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[137]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.
[Inthe ballad calledRobin Hood,his Birth,Breeding,Valour and Marriage, occurs the following line:—
And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.
Antiquaries are by no means agreed as to what is the song ofArthur-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 hisRobin Hood, commencing thus:—
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 inAn Antidote against Melancholy,made up in pills compounded of witty Ballads,jovial Songs,and merry Catches, 1661. Ritson quotes 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 ofArthur 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 somany 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’sHonest 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’sDancing-Master, 1698: it is the same tune as the one known by the names ofYellow Stockingsand theVirgin 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 ofMad Mollare 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 ofHence,Melancholy, andMad Moll, it is presumed that they were both popular favourites whenArthur O’Bradley’s Weddingwas 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 ofArthur O’Bradleyis given by Mr. Chappell in hisPopular 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 resoundThrough 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,[141]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,[142]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,’Tis time to be merry and frisky,—But first I must have some more whiskey.’‘Oh! you’re right,’ says Arthur, ‘my love!My daffy-down-dilly! my dove!My everything! my wife!I ne’er was so pleased in my life,Since my name it was Arthur O’Bradley!’O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!
Then the piper he screwed up his bags,And the girls began shaking their rags;First up jumped old Mother Crewe,Two stockings, and never a shoe.Her nose was crookèd and long,Which she could easily reach with her tongue;And a hump on her back she did not lack,But you should take no notice of that;And her mouth stood all awry,And she never was heard to lie,For she had been dumb from her birth;So she nodded consent to the mirth,For honour of Arthur O’Bradley.O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!
Then the parson led off at the top,Some danced, while others did hop;While some ran foul of the wall,And others down backwards did fall.There was lead up and down, figure in,Four hands across, then back again.So in dancing they spent the whole night,Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight;When each had a kiss of the bride,And hopped home to his own fire-side:Well pleased was Arthur O’Bradley!O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur O’Bradley!Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!
[Thisis one of our oldest agricultural ditties, and maintains its popularity to the present hour. It is called for at merry-makings and feasts in every part of the country. The tune is in the minor key, and of a pleasing character.]
‘Come, all you jolly ploughmen, of courage stout and bold,That labour all the winter in stormy winds, and cold;To clothe the fields with plenty, your farm-yards to renew,To crown them with contentment, behold the painful plough!’
‘Hold! ploughman,’ said the gardener, ‘don’t count your trade with ours,Walk through the garden, and view the early flowers;Also the curious border and pleasant walks go view,—There’s none such peace and plenty performèd by the plough!’
‘Hold! gardener,’ said the ploughman, ‘my calling don’t despise,Each man for his living upon his trade relies;Were it not for the ploughman, both rich and poor would rue,For we are all dependent upon the painful plough.
‘Adam in the garden was sent to keep it right,But the length of time he stayed there, I believe it was one night;Yet of his own labour, I call it not his due,Soon he lost his garden, and went to hold the plough.
‘For Adam was a ploughman when ploughing first begun,The next that did succeed him was Cain, the eldest son;Some of the generation this calling now pursue;That bread may not be wanting, remains the painful plough.
Samson was the strongest man, and Solomon was wise,Alexander for to conquer ’twas all his daily prise;King David was valiant, and many thousands slew,Yet none of these brave heroes could live without the plough!
Behold the wealthy merchant, that trades in foreign seas,And brings home gold and treasure for those who live at ease;With fine silks and spices, and fruits also, too,They are brought from the Indies by virtue of the plough.
‘For they must have bread, biscuit, rice pudding, flour and peas,To feed the jolly sailors as they sail o’er the seas;And the man that brings them will own to what is true,He cannot sail the ocean without the painful plough!
‘I hope there’s none offended at me for singing this,For it is not intended for anything amiss.If you consider rightly, you’ll find what I say is true,For all that you can mention depends upon the plough.’
OR, THE PLOUGH’S PRAISE.
[Thecommon editions of this popular song inform us that it is taken ‘from an Old Ballad,’ alluding probably to the dialogue given at page 44. This song is quoted by Farquhar.]
Acountrylife is sweet!In moderate cold and heat,To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair!In every field of wheat,The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,And every meadow’s brow;To that I say, no courtier mayCompare with they who clothe in grey,And follow the useful plow.
They rise with the morning lark,And labour till almost dark;Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;While every pleasant parkNext morning is ringing with birds that are singing,On each green, tender bough.With what content, and merriment,Their days are spent, whose minds are bentTo follow the useful plow.
The gallant that dresses fine,And drinks his bottles of wine,Were he to be tried, his feathers of pride,Which deck and adorn his back,Are tailors’ and mercers’, and other men dressers,For which they do dun them now.But Ralph and Will no compters fillFor tailor’s bill, or garments still,But follow the useful plow.
