The Second Part.Then straight came ruffling to my dore,Some dozens of these rogues, or more;So zausie they be grown.Facks[,] if they come, down they sit,They’l never ask me leave one whit,They’l take all for their own.Then ich provision straight must make,And from my Chymney needs must take,And vlitch both pure and good.[a flitch]Oh! ’twould melt a Christians heart to see,That such good Bacon spoil’d should be,’Twas as red as any blood.But in it would, whether chud or not,Together with Beans into the pot,As sweet as any viggs.And when chave done all that I am able,They’l slat it down all under table,And zwear they be no Pigs.Then Ize did intreat their worships to be quiet,And ich would strive to mend their diet,And they shall have finer feeding,They zwear goddam thee for a boor,Wee’l gick thee raskal out a door,And teach thee better breeding.Then on the fire they [do] put onA piece of beef, or else good mutton,No, no, this is no meat.Forsooth they must have finer food,A good vat hen with all her brood;And then perhaps they’l eat.But of late ich had a crew together,They were meer devils, ich ask’d them whetherThat they were not of our nation.Good Lord defend us from all zuch,They zaid they were wildIrish, or elseDutch,They were of the Devils generation.And when these raskals went away,What e’re you thing they did me repayIch will not you deceive.Facks[,] just as folks go to a vaire,They vaidled up my goods and ware,And so they took their leave.O what a clutter they did makeOur house forBabelthey did take,We could not understand a jot.Yet they did know what did belongTo drink and zwear in our own tongue,Such language they had a got.Nor home ich any zafe aboad,If that Ise chance to go abroad,These rogues will come to spy me;Then zurrah, zurrah, quoth they, tarry,We know false letters you do carry,And so they come to try me.For as swift as any lightning goesStraight all their hand into my hose,There out they pull my purse.O zurrah, zurrah, this is it,Your Letters are in silver writ;You may go take your course.A Trouper t’other day did greet me,[ ... Lost line.]But could you guesse the reason,Thou art, quoth he, a rebel, Knave,And zo thou dost thy zelf behave,For thou doest whistle treason.Nor was this raskal much to blame,For all his mates zwore just the zame,That ich was fain to do.Ich humble pardon of him sought,And gave him money for my fault,And glad I could scape so too.(Wits Interpreter, 250, 1671 ed.)
The Second Part.Then straight came ruffling to my dore,Some dozens of these rogues, or more;So zausie they be grown.Facks[,] if they come, down they sit,They’l never ask me leave one whit,They’l take all for their own.Then ich provision straight must make,And from my Chymney needs must take,And vlitch both pure and good.[a flitch]Oh! ’twould melt a Christians heart to see,That such good Bacon spoil’d should be,’Twas as red as any blood.But in it would, whether chud or not,Together with Beans into the pot,As sweet as any viggs.And when chave done all that I am able,They’l slat it down all under table,And zwear they be no Pigs.Then Ize did intreat their worships to be quiet,And ich would strive to mend their diet,And they shall have finer feeding,They zwear goddam thee for a boor,Wee’l gick thee raskal out a door,And teach thee better breeding.Then on the fire they [do] put onA piece of beef, or else good mutton,No, no, this is no meat.Forsooth they must have finer food,A good vat hen with all her brood;And then perhaps they’l eat.But of late ich had a crew together,They were meer devils, ich ask’d them whetherThat they were not of our nation.Good Lord defend us from all zuch,They zaid they were wildIrish, or elseDutch,They were of the Devils generation.And when these raskals went away,What e’re you thing they did me repayIch will not you deceive.Facks[,] just as folks go to a vaire,They vaidled up my goods and ware,And so they took their leave.O what a clutter they did makeOur house forBabelthey did take,We could not understand a jot.Yet they did know what did belongTo drink and zwear in our own tongue,Such language they had a got.Nor home ich any zafe aboad,If that Ise chance to go abroad,These rogues will come to spy me;Then zurrah, zurrah, quoth they, tarry,We know false letters you do carry,And so they come to try me.For as swift as any lightning goesStraight all their hand into my hose,There out they pull my purse.O zurrah, zurrah, this is it,Your Letters are in silver writ;You may go take your course.A Trouper t’other day did greet me,[ ... Lost line.]But could you guesse the reason,Thou art, quoth he, a rebel, Knave,And zo thou dost thy zelf behave,For thou doest whistle treason.Nor was this raskal much to blame,For all his mates zwore just the zame,That ich was fain to do.Ich humble pardon of him sought,And gave him money for my fault,And glad I could scape so too.(Wits Interpreter, 250, 1671 ed.)
