, he thus replied:
'I have sent for you to make my will,
Which you must faithfully fulfil.

'In such a cottage is one door,
Ne'er open it, do thou be sure,
Until thou art so poor, that all
Do then despise you, great and small.

'For, to my grief, I do perceive,
When I am dead, this life you live
Will soon melt all thou hast away;
Do not forget these words, I pray.

'When thou hast made thy friends thy foes,
Pawned all thy lands, and sold thy clothes;
Break ope the door, and there depend
To find something thy griefs to end.'

This being spoke, the son did say,
'Your dying words I will obey.'
Soon after this his father dear
Did die, and buried was, we hear.


Now, pray observe the second part,
And you shall hear his sottish heart;
He did the tavern so frequent,
Till he three hundred pounds had spent.

This being done, we understand
He pawned the deeds of all his land
Unto a tavern-keeper, who,
When poor, did him no favour show.

For, to fulfil his father's will,
He did command this cottage still:
At length great sorrow was his share,
Quite moneyless, with garments bare.

Being not able for to work,
He in the tavern there did lurk;
From box to box, among rich men,
Who oftentimes reviled him then.

To see him sneak so up and down,
The vintner on him he did frown;
And one night kicked him out of door,
Charging him to come there no more.

He in a stall did lie all night,
In this most sad and wretched plight;
Then thought it was high time to see
His father's promised legacy.

Next morning, then, oppressed with woe,
This young man got an iron crow;
And, as in tears he did lament,
Unto this little cottage went.

When he the door had open got,
This poor, distressed, drunken sot,
Who did for store of money hope,
He saw a gibbet and a rope.

Under this rope was placed a stool,
Which made him look just like a fool;
Crying, 'Alas! what shall I do?
Destruction now appears in view!

'As my father foresaw this thing,
What sottishness to me would bring;
As moneyless, and free of grace,
His legacy I will embrace.'

So then, oppressed with discontent,
Upon the stool he sighing went;
And then, his precious life to check,
Did place the rope about his neck.

Crying, 'Thou, God, who sitt'st on high,
And on my sorrow casts an eye;
Thou knowest that I've not done well, -
Preserve my precious soul from hell.

''Tis true the slighting of thy grace,
Has brought me to this wretched case;
And as through folly I'm undone,
I'll now eclipse my morning sun.'

When he with sighs these words had spoke,
Jumped off, and down the gibbet broke;
In falling, as it plain appears,
Dropped down about this young man's ears,

In shining gold, a thousand pound!
Which made the blood his ears surround:
Though in amaze, he cried, 'I'm sure
This golden salve the sore will cure!

'Blessed be my father, then,' he cried,
'Who did this part for me so hide;
And while I do alive remain,
I never will get drunk again.'


Now, by the third part you will hear,
This young man, as it doth appear,
With care he then secured his chink,
And to the vintner's went to drink.

When the proud vintner did him see,
He frowned on him immediately,
And said, 'Begone! or else with speed,
I'll kick thee out of doors, indeed.'

Smiling, the young man he did say,
'Thou cruel knave! tell me, I pray,
As I have here consumed my store,
How durst thee kick me out of door?

'To me thou hast been too severe;
The deeds of eightscore pounds a-year,
I pawned them for three hundred pounds,
That I spent here; - what makes such frowns?'

The vintner said unto him, 'Sirrah!
Bring me one hundred pounds to-morrow
By nine o'clock, - take them again;
So get you out of doors till then.'

He answered, 'If this chink I bring,
I fear thou wilt do no such thing.
He said, 'I'll give under my hand,
A note, that I to this will stand.'

Having the note, away he goes,
And straightway went to one of those
That made him drink when moneyless,
And did the truth to him confess.

They both went to this heap of gold,
And in a bag he fairly told
A thousand pounds, ill yellow-boys,
And to the tavern went their ways.

This bag they on the table set,
Making the vintner for to fret;
He said, 'Young man! this will not do,
For I was but in jest with you.'

So then bespoke the young man's friend:
'Vintner! thou mayest sure depend,
In law this note it will you cast,
And he must have his land at last.'

This made the vintner to comply, -
He fetched the deeds immediately;
He had one hundred pounds, and then
The young man got his deeds again.

At length the vintner 'gan to think
How he was fooled out of his chink;
Said, 'When 'tis found how I came off,
My neighbours will me game and scoff.'

So to prevent their noise and clatter
The vintner he, to mend the matter,
In two days after, it doth appear,
Did cut his throat from ear to ear.

Thus he untimely left the world,
That to this young man proved a churl.
Now he who followed drunkenness,
Lives sober, and doth lands possess.

Instead of wasting of his store,
As formerly, resolves no more
To act the same, but does indeed
Relieve all those that are in need.

Let all young men now, for my sake,
Take care how they such havoc make;
For drunkenness, you plain may see,
Had like his ruin for to be.


Being a true relation of the Lives and Characters of ROGER
WRIGHTSON and MARTHA RAILTON, of the Town of Bowes, in the County
of York, who died for love of each other, in March, 1714/5


[THE BOWES TRAGEDY is the original of Mallet's EDITION AND EMMA.
In these verses are preserved the village record of the incident
which suggested that poem. When Mallet published his ballad he
subjoined an attestation of the facts, which may be found in Evans'
OLD BALLADS, vol. ii. p. 237. Edit. 1784. Mallet alludes to the
statement in the parish registry of Bowes, that 'they both died of
love, and were buried in the same grave,' &c. The following is an
exact copy of the entry, as transcribed by Mr. Denham, 17th April,
1847. The words which we have printed in brackets are found
interlined in another and a later hand by some person who had
inspected the register:-

'RoDger Wrightson, Jun., and Martha Railton, both of Bowes, Buried
in one grave: He Died in a Fever, and upon tolling his passing
Bell, she cry'd out My heart is broke, and in a Few hours expir'd,
purely [OR SUPPOSED] thro' Love, March 15, 1714/5, aged about 20
years each.'