Their hundreds, without remorse,Some spend to keep dogs and horse,Who never would give, as long as they live,Not two-pence to help the poor;Their wives are neglected, and harlots respected;This grieves the nation now;But ’tis not so with us that goWhere pleasures flow, to reap and mow,And follow the useful plow.
[Thissong, familiar to the dwellers in the dales of Yorkshire, was published in 1729, in theVocal Miscellany;a collection of about four hundred celebrated songs. As theMiscellanywas merely an anthology of songs already well known, the date of this song must have been sometime anterior to 1729. It was republished in theBritish Musical Miscellany,or the Delightful Grove, 1796, and in a few other old song books. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter dialogue preserved in the Roxburgh collection, calledA Mad Kinde of Wooing;or,a Dialogue between Will the Simple and Nan the Subtill,with their loving argument. To the tune of the New Dance at the Red Bull Playhouse. Printed by the assignees of Thomas Symcock.]
‘SweetNelly! my heart’s delight!Be loving, and do not slightThe proffer I make, for modesty’s sake:—I honour your beauty bright.For love, I profess, I can do no less,Thou hast my favour won:And since I see your modesty,I pray agree, and fancy me,Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
‘No! I am a lady gay,’Tis very well known I mayHave men of renown, in country or town;So! Roger, without delay,Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue,Their loves will soon be won;But don’t you dare to speak me fair,As if I were at my last prayer,To marry a farmer’s son.’
‘My father has riches’ store,Two hundred a year, and more;Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs;His age is above threescore.And when he does die, then merrily IShall have what he has won;Both land and kine, all shall be thine,If thou’lt incline, and wilt be mine,And marry a farmer’s son.’
‘A fig for your cattle and corn!Your proffered love I scorn!’Tis known very well, my name is Nell,And you’re but a bumpkin born.’‘Well! since it is so, away I will go,—And I hope no harm is done;Farewell, adieu!—I hope to wooAs good as you,—and win her, too,Though I’m but a farmer’s son.’
‘Be not in such haste,’ quoth she,‘Perhaps we may still agree;For, man, I protest I was but in jest!Come, prythee sit down by me;For thou art the man that verily canWin me, if e’er I’m won;Both straight and tall, genteel withal;Therefore, I shall be at your call,To marry a farmer’s son.’
‘Dear lady! believe me nowI solemnly swear and vow,No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives,Like fellows that drive the plough:For whatever they gain with labour and pain,They don’t with ’t to harlots run,As courtiers do. I never knewA London beau that could outdoA country farmer’s son.’
[Mr. Denhamof Piersbridge, who communicates the following, says—‘there is no question that theFarmer’s Boyis a very ancient song; it is highly popular amongst the north country lads and lasses.’ The date of the composition may probably be referred to the commencement of the last century, when there prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage forFarmers’ Sons,Plough Boys,Milk Maids,Farmers’ Boys, &c. &c. The song is popular all over the country, and there are numerous printed copies, ancient and modern.]
Thesun had set behind yon hills,Across yon dreary moor,Weary and lame, a boy there cameUp to a farmer’s door:‘Can you tell me if any there beThat will give me employ,To plow and sow, and reap and mow,And be a farmer’s boy?
‘My father is dead, and mother is leftWith five children, great and small;And what is worse for mother still,I’m the oldest of them all.Though little, I’ll work as hard as a Turk,If you’ll give me employ,To plow and sow, and reap and mow,And be a farmer’s boy.
‘And if that you won’t me employ,One favour I’ve to ask,—Will you shelter me, till break of day,From this cold winter’s blast?At break of day, I’ll trudge awayElsewhere to seek employ,To plow and sow, and reap and mow,And be a farmer’s boy.’
‘Come, try the lad,’ the mistress said,‘Let him no further seek.’‘O, do, dear father!’ the daughter cried,While tears ran down her cheek:‘He’d work if he could, so ’tis hard to want food,And wander for employ;Don’t turn him away, but let him stay,And be a farmer’s boy.’
And when the lad became a man,The good old farmer died,And left the lad the farm he had,And his daughter for his bride.The lad that was, the farm now has,Oft smiles, and thinks with joyOf the lucky day he came that way,To be a farmer’s boy.
OR, DUMBLE DUM DEARY.
[Thissong is very popular with the country people in every part of England, but more particularly with the inhabitants of the counties of Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall.[149]The chorus ispeculiar to country songs of the West of England. There are many different versions. The following one, communicated by Mr. Sandys, was taken down from the singing of an old blind fiddler, ‘who,’ says Mr. Sandys, ‘used to accompany it on his instrument in an original and humorous manner; a representative of the old minstrels!’ The air is inPopular Music. In Halliwell’sNursery Rhymes of Englandthere is a version of this song, calledRichard of Dalton Dale.