The Second Part.
Then straight came ruffling to my dore,Some dozens of these rogues, or more;So zausie they be grown.Facks[,] if they come, down they sit,They’l never ask me leave one whit,They’l take all for their own.
Then straight came ruffling to my dore,
Some dozens of these rogues, or more;
So zausie they be grown.
Facks[,] if they come, down they sit,
They’l never ask me leave one whit,
They’l take all for their own.
Then ich provision straight must make,And from my Chymney needs must take,And vlitch both pure and good.[a flitch]Oh! ’twould melt a Christians heart to see,That such good Bacon spoil’d should be,’Twas as red as any blood.
Then ich provision straight must make,
And from my Chymney needs must take,
And vlitch both pure and good.[a flitch]
Oh! ’twould melt a Christians heart to see,
That such good Bacon spoil’d should be,
’Twas as red as any blood.
But in it would, whether chud or not,Together with Beans into the pot,As sweet as any viggs.And when chave done all that I am able,They’l slat it down all under table,And zwear they be no Pigs.
But in it would, whether chud or not,
Together with Beans into the pot,
As sweet as any viggs.
And when chave done all that I am able,
They’l slat it down all under table,
And zwear they be no Pigs.
Then Ize did intreat their worships to be quiet,And ich would strive to mend their diet,And they shall have finer feeding,They zwear goddam thee for a boor,Wee’l gick thee raskal out a door,And teach thee better breeding.
Then Ize did intreat their worships to be quiet,
And ich would strive to mend their diet,
And they shall have finer feeding,
They zwear goddam thee for a boor,
Wee’l gick thee raskal out a door,
And teach thee better breeding.
Then on the fire they [do] put onA piece of beef, or else good mutton,No, no, this is no meat.Forsooth they must have finer food,A good vat hen with all her brood;And then perhaps they’l eat.
Then on the fire they [do] put on
A piece of beef, or else good mutton,
No, no, this is no meat.
Forsooth they must have finer food,
A good vat hen with all her brood;
And then perhaps they’l eat.
But of late ich had a crew together,They were meer devils, ich ask’d them whetherThat they were not of our nation.Good Lord defend us from all zuch,They zaid they were wildIrish, or elseDutch,They were of the Devils generation.
But of late ich had a crew together,
They were meer devils, ich ask’d them whether
That they were not of our nation.
Good Lord defend us from all zuch,
They zaid they were wildIrish, or elseDutch,
They were of the Devils generation.
And when these raskals went away,What e’re you thing they did me repayIch will not you deceive.Facks[,] just as folks go to a vaire,They vaidled up my goods and ware,And so they took their leave.
And when these raskals went away,
What e’re you thing they did me repay
Ich will not you deceive.
Facks[,] just as folks go to a vaire,
They vaidled up my goods and ware,
And so they took their leave.
O what a clutter they did makeOur house forBabelthey did take,We could not understand a jot.Yet they did know what did belongTo drink and zwear in our own tongue,Such language they had a got.
O what a clutter they did make
Our house forBabelthey did take,
We could not understand a jot.
Yet they did know what did belong
To drink and zwear in our own tongue,
Such language they had a got.
Nor home ich any zafe aboad,If that Ise chance to go abroad,These rogues will come to spy me;Then zurrah, zurrah, quoth they, tarry,We know false letters you do carry,And so they come to try me.
Nor home ich any zafe aboad,
If that Ise chance to go abroad,
These rogues will come to spy me;
Then zurrah, zurrah, quoth they, tarry,
We know false letters you do carry,
And so they come to try me.
For as swift as any lightning goesStraight all their hand into my hose,There out they pull my purse.O zurrah, zurrah, this is it,Your Letters are in silver writ;You may go take your course.
For as swift as any lightning goes
Straight all their hand into my hose,
There out they pull my purse.
O zurrah, zurrah, this is it,
Your Letters are in silver writ;
You may go take your course.
A Trouper t’other day did greet me,[ ... Lost line.]But could you guesse the reason,Thou art, quoth he, a rebel, Knave,And zo thou dost thy zelf behave,For thou doest whistle treason.
A Trouper t’other day did greet me,
[ ... Lost line.]
But could you guesse the reason,
Thou art, quoth he, a rebel, Knave,
And zo thou dost thy zelf behave,
For thou doest whistle treason.