Mr. Denham says:-

'THE BOWES TRAGEDY was, I understand, written immediately after the
death of the lovers, by the then master of Bowes Grammar School.
His name I never heard. My father, who died a few years ago (aged
nearly 80), knew a younger sister of Martha Railton's, who used to
sing it to strangers passing through Bowes. She was a poor woman,
advanced in years, and it brought her in many a piece of money.']

LET Carthage Queen be now no more
The subject of our mournful song;
Nor such old tales which, heretofore,
Did so amuse the teeming throng;
Since the sad story which I'll tell,
All other tragedies excel.

Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bowes,
Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell;
He courted Martha Railton, whose
Repute for virtue did excel;
Yet Roger's friends would not agree,
That he to her should married be.

Their love continued one whole year,
Full sore against their parents' will;
And when he found them so severe,
His loyal heart began to chill:
And last Shrove Tuesday, took his bed,
With grief and woe encompassed.

Thus he continued twelve days' space,
In anguish and in grief of mind;
And no sweet peace in any case,
This ardent lover's heart could find;
But languished in a train of grief,
Which pierced his heart beyond relief.

Now anxious Martha sore distressed,
A private message did him send,
Lamenting that she could not rest,
Till she had seen her loving friend:
His answer was, 'Nay, nay, my dear,
Our folks will angry be I fear.'

Full fraught with grief, she took no rest,
But spent her time in pain and fear,
Till a few days before his death
She sent an orange to her dear;
But's cruel mother in disdain,
Did send the orange back again.

Three days before her lover died,
Poor Martha with a bleeding heart,
To see her dying lover hied,
In hopes to ease him of his smart;
Where she's conducted to the bed,
In which this faithful young man laid.

Where she with doleful cries beheld,
Her fainting lover in despair;
At which her heart with sorrow filled,
Small was the comfort she had there;
Though's mother showed her great respect,
His sister did her much reject.

She stayed two hours with her dear,
In hopes for to declare her mind;
But Hannah Wrightson (8) stood so near,
No time to do it she could find:
So that being almost dead with grief,
Away she went without relief.

Tears from her eyes did flow amain,
And she full oft would sighing say,
'My constant love, alas! is slain,
And to pale death, become a prey:
Oh, Hannah, Hannah thou art base;
Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace!'

She spent her time in godly prayers,
And quiet rest did from her fly;
She to her friends full oft declares,
She could not live if he did die:
Thus she continued till the bell,
Began to sound his fatal knell.

And when she heard the dismal sound,
Her godly book she cast away,
With bitter cries would pierce the ground.
Her fainting heart 'gan to decay:
She to her pensive mother said,
'I cannot live now he is dead.'

Then after three short minutes' space,
As she in sorrow groaning lay,
A gentleman (9) did her embrace,
And mildly unto her did say,
'Dear melting soul be not so sad,
But let your passion be allayed.'

Her answer was, 'My heart is burst,
My span of life is near an end;
My love from me by death is forced,
My grief no soul can comprehend.'
Then her poor heart it waxed faint,
When she had ended her complaint.

For three hours' space, as in a trance,
This broken-hearted creature lay,
Her mother wailing her mischance,
To pacify her did essay:
But all in vain, for strength being past,
She seemingly did breathe her last.

Her mother, thinking she was dead,
Began to shriek and cry amain;
And heavy lamentations made,
Which called her spirit back again;
To be an object of hard fate,
And give to grief a longer date.

Distorted with convulsions, she,
In dreadful manner gasping lay,
Of twelve long hours no moment free,
Her bitter groans did her dismay:
Then her poor heart being sadly broke,
Submitted to the fatal stroke.

When things were to this issue brought,
Both in one grave were to he laid:
But flinty-hearted Hannah thought,
By stubborn means for to persuade,
Their friends and neighbours from the same,
For which she surely was to blame.

And being asked the reason why,
Such base objections she did make,
She answered thus scornfully,
In words not fit for Billingsgate:
'She might have taken fairer on -
Or else be hanged:' Oh heart of stone!

What hell-born fury had possessed,
Thy vile inhuman spirit thus?
What swelling rage was in thy breast,
That could occasion this disgust,
And make thee show such spleen and rage,
Which life can't cure nor death assuage?

Sure some of Satan's minor imps,
Ordained were to be thy guide;
To act the part of sordid pimps,
And fill thy heart with haughty pride;
But take this caveat once for all,
Such devilish pride must have a fall.

But when to church the corpse was brought,
And both of them met at the gate;
What mournful tears by friends were shed,
When that alas it was too late, -
When they in silent grave were laid,
Instead of pleasing marriage-bed.

You parents all both far and near,
By this sad story warning take;
Nor to your children be severe,
When they their choice in love do make;
Let not the love of cursed gold,
True lovers from their love withhold.



[THIS excellent old ballad is transcribed from a copy printed in
Aldermary church-yard. It still continues to be published in the
old broadside form.]

Of a rich counsellor I write,
Who had one only daughter,
Who was of youthful beauty bright;
Now mark what follows after. (10)
Her uncle left her, I declare,
A sumptuous large possession;
Her father he was to take care
Of her at his discretion.

She had ten thousand pounds a-year,
And gold and silver ready,
And courted was by many a peer,
Yet none could gain this lady.
At length a squire's youngest son
In private came a-wooing,
And when he had her favour won,
He feared his utter ruin.

The youthful lady straightway cried,
'I must confess I love thee,
Though lords and knights I have denied,
Yet none I prize above thee:
Thou art a jewel in my eye,
But here,' said she, 'the care is, -
I fear you will be doomed to die
For stealing of an heiress.'