LastNew-Year’s day, as I’ve heerd say,[151]Young Richard he mounted his dapple grey,And he trotted along to Taunton Dean,To court the parson’s daughter, Jean.Dumble dum deary, dumble dum deary,Dumble dum deary, dumble dum dee.
With buckskin breeches, shoes and hose,And Dicky put on his Sunday clothes;Likewise a hat upon his head,All bedaubed with ribbons red.
Young Richard he rode without dread or fear,Till he came to the house where lived his sweet dear,When he knocked, and shouted, and bellowed, ‘Hallo!Be the folks at home? say aye or no.’
A trusty servant let him in,That he his courtship might begin;Young Richard he walked along the great hall,And loudly for mistress Jean did call.
Miss Jean she came without delay,To hear what Dicky had got to say;‘I s’pose you knaw me, mistress Jean,I’m honest Richard of Taunton Dean.
‘I’m an honest fellow, although I be poor,And I never was in love afore;My mother she bid me come here for to woo,And I can fancy none but you.’
‘Suppose that I would be your bride,Pray how would you for me provide?For I can neither sew nor spin;—Pray what will your day’s work bring in?’
‘Why, I can plough, and I can zow,And zometimes to the market goWith Gaffer Johnson’s straw or hay,And yarn my ninepence every day!’
‘Ninepence a-day will never do,For I must have silks and satins too!Ninepence a day won’t buy us meat!’‘Adzooks!’ says Dick, ‘I’ve a zack of wheat;
‘Besides, I have a house hard by,’Tis all my awn, when mammy do die;If thee and I were married now,Ods! I’d feed thee as fat as my feyther’s old zow.’
Dick’s compliments did so delight,They made the family laugh outright;Young Richard took huff, and no more would say,He kicked up old Dobbin, and trotted away,Singing, dumble dum deary, &c.
[Thefollowing song is the original of a well-known and popular Scottish song:—
‘I hae laid a herring in saut;Lass, ’gin ye lo’e me, tell me now!I ha’e brewed a forpit o’ maut,An’ I canna come ilka day to woo.’
There are modern copies of our KentishWooing Song, but the present version is taken fromMelismata,Musical phansies fitting the court,citie,and countree.To3, 4, and 5voyces. London, printed by William Stansby, for Thomas Adams, 1611. The tune will be found inPopular Music, I., 90. The words are in the Kentish dialect.]
Ichhave house and land in Kent,And if you’ll love me, love me now;Two-pence half-penny is my rent,—Ich cannot come every day to woo.Chorus. Two-pence half-penny is his rent,And he cannot come every day to woo.
Ich am my vather’s eldest zonne,My mouther eke doth love me well!For Ich can bravely clout my shoone,And Ich full-well can ring a bell.Cho. For he can bravely clout his shoone,And he full well can ring a bell.[153]
My vather he gave me a hogge,My mouther she gave me a zow;Ich have a god-vather dwells there by,And he on me bestowed a plow.Cho. He has a god-vather dwells there by,And he on him bestowed a plow.
One time Ich gave thee a paper of pins,Anoder time a taudry lace;And if thou wilt not grant me love,In truth Ich die bevore thy vace.Cho. And if thou wilt not grant his love,In truth he’ll die bevore thy vace.
Ich have been twice our Whitson Lord,Ich have had ladies many vare;And eke thou hast my heart in hold,And in my minde zeemes passing rare.Cho. And eke thou hast his heart in hold,And in his minde zeemes passing rare.
Ich will put on my best white sloppe,And Ich will weare my yellow hose;And on my head a good gray hat,And in’t Ich sticke a lovely rose.Cho. And on his head a good grey hat,And in’t he’ll stick a lovely rose.
Wherefore cease off, make no delay,And if you’ll love me, love me now;Or els Ich zeeke zome oder where,—For Ich cannot come every day to woo.Cho. Or else he’ll zeeke zome oder where,For he cannot come every day to woo.[154]
[Thissong, on the same subject as the preceding, is as old as the reign of Henry VIII., the first verse, says Mr. Chappell, being found elaborately set to music in a manuscript of that date. The air is given inPopular Music, I., 87.]
QuothJohn to Joan, wilt thou have me?I prythee now, wilt? and I’ze marry with thee,My cow, my calf, my house, my rents,And all my lands and tenements:Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do?I cannot come every day to woo.
I’ve corn and hay in the barn hard by,And three fat hogs pent up in the sty:I have a mare, and she is coal black,I ride on her tail to save my back.Then say, &c.
I have a cheese upon the shelf,And I cannot eat it all myself;I’ve three good marks that lie in a rag,In the nook of the chimney, instead of a bag.Then say, &c.
To marry I would have thy consent,But faith I never could compliment;I can say nought but ‘hoy, gee ho,’Words that belong to the cart and the plow.Then say, &c.