Nor was this raskal much to blame,For all his mates zwore just the zame,That ich was fain to do.Ich humble pardon of him sought,And gave him money for my fault,And glad I could scape so too.
Nor was this raskal much to blame,
For all his mates zwore just the zame,
That ich was fain to do.
Ich humble pardon of him sought,
And gave him money for my fault,
And glad I could scape so too.
(Wits Interpreter, 250, 1671 ed.)
This is, veritably, a “document in madness” of such civil wars and military licence. It reads like the genuine narratives of Prussian brutality and outrage during the occupation of Alsace and Lorraine: which is hereafter to be bitterly avenged.
This lively ditty is sung by Latrocinio in the comedy of “The Widow,” Act iii. sc. 1, produced about 1616, and written byJohn Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and Thomas Middleton. The song bears trace of Fletcher’s hand (more, we believe, than of Jonson’s). It has a rollicking freedom that made it a favourite. We meet it inWit’s Interpreter, 1655, p. 69; 1671, p. 175; and elsewhere. See Dyce’sMiddleton, iii. 383, andDodsley’s Old Plays, 1744, vi. 34.
This re-appears, with variations and twelve additional lines (inferior), inWestminster-Drollery, 1671, i. 102; where is the corrupt text “anddailypays us with what is.” Our present text gives us the true word, “dully.”
Fuller’s book, “APisgah sight of Palestine,” was published about 1649. The epitaph “Here lies Fuller’s earth,” is well known. He died in 1661.
The author of this song wasDr. Henry Hughes. Henry Lawes gives the music to it, in his “Ayres,” 1669, Bk. iii. p. 10. It is also in J. P.’sSportive Wit, 1656, p. 15; theLoyal Garland(Percy Soc. Reprint of 1686 edit, xxix. 67);Pills to p. Mel., 1719, iii. 331. Sometimes attributed to Sir R[obert] A[ytoun].
InSportive Witthere are variations as well as an Answer, which we here give. The different title seems consequent on the Answer presupposing thatAmintashas not died, merely disappeared. It is “A Shepherd fallen in Love: A Pastoral.” The readings are:Lambkins follow;They’re gone, they’re; Doghowlinglyes,Whilehelaments with wofulcryes; OhCloris, Cloris, I decay, Andforced am to cry well,&c.Sixth verse there omitted. It has, however, on p. 16:—
The Answer.[1656.]Cloris, since thou art gone astray,AmyntasShepherd’s fled away;And all the joys he wont to spyeI’ th’ pretty babies of thine eye,Are gone; and she hath none to sayBut who can help whatwill away, will away?The Green on which it was her [? his] chanceTo have her hand first in a dance,Among the merry Maiden-crue,Now making her nought but sigh and rueThe time she ere had cause to say[p. 17.]Ah, who can help whatwill away, will away?The Lawn with which she wont to deckAnd circle in her whiter neck;Her Apron lies behinde the door;The strings won’t reach now as before:Which makes her oft crywell-a-day:But who can help whatwill away?He often swore that he would leave me,Ere of my heart he could bereave me:But when the Signe was in the tail,He knew poor Maiden-flesh was frail;And laughs now I have nought to say,But who can help whatwill away.But let the blame upon me lie,I had no heart him to denie:Had I another Maidenhead,I’d lose it ere I went to bed:For what can all the world more say,Than who can help whatwill away?(Sportive Wit; or,The Muses’ Merriment.)
The Answer.[1656.]Cloris, since thou art gone astray,AmyntasShepherd’s fled away;And all the joys he wont to spyeI’ th’ pretty babies of thine eye,Are gone; and she hath none to sayBut who can help whatwill away, will away?The Green on which it was her [? his] chanceTo have her hand first in a dance,Among the merry Maiden-crue,Now making her nought but sigh and rueThe time she ere had cause to say[p. 17.]Ah, who can help whatwill away, will away?The Lawn with which she wont to deckAnd circle in her whiter neck;Her Apron lies behinde the door;The strings won’t reach now as before:Which makes her oft crywell-a-day:But who can help whatwill away?He often swore that he would leave me,Ere of my heart he could bereave me:But when the Signe was in the tail,He knew poor Maiden-flesh was frail;And laughs now I have nought to say,But who can help whatwill away.But let the blame upon me lie,I had no heart him to denie:Had I another Maidenhead,I’d lose it ere I went to bed:For what can all the world more say,Than who can help whatwill away?(Sportive Wit; or,The Muses’ Merriment.)