The young man he replied to her
Like a true politician;
'Thy father is a counsellor,
I'll tell him my condition.
Ten guineas they shall be his fee,
He'll think it is some stranger;
Thus for the gold he'll counsel me,
And keep me safe from danger.'

Unto her father he did go,
The very next day after;
But did not let the lawyer know
The lady was his daughter.
Now when the lawyer saw the gold
That he should be she gainer,
A pleasant trick to him he told
With safety to obtain her.

'Let her provide a horse,' he cried,
'And take you up behind her;
Then with you to some parson ride
Before her parents find her:
That she steals you, you may complain,
And so avoid their fury.
Now this is law I will maintain
Before or judge or jury.

'Now take my writing and my seal,
Which I cannot deny thee,
And if you any trouble feel,
In court I will stand by thee.'
'I give you thanks,' the young man cried,
'By you I am befriended,
And to your house I'll bring my bride
After the work is ended.'

Next morning, ere the day did break,
This news to her he carried;
She did her father's counsel take
And they were fairly married,
And now they felt but ill at case,
And, doubts and fears expressing,
They home returned, and on their knees
They asked their father's blessing,

But when he had beheld them both,
He seemed like one distracted,
And vowed to be revenged on oath
For what they now had acted.
With that bespoke his new-made son -
'There can be no deceiving,
That this is law which we have done
Here is your hand and sealing!'

The counsellor did then reply,
Was ever man so fitted;
'My hand and seal I can't deny,
By you I am outwitted.
'Ten thousand pounds a-year in store
'She was left by my brother,
And when I die there will be more,
For child I have no other.

'She might have had a lord or knight,
From royal loins descended;
But, since thou art her heart's delight,
I will not be offended;
'If I the gordian knot should part,
'Twere cruel out of measure;
Enjoy thy love, with all my heart,
In plenty, peace, and pleasure.'


[WE have seen an old printed copy of this ballad, which was written
probably about the date of the event it records, 1537. Our version
was taken down from the singing of a young gipsy girl, to whom it
had descended orally through two generations. She could not
recollect the whole of it. In Miss Strickland's LIVES OF THE
QUEENS OF ENGLAND, we find the following passage: 'An English
ballad is extant, which, dwelling on the elaborate mourning of
Queen Jane's ladies, informs the world, in a line of pure bathos,

In black were her ladies, and black were their faces.'

Miss Strickland does not appear to have seen the ballad to which
she refers; and as we are not aware of the existence of any other
ballad on the subject, we presume that her line of 'pure bathos' is
merely a corruption of one of the ensuing verses.]

QUEEN JANE was in travail
For six weeks or more,
Till the women grew tired,
And fain would give o'er.
'O women! O women!
Good wives if ye be,
Go, send for King Henrie,
And bring him to me.'

King Henrie was sent for,
He came with all speed,
In a gownd of green velvet
From heel to the head.
'King Henrie! King Henrie!
If kind Henrie you be,
Send for a surgeon,
And bring him to me.'

The surgeon was sent for,
He came with all speed,
In a gownd of black velvet
From heel to the head.
He gave her rich caudle,
But the death-sleep slept she.
Then her right side was opened,
And the babe was set free.

The babe it was christened,
And put out and nursed,
While the royal Queen Jane
She lay cold in the dust.

* * * * *

So black was the mourning,
And white were the wands,
Yellow, yellow the torches,
They bore in their hands.

The bells they were muffled,
And mournful did play,
While the royal Queen Jane
She lay cold in the clay.

Six knights and six lords
Bore her corpse through the grounds;
Six dukes followed after,
In black mourning gownds.

The flower of Old England
Was laid in cold clay,
Whilst the royal King Henrie
Came weeping away.


[THE following version of this ancient English ballad has been
collated with three copies. In some editions it is called
has a close similarity to that of CINDERELLA, and is supposed to be
of oriental origin. Several versions of it are current in
Scandinavia, Germany, Italy, Poland, and Wales. For some account
of it see PICTORIAL BOOK OF BALLADS, ii. 153, edited by Mr. J. S.


YOU fathers and mothers, and children also,
Draw near unto me, and soon you shall know
The sense of my ditty, and I dare to say,
The like's not been heard of this many a day.

The subject which to you I am to relate,
It is of a young squire of vast estate;
The first dear infant his wife did him bear,
It was a young daughter of beauty most rare.

He said to his wife, 'Had this child been a boy,
'Twould have pleased me better, and increased my joy,
If the next be the same sort, I declare,
Of what I'm possessed it shall have no share.'

In twelve months' time after, this woman, we hear,
Had another daughter of beauty most clear;
And when that he knew it was but a female,
Into a bitter passion he presently fell,

Saying, 'Since this is of the same sort as the first,
In my habitation she shall not be nursed;
Pray let her be sent into the countrie,
For where I am, truly, this child shall not be.'

With tears his dear wife unto him did say,
'Husband, be contented, I'll send her away.'
Then to the countrie with speed her did send,
For to be brought up by one was her friend.

Although that her father he hated her so,
He a good education on her did bestow;
And with a gold locket, and robes of the best,
This slighted young damsel was commonly dressed.

And when unto stature this damsel was grown,
And found from her father she had no love shown,
She cried, 'Before I will lay under his frown,
I'm resolved to travel the country around.'


But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest,
In what sort of manner this creature was dressed;
With cat-skins she made her a robe, I declare,
The which for her covering she daily did wear.

Her own rich attire, and jewels beside,
Then up in a bundle by her they were tied,
And to seek her fortune she wandered away;
And when she had travelled a cold winter's day,

In the evening-tide she came to a town,
Where at a knight's door she sat herself down,
For to rest herself, who was tired sore; -
This noble knight's lady then came to the door.

This fair creature seeing in such sort of dress,
The lady unto her these words did express:
'Whence camest thou, girl, and what wouldst thou have?'
She said, 'A night's rest in your stable I crave.'