[Thisold ditty, in its incidents, bears a resemblance toDumble-dum-deary, seeante, p. 149. It used to be a popular song in the Yorkshire dales. We have been obliged to supply anhiatusin the second verse, and to make an alteration in the last, where we have converted the ‘red-nosed parson’ of the original into a squire.]
Harrycourted modest Mary,Mary was always brisk and airy;Harry was country neat as could be,But his words were rough, and his duds were muddy.
Harry when he first bespoke her,[Kept a dandling the kitchen poker;]Mary spoke her words like Venus,But said, ‘There’s something I fear between us.
‘Have you got cups of China mettle,Canister, cream-jug, tongs, or kettle?’‘Odzooks, I’ve bowls, and siles, and dishes,Enow to supply any prudent wishes.
‘I’ve got none o’ your cups of Chaney,Canister, cream-jug, I’ve not any;I’ve a three-footed pot and a good brass kettle,Pray what do you want with your Chaney mettle?
‘A shippen full of rye for to fother,A house full of goods, one mack or another;I’ll thrash in the lathe while you sit spinning,O, Molly, I think that’s a good beginning.’
‘I’ll not sit at my wheel a-spinning,Or rise in the morn to wash your linen;I’ll lie in bed till the clock strikes eleven—’‘Oh, grant me patience gracious Heaven!
‘Why then thou must marry some red-nosed squire,[Who’ll buy thee a settle to sit by the fire,]For I’ll to Margery in the valley,She is my girl, so farewell Malley.’
[Ourcopy of this song is taken from one in the Roxburgh Collection, where it is called,The Country Farmer’s vain glory;in a new song of Harvest Home,sung to a new tune much in request.Licensed according to order. The tune is published inPopular Music. A copy of this song, with the music, may be found in D’Urfey’sPills to purge Melancholy. It varies from ours; butD’Urfey is so loose and inaccurate in his texts, that any other version is more likely to be correct. The broadside from which the following is copied was ‘Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Dencon [Deacon], J. Blai[r], and J. Back.’]
Ouroats they are howed, and our barley’s reaped,Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped;Harvest home! harvest home!We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!Harvest home! harvest home!We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!
We cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him again;For why should the vicar have one in ten?One in ten! one in ten!For why should the vicar have one in ten?For why should the vicar have one in ten?For staying while dinner is cold and hot,And pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot;Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!Till pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot,Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!
We’ll drink off the liquor while we can stand,And hey for the honour of old England!Old England! old England!And hey for the honour of old England!Old England! old England!
[Froman old copy without printer’s name or date.]
Come, Roger and Nell,Come, Simpkin and Bell,Each lad with his lass hither come;With singing and dancing,And pleasure advancing,To celebrate harvest-home!
Chorus. ’Tis Ceres bids play,And keep holiday,To celebrate harvest-home!Harvest-home!Harvest-home!To celebrate harvest-home!
Our labour is o’er,Our barns, in full store,Now swell with rich gifts of the land;Let each man then take,For the prong and the rake,His can and his lass in his hand.For Ceres, &c.
No courtier can beSo happy as we,In innocence, pastime, and mirth;While thus we carouse,With our sweetheart or spouse,And rejoice o’er the fruits of the earth.For Ceres, &c.
A HARVEST HOME SONG.
Tune,Where the bee sucks.
[Thisfavourite song, copied from a chap-book calledThe Whistling Ploughman, published at the commencement of the present century, is written in imitation of Ariel’s song, in theTempest. It is probably taken from some defunct ballad-opera.]
Nowour work’s done, thus we feast,After labour comes our rest;Joy shall reign in every breast,And right welcome is each guest:After harvest merrily,Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,After the harvest that heaps up the mow.
Now the plowman he shall plow,And shall whistle as he go,Whether it be fair or blow,For another barley mow,O’er the furrow merrily:Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,After the harvest, the fruit of the plow.
Toil and plenty, toil and ease,Still the husbandman he sees;Whether when the winter freeze,Or in summer’s gentle breeze;Still he labours merrily,Merrily, merrily, after the plow,He looks to the harvest, that gives us the mow.
[Thissong is sung at country meetings in Devon and Cornwall, particularly on completing the carrying of the barley, when the rick, or mow of barley, is finished. On putting up the last sheaf, which is called the craw (or crow) sheaf, the man who has it cries out ‘I have it, I have it, I have it;’ another demands, ‘What have ’ee, what have ’ee, what have ’ee?’ and the answer is, ‘A craw! a craw! a craw!’ upon which there is some cheering, &c., and a supper afterwards. The effect of theBarley-mow Songcannot be given in words; it should be heard, to be appreciated properly,—particularly with the West-country dialect.]