The Answer.
[1656.]
Cloris, since thou art gone astray,AmyntasShepherd’s fled away;And all the joys he wont to spyeI’ th’ pretty babies of thine eye,Are gone; and she hath none to sayBut who can help whatwill away, will away?
Cloris, since thou art gone astray,
AmyntasShepherd’s fled away;
And all the joys he wont to spye
I’ th’ pretty babies of thine eye,
Are gone; and she hath none to say
But who can help whatwill away, will away?
The Green on which it was her [? his] chanceTo have her hand first in a dance,Among the merry Maiden-crue,Now making her nought but sigh and rueThe time she ere had cause to say[p. 17.]Ah, who can help whatwill away, will away?
The Green on which it was her [? his] chance
To have her hand first in a dance,
Among the merry Maiden-crue,
Now making her nought but sigh and rue
The time she ere had cause to say[p. 17.]
Ah, who can help whatwill away, will away?
The Lawn with which she wont to deckAnd circle in her whiter neck;Her Apron lies behinde the door;The strings won’t reach now as before:Which makes her oft crywell-a-day:But who can help whatwill away?
The Lawn with which she wont to deck
And circle in her whiter neck;
Her Apron lies behinde the door;
The strings won’t reach now as before:
Which makes her oft crywell-a-day:
But who can help whatwill away?
He often swore that he would leave me,Ere of my heart he could bereave me:But when the Signe was in the tail,He knew poor Maiden-flesh was frail;And laughs now I have nought to say,But who can help whatwill away.
He often swore that he would leave me,
Ere of my heart he could bereave me:
But when the Signe was in the tail,
He knew poor Maiden-flesh was frail;
And laughs now I have nought to say,
But who can help whatwill away.
But let the blame upon me lie,I had no heart him to denie:Had I another Maidenhead,I’d lose it ere I went to bed:For what can all the world more say,Than who can help whatwill away?
But let the blame upon me lie,
I had no heart him to denie:
Had I another Maidenhead,
I’d lose it ere I went to bed:
For what can all the world more say,
Than who can help whatwill away?
(Sportive Wit; or,The Muses’ Merriment.)
Also in Captain William Hickes’London Drollery, 1673, p. 179, where it is entitled “Queen Elizabeth’s Song.” The dance tuneSallanger’s(or more commonlySellenger’s)Roundis given in Chappell’s Pop. Music, O. T., p. 69. The name is corrupted fromSt. Leger’s Round; as in Yorkshire the Doncaster race is called the Sillinger, or Sellenger, to this day.
Not yet found elsewhere, in MS. or print. The sixthverse refers to King James the First making so many Knights, on insufficient ground, that he incurred ridicule. Allusions are not infrequent in dramas and ballads. Here is the most noteworthy of the latter. It is in Additional MS. No. 5,832, fol. 205, British Museum.
Verses upon the order for making Knights of such personswho had £46per annumin KingJamesI.’s time.Come all you farmers out of the country,Carters, plowmen, hedgers and all,Tom,DickandWill,Ralph,RogerandHumfrey,Leave off your gestures rusticall.Bidd all your home-sponne russetts adue,And sute your selves in fashions new;Honour invites you to delights:Come all to Court and be made Knights.2.He that hath fortie poundsper annumShalbe promoted from the plowe:His wife shall take the wall of her grannum,Honour is sould soe dog-cheap now.Though thow hast neither good birth nor breeding,If thou hast money, thow art sure of speeding.3.Knighthood in old time was counted an honour,Which the best spiritts did not disdayne;But now it is us’d in so base a manner,That it’s noe creditt, but rather a staine:Tush, it’s noe matter what people doe say,The name of a Knight a whole village will sway.4.Shepheards, leave singing your pastorall sonnetts,And to learne complements shew your endeavours:Cast of[f] for ever your two shillinge bonnetts,Cover your coxcombs with three pound beavers.Sell carte and tarrboxe new coaches to buy,Then, “Good your Worship,” the vulgar will cry.5.And thus unto worshipp being advanced,Keepe all your tenants in awe with your frownes;And let your rents be yearly inhaunced,To buy your new-moulded maddams new gowns.Joan,Sisse, andNellshalbe all ladified,Instead of hay-carts, in coaches shall ryde.6.Whatever you doe, have a care of expenses,In hospitality doe not exceed:Greatnes of followers belongeth to princes:A Coachman and footmen are all that you need:And still observe this, let your servants meate lacke,To keep brave apparel upon your wives backe.[Additional stanza from Mr. Hunter’s MS.]7.Now to conclude, and shutt up my sonnett,Leave of the Cart-whip, hedge-bill and flaile,This is my counsell, think well upon it,Knighthood and honour are now put to saile.Then make haste quickly, and lett out your farmes,And take my advice in blazing your armes.Honor invites, &c.