The lady said to her, 'I'll grant thy desire,
Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire.'
Then she thanked the lady, and went in with haste;
And there she was gazed on from highest to least.

And, being well warmed, her hunger was great,
They gave her a plate of good food for to eat,
And then to an outhouse this creature was led,
Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed.

And when in the morning the daylight she saw,
Her riches and jewels she hid in the straw;
And, being very cold, she then did retire
Into the kitchen, and stood by the fire.

The cook said, 'My lady hath promised that thee
Shall be as a scullion to wait upon me;
What say'st thou girl, art thou willing to bide?'
'With all my heart truly,' to him she replied.

To work at her needle she could very well,
And for raising of paste few could her excel;
She being so handy, the cook's heart did win,
And then she was called by the name of Catskin.


The lady a son had both comely and tall,
Who oftentimes used to be at a ball
A mile out of town; and one evening-tide,
To dance at this ball away he did ride.

Catskin said to his mother, 'Pray, madam, let me
Go after your son now, this ball for to see.'
With that in a passion this lady she grew,
And struck her with the ladle, and broke it in two.

On being thus served she quick got away,
And in her rich garments herself did array;
And then to this ball she with speed did retire,
Where she danced so bravely that all did admire.

The sport being done, the young squire did say,
'Young lady, where do you live? tell me, I pray.'
Her answer was to him, 'Sir, that I will tell, -
At the sign of the broken ladle I dwell.'

She being very nimble, got home first, 'tis said,
And in her catskin robes she soon was arrayed;
And into the kitchen again she did go,
But where she had been they did none of them know.

Next night this young squire, to give him content,
To dance at this ball again forth he went.
She said, 'Pray let me go this ball for to view.'
Then she struck with the skimmer, and broke it in two.

Then out of the doors she ran full of heaviness,
And in her rich garments herself soon did dress;
And to this ball ran away with all speed,
Where to see her dancing all wondered indeed.

The ball being ended, the young squire said,
'Where is it you live?' She again answered,
'Sir, because you ask me, account I will give,
At the sign of the broken skimmer I live.'

Being dark when she left him, she homeward did hie,
And in her catskin robes she was dressed presently,
And into the kitchen amongst them she went,
But where she had been they were all innocent.

When the squire dame home, and found Catskin there,
He was in amaze and began for to swear;
'For two nights at the ball has been a lady,
The sweetest of beauties that ever I did see.

'She was the best dancer in all the whole place,
And very much like our Catskin in the face;
Had she not been dressed in that costly degree,
I should have swore it was Catskin's body.

Next night to the ball he did go once more,
And she asked his mother to go as before,
Who, having a basin of water in hand,
She threw it at Catskin, as I understand.

Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run,
And dressed herself when this thing she had done.
To the ball once more she then went her ways;
To see her fine dancing they all gave her praise.

And having concluded, the young squire said he,
'From whence might you come, pray, lady, tell me?'
Her answer was, 'Sir, you shall soon know the same,
From the sign of the basin of water I came.'

Then homeward she hurried, as fast as could be;
This young squire then was resolved to see
Whereto she belonged, and, following Catskin,
Into an old straw house he saw her creep in.

He said, 'O brave Catskin, I find it is thee,
Who these three nights together has so charmed me;
Thou'rt the sweetest of creatures my eyes e'er beheld,
With joy and content my heart now is filled.

'Thou art our cook's scullion, but as I have life,
Grant me but thy love, and I'll make thee my wife,
And thou shalt have maids for to be at thy call.'
'Sir, that cannot be, I've no portion at all.'

'Thy beauty's a portion, my joy and my dear,
I prize it far better than thousands a year,
And to have my friends' consent I have got a trick,
I'll go to my bed, and feign myself sick.

'There no one shall tend me but thee I profess;
So one day or another in thy richest dress,
Thou shalt be clad, and if my parents come nigh,
I'll tell them 'tis for thee that sick I do lie.'


Thus having consulted, this couple parted.
Next day this young squire he took to his bed;
And when his dear parents this thing both perceived,
For fear of his death they were right sorely grieved.

To tend him they send for a nurse speedily,
He said, 'None but Catskin my nurse now shall be.'
His parents said, 'No, son.' He said, 'But she shall,
Or else I'll have none for to nurse me at all.'

His parents both wondered to hear him say thus,
That no one but Catskin must be his nurse;
So then his dear parents their son to content,
Up into his chamber poor Catskin they sent.

Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepared,
Which between this young couple were equally shared;
And when all alone they in each other's arms,
Enjoyed one another in love's pleasant charms.

And at length on a time poor Catskin, 'tis said,
In her rich attire again was arrayed,
And when that his mother to the chamber drew near,
Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear;

Which caused her to stare, and thus for to say,
'What young lady is this, come tell me, I pray?'
He said, 'It is Catskin for whom sick I lie,
And except I do have her with speed I shall die.'

His mother then hastened to call up the knight,
Who ran up to see this amazing great sight;
He said, 'Is this Catskin we held in such scorn?
I ne'er saw a finer dame since I was born.'

The old knight he said to her, 'I prithee tell me,
From whence thou didst come and of what family?'
Then who were her parents she gave them to know,
And what was the cause of her wandering so.

The young squire he cried, 'If you will save my life,
Pray grant this young creature she may be my wife.'
His father replied, 'Thy life for to save,
If you have agreed, my consent you may have.'

Next day, with great triumph and joy as we hear,
There were many coaches came far and near;
Then much like a goddess dressed in rich array,
Catskin was married to the squire that day.

For several days this wedding did last,
Where was many a topping and gallant repast,
And for joy the bells rung out all over the town,
And bottles of canary rolled merrily round.

When Catskin was married, her fame for to raise,
Who saw her modest carriage they all gave her praise;
Thus her charming beauty the squire did win;
And who lives so great now as he and Catskin.