Here’sa health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!We’ll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!Cho. Here’s a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
We’ll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The nipperkin and the jolly brown bowl,Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the quarter-pint, boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The quarter-pint, nipperkin, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the half-a-pint, boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The half-a-pint, quarter-pint, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the pint, my brave boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The pint, the half-a-pint, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the quart, my brave boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The quart, the pint, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
Well drink it out of the pottle, my boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The pottle, the quart, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the gallon, my boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The gallon, the pottle, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the half-anker, boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The half-anker, gallon, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the anker, my boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The anker, the half-anker, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the half-hogshead, boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The half-hogshead, anker, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the hogshead, my boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The hogshead, the half-hogshead, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the pipe, my brave boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The pipe, the hogshead, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the well, my brave boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The well, the pipe, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the river, my boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The river, the well, &c.Cho. Here’s a health, &c.
We’ll drink it out of the ocean, my boys,Here’s a health to the barley-mow!The ocean, the river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead,the half-hogshead, the anker, the half-anker,the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pint, thehalf-a-pint, the quarter-pint, the nipperkin, andthe jolly brown bowl!Cho. Here’s a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys!Here’s a health to the barley-mow!
[The above verses are very muchad libitum, but always in the third line repeating the whole of the previously-named measures; as we have shown in the recapitulation at the close of the last verse.]
(SUFFOLK VERSION.)
[Thepeasantry of Suffolk sing the following version of theBarley-Mow Song.]
Here’sa health to the barley mow!Here’s a health to the manWho very well canBoth harrow and plow and sow!
When it is well sownSee it is well mown,Both raked and gavelled clean,And a barn to lay it in.He’s a health to the manWho very well canBoth thrash and fan it clean!
[Insome of the more remote dales of Craven it is customary at the close of the hay-harvest for the farmers to give an entertainment to their men; this is called the churn supper; a name which Eugene Aram traces to ‘the immemorial usage of producing at such suppers a great quantity of cream in a churn, and circulating it in cups to each of the rustic company, to be eaten with bread.’ At these churn-suppers the masters and their families attend the entertainment, and share in the general mirth. The men mask themselves, and dress in a grotesque manner, and are allowed the privilege of playing harmless practical jokes on their employers, &c. The churn-supper song varies in different dales, but the following used to be the most popular version. In the third verse there seems to be an allusion to the clergyman’s taking tythe in kind, on which occasions he is generally accompanied by two or three men, and the parish clerk. The song has never before been printed. There is a marked resemblance between it and a song of the date of 1650, calledA Cup of Old Stingo. SeePopular Music of the Olden Time, I., 308.]
Godrest you, merry gentlemen!Be not movèd at my strain,For nothing study shall my brain,But for to make you laugh:For I came here to this feast,For to laugh, carouse, and jest,And welcome shall be every guest,To take his cup and quaff.Cho. Be frolicsome, every one,Melancholy none;Drink about!See it out,And then we’ll all go home,And then we’ll all go home!
This ale it is a gallant thing,It cheers the spirits of a king;It makes a dumb man strive to sing,Aye, and a beggar play!A cripple that is lame and halt,And scarce a mile a day can walk,When he feels the juice of malt,Will throw his crutch away.Cho. Be frolicsome, &c.
’Twill make the parson forget his men,—’Twill make his clerk forget his pen;’Twill turn a tailor’s giddy brain,And make him break his wand,The blacksmith loves it as his life,—It makes the tinkler bang his wife,—Aye, and the butcher seek his knifeWhen he has it in his hand!Cho. Be frolicsome, &c.
So now to conclude, my merry boys, all,Let’s with strong liquor take a fall,Although the weakest goes to the wall,The best is but a play!For water it concludes in noise,Good ale will cheer our hearts, brave boys;Then put it round with a cheerful voice,We meet not every day.Cho. Be frolicsome, &c.
[Themost correct copy of this song is that given inThe Westminster Drollery, Part II. p. 80. It is there calledThe Rural Dance about the May-pole,the tune,the first-figure dance at Mr. Young’s ball,May, 1671. The tune is inPopular Music. TheMay-pole, for so the song is called in modern collections, is a very popular ditty at the present time. The common copies vary considerably from the following version, which is much more correct than any hitherto published.]
Come, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads,And away to the may-pole hie;For every he has got him a she,And the minstrel’s standing by;For Willie has gotten his Jill,And Johnny has got his Joan,To jig it, jig it, jig it,Jig it up and down.
‘Strike up,’ says Wat; ‘Agreed,’ says Kate,‘And I prithee, fiddler, play;’‘Content,’ says Hodge, and so says Madge,For this is a holiday.Then every man did putHis hat off to his lass,And every girl did curchy,Curchy, curchy on the grass.