Verses upon the order for making Knights of such personswho had £46per annumin KingJamesI.’s time.Come all you farmers out of the country,Carters, plowmen, hedgers and all,Tom,DickandWill,Ralph,RogerandHumfrey,Leave off your gestures rusticall.Bidd all your home-sponne russetts adue,And sute your selves in fashions new;Honour invites you to delights:Come all to Court and be made Knights.2.He that hath fortie poundsper annumShalbe promoted from the plowe:His wife shall take the wall of her grannum,Honour is sould soe dog-cheap now.Though thow hast neither good birth nor breeding,If thou hast money, thow art sure of speeding.3.Knighthood in old time was counted an honour,Which the best spiritts did not disdayne;But now it is us’d in so base a manner,That it’s noe creditt, but rather a staine:Tush, it’s noe matter what people doe say,The name of a Knight a whole village will sway.4.Shepheards, leave singing your pastorall sonnetts,And to learne complements shew your endeavours:Cast of[f] for ever your two shillinge bonnetts,Cover your coxcombs with three pound beavers.Sell carte and tarrboxe new coaches to buy,Then, “Good your Worship,” the vulgar will cry.5.And thus unto worshipp being advanced,Keepe all your tenants in awe with your frownes;And let your rents be yearly inhaunced,To buy your new-moulded maddams new gowns.Joan,Sisse, andNellshalbe all ladified,Instead of hay-carts, in coaches shall ryde.6.Whatever you doe, have a care of expenses,In hospitality doe not exceed:Greatnes of followers belongeth to princes:A Coachman and footmen are all that you need:And still observe this, let your servants meate lacke,To keep brave apparel upon your wives backe.[Additional stanza from Mr. Hunter’s MS.]7.Now to conclude, and shutt up my sonnett,Leave of the Cart-whip, hedge-bill and flaile,This is my counsell, think well upon it,Knighthood and honour are now put to saile.Then make haste quickly, and lett out your farmes,And take my advice in blazing your armes.Honor invites, &c.
Verses upon the order for making Knights of such personswho had £46per annumin KingJamesI.’s time.
Come all you farmers out of the country,Carters, plowmen, hedgers and all,Tom,DickandWill,Ralph,RogerandHumfrey,Leave off your gestures rusticall.Bidd all your home-sponne russetts adue,And sute your selves in fashions new;Honour invites you to delights:Come all to Court and be made Knights.
Come all you farmers out of the country,
Carters, plowmen, hedgers and all,
Tom,DickandWill,Ralph,RogerandHumfrey,
Leave off your gestures rusticall.
Bidd all your home-sponne russetts adue,
And sute your selves in fashions new;
Honour invites you to delights:
Come all to Court and be made Knights.
2.He that hath fortie poundsper annumShalbe promoted from the plowe:His wife shall take the wall of her grannum,Honour is sould soe dog-cheap now.Though thow hast neither good birth nor breeding,If thou hast money, thow art sure of speeding.
2.
He that hath fortie poundsper annum
Shalbe promoted from the plowe:
His wife shall take the wall of her grannum,
Honour is sould soe dog-cheap now.
Though thow hast neither good birth nor breeding,
If thou hast money, thow art sure of speeding.
3.Knighthood in old time was counted an honour,Which the best spiritts did not disdayne;But now it is us’d in so base a manner,That it’s noe creditt, but rather a staine:Tush, it’s noe matter what people doe say,The name of a Knight a whole village will sway.
3.
Knighthood in old time was counted an honour,
Which the best spiritts did not disdayne;
But now it is us’d in so base a manner,
That it’s noe creditt, but rather a staine:
Tush, it’s noe matter what people doe say,
The name of a Knight a whole village will sway.
4.Shepheards, leave singing your pastorall sonnetts,And to learne complements shew your endeavours:Cast of[f] for ever your two shillinge bonnetts,Cover your coxcombs with three pound beavers.Sell carte and tarrboxe new coaches to buy,Then, “Good your Worship,” the vulgar will cry.
4.