Now in the fifth part I'll endeavour to show,
How things with her parents and sister did go;
Her mother and sister of life are bereft,
And now all alone the old squire is left.

Who hearing his daughter was married so brave,
He said, 'In my noddle a fancy I have;
Dressed like a poor man now a journey I'll make,
And see if she on me some pity will take.'

Then dressed like a beggar he went to her gate,
Where stood his daughter, who looked very great;
He cried, 'Noble lady, a poor man I be,
And am now forced to crave charity.'

With a blush she asked him from whence that he came;
And with that he told her, and likewise his name.
She cried 'I'm your daughter, whom you slighted so,
Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I'll show.

'Through mercy the Lord hath provided for me;
Pray, father, come in and sit down then,' said she.
Then the best provisions the house could afford,
For to make him welcome was set on the board.

She said, 'You are welcome, feed hearty, I pray,
And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay,
So long as you live.' Then he made this reply:
'I only am come now thy love for to try.

'Through mercy, my dear child, I'm rich and not poor,
I have gold and silver enough now in store;
And for this love which at thy hands I have found,
For thy portion I'll give thee ten thousand pound.'

So in a few days after, as I understand,
This man he went home, and sold off all his land,
And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give,
And now altogether in love they do live.


[THIS ballad, which resembles the Danish ballad of RIBOLT, was
taken down from the recitation of an old fiddler in Northumberland:
in one verse there is an HIATUS, owing to the failure of the
reciter's memory. The refrain should be repeated in every verse.]

O DID you ever hear of the brave Earl Brand,
Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie;
His courted the king's daughter o' fair England,
I' the brave nights so early!

She was scarcely fifteen years that tide,
When sae boldly she came to his bed-side,
'O, Earl Brand, how fain wad I see
A pack of hounds let loose on the lea.'

'O, lady fair, I have no steed but one,
But thou shalt ride and I will run.'
'O, Earl Brand, but my father has two,
And thou shalt have the best of tho'.'

Now they have ridden o'er moss and moor,
And they have met neither rich nor poor;
Till at last they met with old Carl Hood,
He's aye for ill, and never for good.

'Now Earl Brand, an ye love me,
Slay this old Carl and gar him dee.'
'O, lady fair, but that would be sair,
To slay an auld Carl that wears grey hair.

'My own lady fair, I'll not do that,
I'll pay him his fee . . . . . . '
'O, where have ye ridden this lee lang day,
And where have ye stown this fair lady away?'

'I have not ridden this lee lang day,
Nor yet have I stown this lady away;
'For she is, I trow, my sick sister,
Whom I have been bringing fra' Winchester.'

'If she's been sick, and nigh to dead,
What makes her wear the ribbon so red?
'If she's been sick, and like to die,
What makes her wear the gold sae high?'

When came the Carl to the lady's yett,
He rudely, rudely rapped thereat.
'Now where is the lady of this hall?'
'She's out with her maids a playing at the ball.'

'Ha, ha, ha! ye are all mista'en,
Ye may count your maidens owre again.
'I met her far beyond the lea
With the young Earl Brand his leman to be.'

Her father of his best men armed fifteen,
And they're ridden after them bidene.
The lady looked owre her left shoulder then,
Says, 'O Earl Brand we are both of us ta'en.'

'If they come on me one by one,
You may stand by till the fights be done;
'But if they come on me one and all,
You may stand by and see me fall.'

They came upon him one by one,
Till fourteen battles he has won;
And fourteen men he has them slain,
Each after each upon the plain.

But the fifteenth man behind stole round,
And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound.
Though he was wounded to the deid,
He set his lady on her steed.

They rode till they came to the river Doune,
And there they lighted to wash his wound.
'O, Earl Brand, I see your heart's blood!'
'It's nothing but the glent and my scarlet hood.'

They rode till they came to his mother's yett,
So faint and feebly he rapped thereat.
'O, my son's slain, he is falling to swoon,
And it's all for the sake of an English loon.'

'O, say not so, my dearest mother,
But marry her to my youngest brother -
'To a maiden true he'll give his hand,
Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie.

To the king's daughter o' fair England,
To a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand,
I' the brave nights so early!'


[THE following ballad has long been popular in Worcestershire and
some of the adjoining counties. It was printed for the first time
by Mr. Allies of Worcester, under the title of THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF
BROMSGROVE; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the
adjoining county of Warwick, it has always been called THE OLD MAN
AND HIS THREE SONS - the name given to a fragment of the ballad
still used as a nursery song in the north of England, the chorus of
which slightly varies from that of the ballad. See post, p. 250.
The title of THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS is derived from the
usage of calling a ballad after the first line - a practice that
has descended to the present day. In Shakspeare's comedy of AS YOU
LIKE IT there appears to be an allusion to this ballad. Le Beau
says, -

There comes an old man and his three sons,

to which Celia replies,

I could match this beginning with an old tale. - i. 2.

Whether THE JOVIAL HUNTER belongs to either Worcestershire or
Warwickshire is rather questionable. The probability is that it is
a north country ballad connected with the family of Bolton, of
Bolton, in Wensleydale. A tomb, said to be that of Sir Ryalas
Bolton, the JOVIAL HUNTER, is shown in Bromsgrove church,
Worcestershire; but there is no evidence beyond tradition to
connect it with the name or deeds of any 'Bolton;' indeed it is
well known that the tomb belongs to a family of another name. In
the following version are preserved some of the peculiarities of
the Worcestershire dialect.]

OLD Sir Robert Bolton had three sons,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And one of them was Sir Ryalas,
For he was a jovial hunter.

He ranged all round down by the wood side,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter,
Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied,
For he was a jovial hunter.

'Oh, what dost thee mean, fair lady,' said he,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'The wild boar's killed my lord, and has thirty men gored,
And thou beest a jovial hunter.'