‘Begin,’ says Hall; ‘Aye, aye,’ says Mall,‘We’ll lead upPackington’s Pound;’‘No, no,’ says Noll, and so says Doll,‘We’ll first haveSellenger’s Round.’[165a]Then every man beganTo foot it round about;And every girl did jet it,Jet it, jet it, in and out.
‘You’re out,’ says Dick; ‘’Tis a lie,’ says Nick,‘The fiddler played it false;’‘’Tis true,’ says Hugh, and so says Sue,And so says nimble Alice.The fiddler then beganTo play the tune again;And every girl did trip it, trip it,Trip it to the men.
‘Let’s kiss,’ says Jane,[165b]‘Content,’ says Nan,And so says every she;‘How many?’ says Batt; ‘Why three,’ says Matt,‘For that’s a maiden’s fee.’But they, instead of three,Did give them half a score,And they in kindness gave ’em, gave ’em,Gave ’em as many more.
Then after an hour, they went to a bower,And played for ale and cakes;And kisses, too;—until they were due,The lasses kept the stakes:The girls did then beginTo quarrel with the men;And bid ’em take their kisses back,And give them their own again.
Yet there they sate, until it was late,And tired the fiddler quite,With singing and playing, without any paying,From morning unto night:They told the fiddler then,They’d pay him for his play;And each a two-pence, two-pence,Gave him, and went away.
‘Good night,’ says Harry; ‘Good night,’ says Mary;‘Good night,’ says Dolly to John;‘Good night,’ says Sue; ‘Good night,’ says Hugh;‘Good night,’ says every one.Some walked, and some did run,Some loitered on the way;And bound themselves with love-knots, love-knots,To meet the next holiday.
[Thefollowing song is sung by the Mayers at Hitchin in the county of Herts. For an account of the manner in which May-day is observed at Hitchin, see Hone’sEvery-Day Book.]
Rememberus poor Mayers all!And thus do we beginTo lead our lives in righteousness,Or else we die in sin.
We have been rambling all the night,And almost all the day;And now returned back again,We have brought you a branch of May.
A branch of May we have brought you,And at your door it stands;It is but a sprout,But it’s well budded outBy the work of our Lord’s hand.
The hedges and trees they are so green,As green as any leek;Our heavenly Father he watered themWith his heavenly dew so sweet.
The heavenly gates are open wide,Our paths are beaten plain;And if a man be not too far gone,He may return again.
The life of man is but a span,It flourishes like a flower;We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow,And we are dead in an hour.
The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,A little before it is day;So God bless you all, both great and small,And send you a joyful May!
[AtHelstone, in Cornwall, the 8th of May is a day devoted to revelry and gaiety. It is called the Furry-day, supposed to be a corruption of Flora’s day, from the garlands worn and carried in procession during the festival.[167]A writer in theGentleman’sMagazinefor June, 1790, says, ‘In the morning, very early, some troublesome rogues go round the streets [of Helstone], with drums and other noisy instruments, disturbing their sober neighbours, and singing parts of a song, the whole of which nobody now re-collects, and of which I know no more than that there is mention in it of the ‘grey goose quill,’ and of going ‘to the green wood’ to bring home ‘the Summer and the May, O!’’ During the festival, the gentry, tradespeople, servants, &c., dance through the streets, and thread through certain of the houses to a very old dance tune, given in the appendix to Davies Gilbert’sChristmas Carols, and which may also be found in Chappell’sPopular Music, and other collections. TheFurry-day Songpossesses no literary merit whatever; but as a part of an old and really interesting festival, it is worthy of preservation. The dance-tune has been confounded with that of the song, but Mr. Sandys, to whom we are indebted for this communication, observes that ‘the dance-tune is quite different.’]
Robin Hoodand Little John,They both are gone to the fair, O!And we will go to the merry green-wood,To see what they do there, O!And for to chase, O!To chase the buck and doe.With ha-lan-tow, rumble, O!For we were up as soon as any day, O!And for to fetch the summer home,The summer and the may, O!For summer is a-come, O!And winter is a-gone, O!
Where are those SpaniardsThat make so great a boast, O?They shall eat the grey goose feather,And we will eat the roast, O!In every land, O!The land where’er we go.With ha-lan-tow, &c
As for Saint George, O!Saint George he was a knight, O!Of all the knights in Christendom,Saint George is the right, O!In every land, O!The land where’er we go.With ha-lan-tow, &c.
[Thevery ancient custom of lighting fires on Midsummer-eve, being the vigil of St. John the Baptist, is still kept up in several parts of Cornwall. On these occasions the fishermen and others dance about the fires, and sing appropriate songs. The following has been sung for a long series of years at Penzance and the neighbourhood, and is taken down from the recitation of the leader of a West-country choir. It is communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys. The origin of the Midsummer bonfires is fully explained in Brand’sPopular Antiquities. See Sir H. Ellis’s edition of that work, vol. i. pp. 166–186.]
Thebonny month of June is crownedWith the sweet scarlet rose;The groves and meadows all aroundWith lovely pleasure flows.
As I walked out to yonder green,One evening so fair;All where the fair maids may be seenPlaying at the bonfire.
Hail! lovely nymphs, be not too coy,But freely yield your charms;Let love inspire with mirth and joy,In Cupid’s lovely arms.
Bright Luna spreads its light around,The gallants for to cheer;As they lay sporting on the ground,At the fair June bonfire.
All on the pleasant dewy mead,They shared each other’s charms;Till Phoebus’ beams began to spread,And coming day alarms.
Whilst larks and linnets sing so sweet,To cheer each lovely swain;Let each prove true unto their love,And so farewell the plain.
[Inno part of England are the harvest-homes kept up with greater spirit than in Suffolk. The following old song is a general favourite on such occasions.]
Here’sa health unto our master,The founder of the feast!I wish, with all my heart and soul,In heaven he may find rest.I hope all things may prosper,That ever be takes in hand;For we are all his servants,And all at his command.
Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill,For if you do, you must drink two,—it is your master’s will.
Now our harvest is ended,And supper is past;Here’s our mistress’ good health,In a full flowing glass!She is a good woman,—She prepared us good cheer;Come, all my brave boys,And drink off your beer.
Drink, my boys, drink till you come unto me,The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be!
In yon green wood there lies an old fox,Close by his den you may catch him, or no;Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no.His beard and his brush are all of one colour,—
[Takes the glass and empties it off.
I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller.’Tis down the red lane! ’tis down the red lane!So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane![171]
[Anold and very favourite ditty sung in many parts of England at merry-makings, especially at those which occur during the hay-harvest. It is not in any collection.]
Inthe merry month of June,In the prime time of the year;Down in yonder meadowsThere runs a river clear:And many a little fishDoth in that river play;And many a lad, and many a lass,Go abroad a-making hay.
In come the jolly mowers,To mow the meadows down;With budget and with bottleOf ale, both stout and brown,All labouring men of courage boldCome here their strength to try;They sweat and blow, and cut and mow,For the grass cuts very dry.
Here’s nimble Ben and Tom,With pitchfork, and with rake;Here’s Molly, Liz, and Susan,Come here their hay to make.While sweet, jug, jug, jug!The nightingale doth sing,From morning unto even-song,As they are hay-making.
And when that bright day faded,And the sun was going down,There was a merry piperApproachèd from the town:He pulled out his pipe and tabor,So sweetly he did play,Which made all lay down their rakes,And leave off making hay.
Then joining in a dance,They jig it o’er the green;Though tired with their labour,No one less was seen.But sporting like some fairies,Their dance they did pursue,In leading up, and casting off,Till morning was in view.
And when that bright daylight,The morning it was come,They lay down and restedTill the rising of the sun:Till the rising of the sun,When the merry larks do sing,And each lad did rise and take his lass,And away to hay-making.
[Sword-dancingis not so common in the North of England as it was a few years ago; but a troop of rustic practitioners of the art may still be occasionally met with at Christmas time, in some of the most secluded of the Yorkshire dales. The following isa copy of the introductory song, as it used to be sung by the Wharfdale sword-dancers. It has been transcribed from a MS. in the possession of Mr. Holmes, surgeon, at Grassington, in Craven. At the conclusion of the song a dance ensues, and sometimes a rustic drama is performed. See post, p. 175.Jumping Joan, alluded to in the last verse, is a well-known old country dance tune.]
The spectators being assembled,theClownenters,and after drawing a circle with his sword,walks round it,and calls in the actors in the following lines,which are sung to the accompaniment of a violin played outside,or behind the door.
Thefirst that enters on the floor,His name is Captain Brown;I think he is as smart a youthAs any in this town:In courting of the ladies gay,He fixes his delight;He will not stay from them all day,And is with them all the night.
The next’s a tailor by his trade,Called Obadiah Trim;You may quickly guess, by his plain dress,And hat of broadest brim,That he is of the Quaking sect,Who would seem to act by meritOf yeas and nays, and hums and hahs,And motions of the spirit.
The next that enters on the floor,He is a foppish knight;The first to be in modish dress,He studies day and night.Observe his habit round about,—Even from top to toe;The fashion late from France was brought,—He’s finer than a beau!
Next I present unto your viewA very worthy man;He is a vintner, by his trade,And Love-ale is his name.If gentlemen propose a glass,He seldom says ’em nay,But does always think it’s right to drink,While other people pay.
The next that enters on the floor,It is my beauteous dame;Most dearly I do her adore,And Bridget is her name.At needlework she does excelAll that e’er learnt to sew,And when I choose, she’ll ne’er refuse,What I command her do.