'Oh, what shall I do this wild boar for to see?'
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'Oh, thee blow a blast and he'll come unto thee,
As thou beest a jovial hunter.'

Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west, and south,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And the wild boar then heard him full in his den,
As he was a jovial hunter.

Then he made the best of his speed unto him,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
[Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with [gore], (11)
To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along,
To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

'Oh, what dost thee want of me?' wild boar, said he, (12)
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for thee,
For I am the jovial hunter.'

Then they fought four hours in a long summer day,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Till the wild boar fain would have got him away
From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite,
For he was a jovial hunter.

Then out of the wood the wild woman flew,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew,
For thou beest a jovial hunter.

'There are three things, I demand them of thee,'
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'It's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady,
As thou beest a jovial hunter.'

'If these three things thou dost ask of me,'
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'It's just as my sword and thy neck can agree,
For I am a jovial hunter.'

Then into his long locks the wild woman flew,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Till she thought in her heart to tear him through,
Though he was a jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter,
And he fairly split her head into twain,
For he was a jovial hunter.

In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby,
Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.


[THIS old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The
termination resembles that of LORD LOVEL and other ballads. See
EARLY BALLADS, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect traditional copy was
printed in NOTES AND QUERIES.]

LADY ALICE was sitting in her bower window,
At midnight mending her quoif;
And there she saw as fine a corpse
As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?
What bear ye on your shoulders?'
'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,
An old and true lover of yours.'

'O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,
All on the grass so green,
And to-morrow when the sun goes down,
Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's Church,
All for my love so true;
And make me a garland of marjoram,
And of lemon thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,
Lady Alice all in the west;
And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,
They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,
And he severed those roses in twain.
Sure never were seen such true lovers before,
Nor e'er will there be again.


[THIS very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was
originally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his HISTORY OF
CRAVEN, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique.
Whitaker's version was transferred to Evan's OLD BALLADS, the
editor of which work introduced some judicious conjectural
emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker
inserted the following note in the second edition of his HISTORY:-

This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only,
and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the
memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times
are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain
bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with
little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have
recollected that THE FELON SEWE had been already reclaimed PROPERTY
VESTED. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this
hint shall suffice. - HISTORY OF CRAVEN, second edition, London,

When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker
discovered that THE FELON SEWE was not of such 'exceeding rarity'
as he had been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with
the fact that another MS. of the 'unique' ballad was preserved in
the archives of the Rokeby family. This version was published by
Scott, who considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and
it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in
general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being
authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr.
Whitaker's version we know nothing more than that it was 'printed
from a MS. in his possession.' The readings of the Rokeby MS.,
however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as
full and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the
following text has been founded upon a careful collation of both
MSS. A few alterations have been adopted, but only when the
necessity for them appeared to be self-evident; and the orthography
has been rendered tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason
why we should have 'sewe,' 'scho,' and 'sike,' in some places, and
the more modern forms of 'sow,' 'she,' and 'such,' in others. If
the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for
doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than
the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is
that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the composition is
acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII., the
provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have been
so little affected by the spread of education, that the FELON SEWE
is at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven
peasant, and to such a reader neither note nor glossary is
necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, few and
brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the
district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect,
and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives
numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite local
knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.

The FELON SEWE belongs to the same class of compositions as the
HUNTING OF THE HARE, reprinted by Weber, and the TOURNAMENT OF
TOTTENHAM, in Percy's RELIQUES. Scott says that 'the comic romance
was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.'
This idea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many
instances not merely 'sorts of parodies,' but real parodies on
compositions which were popular in their day, although they have
not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met with an old
chivalric romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to
those of the FELON SEWE.

It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the
design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the
minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability a
follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical allusions to
the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox Catholic would
have ventured to indulge.

Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of
Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign
of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as having been 'a
fellow of infinite jest,' and the very man to bestow so valuable a
gift on the convent! The Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was,
according to the pedigree of the family, a daughter and heiress of
Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore
we may suppose that the monk had some other name; the minstrel
author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent,
perhaps, to introduce a priest IN PROPRIA PERSONA. The story is
told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]


YE men that will of aunters wynne,
That late within this lande hath bin,
Of on I will yow telle;
And of a sewe that was sea strang,
Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang,
For fell folk did scho wele. (13)

Scho was mare than other three,
The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee
Her hede was greate and graye;
Scho was bred in Rokebye woode,
Ther war few that thither yoode, (14)
But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde,
Was no barne that colde her byde,
That was fra heven or helle; (15)
Ne never man that had that myght,
That ever durst com in her syght,
Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe (16) of Rokebye, with full gode wyll,
The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll,
Full wele to gar thayme fare;
Freer Myddeltone by name,
Hee was sent to fetch her hame,
Yt rewed him syne full sare.

Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two,
Peter of Dale was on of tho,
Tother was Bryan of Beare; (17)
Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife,
And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe,
What tyme as musters were. (18)

These three men wended at theyr wyll,
This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll,
Liggand under a tree;
Rugg'd and rustic was her here,
Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, (19)
To fyght agen the three.

Grizely was scho for to meete,
Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete,
The barke cam fra' the tree:
When Freer Myddeltone her saugh,
Wete yow wele hee list not laugh,
Full earnestful luik'd hee.

These men of auncestors (20) were so wight,
They bound them bauldly for to fyght,
And strake at her full sare;
Until a kilne they garred her flee,
Wolde God sende thayme the victorye,
They wolde aske hym na maire.

The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone,
And they wer on the bawke aboone,
For hurting of theyr feete;
They wer sea sauted (21) wyth this sewe,
That 'mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe,
The kilne began to reeke!

Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande,
But put a rape downe wyth a wande,
And heltered her ful meete;
They hauled her furth agen her wyll,
Qunyl they cam until a hille,
A little fra the streete. (22)

And ther scho made thayme sike a fray,
As, had they lived until Domesday,
They colde yt nere forgette:
Scho brayded upon every syde,
And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde,
For nathing wolde scho lette.

Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande
That Peter of Dale had in his hande,
Hee myght not holde hys feete;
Scho chased thayme sea to and fro,
The wight men never wer sea woe,
Ther mesure was not mete.

Scho bound her boldly to abide,
To Peter of Dale scho cam aside,
Wyth mony a hideous yelle;
Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee,
The freer sayd, 'I conjure thee,
Thou art a fiend of helle!

'Thou art comed hider for sum trayne,
I conjure thee to go agayne,
Wher thou was wont to dwell.'
He sained hym wyth crosse and creede,
Tooke furth a booke, began to reade,
In Ste Johan hys gospell.

The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare,
But rudely rushed at the freer,
That blynked all his blee; (23)
And when scho wolde have takken holde,
The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, (24)
And bealed hym wyth a tree.

Scho was brim as anie beare,
For all their meete to laboure there,
To thayme yt was noe boote;
On tree and bushe that by her stode,
Scho venged her as scho wer woode,
And rave thayme up by roote.

Hee sayd, 'Alas that I wer freer,
I shal bee hugged asunder here,
Hard is my destinie!
Wiste my brederen, in this houre,
That I was set in sike a stoure,
They wolde pray for mee!'

This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe,
Tooke that rape from the other two,
And than they fledd all three;
They fledd away by Watling streete,
They had no succour but their feete,
Yt was the maire pittye.

The fielde it was both loste and wonne,
The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone,
To Morton-on-the-Greene.
When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape,
He wist that there had bin debate,
Whereat the sewe had beene.

He bade thayme stand out of her waye,
For scho had had a sudden fraye, -
'I saw never sewe sea keene,
Some new thingis shall wee heare,
Of her and Myddeltone the freer,
Some battel hath ther beene.'

But all that served him for nought, -
Had they not better succour sought, (25)
They wer served therfore loe.
Then Mistress Rokebye came anon,
And for her brought scho meete ful soone,
The sewe cam her untoe.

Scho gav her meete upon the flower;
[Scho made a bed beneath a bower,
With moss and broom besprent;
The sewe was gentle as mote be,
Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e'e,
Scho seemed wele content.]


When Freer Myddeltone com home,
Hys breders war ful faine ilchone,
And thanked God for hys lyfe;
He told thayme all unto the ende,
How hee had foughten wyth a fiende,
And lived thro' mickle stryfe.

'Wee gav her battel half a daye,
And was faine to flee awaye
For saving of oure lyfe;
And Peter Dale wolde never blin,
But ran as faste as he colde rinn,
Till he cam till hys wyfe.'

The Warden sayde, 'I am ful woe
That yow sholde bee torment soe,
But wee had wyth yow beene!
Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle,
Wee wolde hav garred the warlo (26) falle,
That wrought yow all thys teene.'

Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, 'Naye,
In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye,
When moste misstirre had bin;
Ye all can speke safte wordes at home,
The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on,
An yt bee als I wene,

Hee luik'd sea grizely al that nyght.'
The Warden sayde, 'Yon man wol fyght
If ye saye ought but gode,
Yon guest (27) hath grieved hym sea sore;
Holde your tongues, and speake ne more,
Hee luiks als hee wer woode.'

The Warden waged (28) on the morne,
Two boldest men that ever wer borne,
I weyne, or ere shall bee:
Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne,
Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne,
Both by land and sea.

Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine,
Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine;
Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.
Theis men the battel undertoke
Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke,
And sealed securitye,

That they shold boldly bide and fyghte,
And scomfit her in maine and myghte,
Or therfor sholde they dye.
The Warden sealed toe thayme againe,
And sayde, 'If ye in fielde be slaine,
This condition make I:

'Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade,
Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede,
With al our progenie.'
Then the lettres wer wele made,
The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade,
As deeds of arms sholde bee.

Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight,
And wyth theire armour burnished bryght,
They went the sewe toe see.
Scho made at thayme sike a roare,
That for her they fear it sore,
And almaiste bounde to flee.

Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne,
And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine,
Hee brayded owt hys brande;
Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake,
Yet for the fence that he colde make,
Scho strake it fro hys hande,
And rave asander half hys sheelde,
And bare hym backwerde in the fielde,
Hee mought not her gainstande.

Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare,
But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre,
Hee strake at her ful strang.
In her shouther hee held the swerde;
Than was Gilbert sore afearde,
When the blade brak in twang.

And whan in hande hee had her ta'en,
Scho toke hym by the shouther bane,
And held her hold ful faste;
Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure,
Scho byt thro' ale hys rich armoure,
Till bloud cam owt at laste.

Than Gilbert grieved was sea sare,
That hee rave off the hyde of haire;
The flesh cam fra the bane,
And wyth force hee held her ther,
And wanne her worthilie in warre,
And band her hym alane;

And lifte her on a horse sea hee,
Into two panyers made of a tree,
And toe Richmond anon.
When they sawe the felon come,
They sange merrilye Te Deum!
The freers evrich one.

They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis,
That they had wonne the beaste of pris,
And nere a man was sleyne:
There never didde man more manlye,
The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye,
Nor Louis of Lothraine.

If yow wyl any more of thys,
I' the fryarie at Richmond (29) written yt is,
In parchment gude and fyne,
How Freer Myddeltone sea hende,
Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende,
In lykeness of a swyne.

Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man,
That Freer Theobald was warden than,
And thys fel in hys tyme.
And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere,
Al that for solas this doe here,
And hym that made the ryme.

Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl,
The freers of Richmond gav her tyll,
This sewe toe mende ther fare;
Freer Myddeltone by name,
He wold bring the felon hame,
That rewed hym sine ful sare.