And I myself am come long since,And Thomas is my name;Though some are pleased to call me Tom,I think they’re much to blame:Folks should not use their betters thus,But I value it not a groat,Though the tailors, too, that botching crew,Have patched it on my coat.
I pray who’s this we’ve met with here,That tickles his trunk wame?[174]We’ve picked him up as here we came,And cannot learn his name:But sooner than he’s go without,I’ll call him my son Tom;And if he’ll play, be it night or day,We’ll dance youJumping Joan.
AS NOW PERFORMED AT CHRISTMAS, IN THE COUNTY OF DURHAM.
[Thelate Sir Cuthbert Sharp remarks, that ‘It is still the practice during the Christmas holidays for companies of fifteen to perform a sort of play or dance, accompanied by song or music.’ The following version of the song, or interlude, has been transcribed from Sir C. Sharp’sBishoprick Garland, corrected by collation with a MS. copy recently remitted to the editor by a countryman of Durham. The Devonshire peasants have a version almost identical with this, but laths are used instead of swords, and a few different characters are introduced to suit the locality. The pageant calledThe Fool Plough, which consists of a number of sword-dancers dragging a plough with music, was anciently observed in the North of England, not only at Christmas time, but also in the beginning of Lent. Wallis thinks that theSword Danceis the antic dance, or chorus armatus of the Romans. Brand supposes that it is a composition made up of the gleaning of several obsolete customs anciently followed in England and other countries. The Germans still practise theSword Danceat Christmas and Easter. We once witnessed aSword Dancein the Eifel mountains, which closely resembled our own, but no interlude, or drama, was performed.]
Enter Dancers,decorated with swords and ribbons;theCaptainof the band wearing a cocked hat and a peacock’s feather in it by way of cockade,and theClown,or‘Bessy,’who acts as treasurer,being decorated with a hairy cap and a fox’s brush dependent.
TheCaptainforms with his sword a circle,around which walks.
TheBessyopens the proceedings by singing—
Goodgentlemen all, to our captain take heed,And hear what he’s got for to sing;He’s lived among music these forty long year,And drunk of the elegant[175]spring.
TheCaptainthen proceeds as follows,his song being accompanied by a violin,generally played by theBessy—
Six actors I have broughtWho were ne’er on a stage before;But they will do their best,And they can do no more.
The first that I call inHe is a squire’s son;He’s like to lose his sweetheartBecause he is too young.
But though he is too young,He has money for to rove,And he will spend it allBefore he’ll lose his love.
Chorus.Fal lal de ral,lal de dal,fal lal de ra ral da.
Followed by a symphony on the fiddle,during which the introduced actor walks round the circle.
TheCaptainproceeds—
The next that I call inHe is a tailor fine;What think you of his work?He made this coat of mine!
Here theCaptainturns round and exhibits his coat,which,of course,is ragged,and full of holes.
So comes good master Snip,His best respects to pay:He joins us in our tripTo drive dull care away.
Chorus and symphony as above.
Here theTailorwalks round,accompanied by theSquire’s Son.This form is observed after each subsequent introduction,all the new comers taking apart.
The next I do call in,The prodigal son is he;By spending of his goldHe’s come to poverty.
But though he all has spent,Again he’ll wield the plow,And sing right merrilyAs any of us now.[177]
Next comes a skipper bold,He’ll do his part right weel—A clever blade I’m toldAs ever pozed a keel.
He is a bonny lad,As you must understand;It’s he can dance on deck,And you’ll see him dance on land.
To join us in this playHere comes a jolly dog,Who’s sober all the day—If he can get no grog.
But though he likes his grog,As all his friends do say,He always likes it bestWhen other people pay.
Last I come in myself,The leader of this crew;And if you’d know my name,My name it is ‘True Blue.’
Here theBessygives an account of himself.
My mother was burnt for a witch,My father was hanged on a tree,And it’s because I’m a foolThere’s nobody meddled wi’ me.
The dance now commences.It is an ingenious performance,and the swords of the actors are placed in a variety of graceful positions,so as to form stars,hearts,squares,circles,&c. &c.The dance is so elaborate that it requires frequent rehearsals,a quick eye,and a strict adherence to time and tune.Before it concludes,grace and elegance have given place to disorder,and at last all the actors are seen fighting.TheParish Clergymanrushes in to prevent bloodshed,and receives a death-blow.While on the ground,the actors walk round the body,and sing as follows,to a slow,psalm-like tune:—
Alas! our parson’s dead,And on the ground is laid;Some of us will suffer for’t,Young men, I’m sore afraid.
I’m sure ’twas none of me,I’m clear ofthatcrime;’Twas him that follows meThat drew his sword so fine.