MARRIAGE, occurs the following line:-

And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.

Antiquaries are by no means agreed as to what is the song of
ARTHUR-A-BRADLEY, there alluded to, for it so happens that there
are no less than three different songs about this same Arthur-a-
Bradley. Ritson gives one of them in his ROBIN HOOD, commencing

See you not Pierce the piper.

He took it from a black-letter copy in a private collection,
compared with, and very much corrected by, a copy contained in AN
another, and apparently much more modern song on the same subject,
and to the same tune, beginning, -

All in the merry month of May.

It is a miserable composition, as may be seen by referring to a
copy preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Ballads. There
is another song, the one given by us, which appears to be as
ancient as any of those of which Arthur O'Bradley is the hero, and
from its subject being a wedding, as also from its being the only
Arthur O'Bradley song that we have been enabled to trace in
broadside and chap-books of the last century, we are induced to
believe that it may be the song mentioned in the old ballad, which
is supposed to have been written in the reign of Charles I. An
obscure music publisher, who about thirty years ago resided in the
Metropolis, brought out an edition of ARTHUR O'BRADLEY'S WEDDING,
with the prefix 'Written by Mr. Taylor.' This Mr. Taylor was,
however, only a low comedian of the day, and the ascribed
authorship was a mere trick on the publisher's part to increase the
sale of the song. We are not able to give any account of the hero,
but from his being alluded to by so many of our old writers, he
was, perhaps, not altogether a fictitious personage. Ben Jonson
names him in one of his plays, and he is also mentioned in Dekker's
HONEST WHORE. Of one of the tunes mentioned in the song, viz.,
HENCE, MELANCHOLY! we can give no account; the other, - MAD MOLL,
may be found in Playford's DANCING-MASTER, 1698: it is the same
tune as the one known by the names of YELLOW STOCKINGS and the
VIRGIN QUEEN, the latter title seeming to connect it with Queen
Elizabeth, as the name of Mad Moll does with the history of Mary,
who was subject to mental aberration. The words of MAD MOLL are
not known to exist, but probably consisted of some fulsome
panegyric on the virgin queen, at the expense of her unpopular
sister. From the mention of HENCE, MELANCHOLY, and MAD MOLL, it is
presumed that they were both popular favourites when ARTHUR
O'BRADLEY'S WEDDING was written. A good deal of vulgar grossness
has been at different times introduced into this song, which seems
in this respect to be as elastic as the French chanson, CADET
ROUSELLE, which is always being altered, and of which there are no
two copies alike. The tune of ARTHUR O'BRADLEY is given by Mr.
Chappell in his POPULAR MUSIC.]

COME, neighbours, and listen awhile,
If ever you wished to smile,
Or hear a true story of old,
Attend to what I now unfold!
'Tis of a lad whose fame did resound
Through every village and town around,
For fun, for frolic, and for whim,
None ever was to equal him,
And his name was Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Now, Arthur being stout and bold,
And near upon thirty years old,
He needs a wooing would go,
To get him a helpmate, you know.
So, gaining young Dolly's consent,
Next to be married they went;
And to make himself noble appear,
He mounted the old padded mare;
He chose her because she was blood,
And the prime of his old daddy's stud.
She was wind-galled, spavined, and blind,
And had lost a near leg behind;
She was cropped, and docked, and fired,
And seldom, if ever, was tired,
She had such an abundance of bone;
So he called her his high-bred roan,
A credit to Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then he packed up his drudgery hose,
And put on his holiday clothes;
His coat was of scarlet so fine,
Full trimmed with buttons behind;
Two sleeves it had it is true,
One yellow, the other was blue,
And the cuffs and the capes were of green,
And the longest that ever were seen;
His hat, though greasy and tore,
Cocked up with a feather before,
And under his chin it was tied,
With a strip from an old cow's hide;
His breeches three times had been turned,
And two holes through the left side were burned;
Two boots he had, but not kin,
One leather, the other was tin;
And for stirrups he had two patten rings,
Tied fast to the girth with two strings;
Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth,
Which long had been eat by the moth.
'Twas a sad misfortune, you'll say,
But still he looked gallant and gay,
And his name it was Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Thus accoutred, away he did ride,
While Dolly she walked by his side;
Till coming up to the church door,
In the midst of five thousand or more,
Then from the old mare he did alight,
Which put the clerk in a fright;
And the parson so fumbled and shook,
That presently down dropped his book.
Then Arthur began for to sing,
And made the whole church to ring;
Crying, 'Dolly, my dear, come hither,
And let us be tacked together;
For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!'
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then the vicar discharged his duty,
Without either reward or fee,
Declaring no money he'd have;
And poor Arthur he'd none to give:
So, to make him a little amends,
He invited him home with his friends,
To have a sweet kiss at the bride,
And eat a good dinner beside.
The dishes, though few, were good,
And the sweetest of animal food:
First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam,
A sheep's head stewed in a lanthorn, (30)
Two calves' feet, and a bull's trotter,
The fore and hind leg of an otter,
With craw-fish, cockles, and crabs,
Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs,
Red herrings and sprats, by dozens,
To feast all their uncles and cousins;
Who seemed well pleased with their treat,
And heartily they did all eat,
For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Now, the guests being well satisfied,
The fragments were laid on one side,
When Arthur, to make their hearts merry,
Brought ale, and parkin, (31) and perry;
When Timothy Twig stept in,
With his pipe, and a pipkin of gin.
A lad that was pleasant and jolly,
And scorned to meet melancholy;
He would chant and pipe so well,
No youth could him excel.
Not Pan the god of the swains,
Could ever produce such strains;
But Arthur, being first in the throng,
He swore he would sing the first song,
And one that was pleasant and jolly:
And that should be 'Hence, Melancholy!'
'Now give me a dance,' quoth Doll,
'Come, Jeffrery, play up Mad Moll,


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