Shepheards, leave singing your pastorall sonnetts,
And to learne complements shew your endeavours:
Cast of[f] for ever your two shillinge bonnetts,
Cover your coxcombs with three pound beavers.
Sell carte and tarrboxe new coaches to buy,
Then, “Good your Worship,” the vulgar will cry.
5.And thus unto worshipp being advanced,Keepe all your tenants in awe with your frownes;And let your rents be yearly inhaunced,To buy your new-moulded maddams new gowns.Joan,Sisse, andNellshalbe all ladified,Instead of hay-carts, in coaches shall ryde.
5.
And thus unto worshipp being advanced,
Keepe all your tenants in awe with your frownes;
And let your rents be yearly inhaunced,
To buy your new-moulded maddams new gowns.
Joan,Sisse, andNellshalbe all ladified,
Instead of hay-carts, in coaches shall ryde.
6.Whatever you doe, have a care of expenses,In hospitality doe not exceed:Greatnes of followers belongeth to princes:A Coachman and footmen are all that you need:And still observe this, let your servants meate lacke,To keep brave apparel upon your wives backe.
6.
Whatever you doe, have a care of expenses,
In hospitality doe not exceed:
Greatnes of followers belongeth to princes:
A Coachman and footmen are all that you need:
And still observe this, let your servants meate lacke,
To keep brave apparel upon your wives backe.
[Additional stanza from Mr. Hunter’s MS.]
7.Now to conclude, and shutt up my sonnett,Leave of the Cart-whip, hedge-bill and flaile,This is my counsell, think well upon it,Knighthood and honour are now put to saile.Then make haste quickly, and lett out your farmes,And take my advice in blazing your armes.Honor invites, &c.
7.
Now to conclude, and shutt up my sonnett,
Leave of the Cart-whip, hedge-bill and flaile,
This is my counsell, think well upon it,
Knighthood and honour are now put to saile.
Then make haste quickly, and lett out your farmes,
And take my advice in blazing your armes.
Honor invites, &c.
(Shakespeare Soc., 1846, pp. 145-6, J. O. Halliwell’s Commentary on Merry Wives of Windsor, Act. ii. sc. 1, “These Knights will hack.” Also his notes in Tallis’s edit., of the same, n. d., pp. 122-3. William Chappell, inPop. Music O. T., p. 327, gives the tune.)
Another tolerable Epigram on a Chandler meets us, beginning “How might his days end that made weeks [wicks]?” among the Epitaphs ofWits Recreations, 1640-5 (Reprint, p. 271).
This is one ofMichael Drayton’sPastorals, printed in 1593, in the Third Eclogue, and entitledDowsabell. SeePercy’s Reliques, vol. i. bk. 3, No. 8, 2nd edit. 1767, for remarks on variations, amounting to a remodelling, of this charming poem. We are glad to know that Mr. James Russell Smith is preparing a new edition of Michael Drayton’s voluminous works, to be included in theLibrary of Old Authors. Drayton suppressed his couplet poem of “Endimion and Phœbe:”Ideas Latmvs. It has no date, but was cited by Lodge in 1595, and has been reprinted by J. P. Collier; one of his handsome and carefully printed quartos, a welcome boon.
This ballad, a very early example of theDown down derryburden, is not yet found elsewhere. It refers to the expedition against Scotland (then in alliance with Henry II. of France) made by the Protector, Edward, Duke of Somerset, in 1547, the first (not “fourth”) year of Edward VIth’s reign. The battle was fought on the “Black Saturday,” as it was long remembered, the tenth day of September (not of “December,” as the ballad mis-states it to have been). Terrible and remorseless was the slaughter of the ill-armed Scots, after they had imprudently abandoned their excellent hilly position, by the well-appointed English horsemen. The prisoners taken amounted to about fifteen hundred (“we found above twenty of their villains to one of their gentlemen,” says Patten), among whom was the Earl of Huntley, Lord Chancellor of Scotland, who on the previous day had sent a personal challenge to Somerset, asking to decide the contest by single combat: an offer which was not unreasonably declined, the Protector declaring that he desired no peace but such as he might win by his sword. “And thou, trumpet,” he told Huntley’s herald, “say to thy master, he seemeth to lack wit to make this challenge to me, being of such estate by the sufferance of God as to have so weighty a charge of so precious a jewel, the governmentof a King’s person, and then the protection of all his realms.” We learn that the Scots slain were tenfold the number of the prisoners taken. This battle of “Muskleburgh Field” (nearly the same locality as the battle of Prestonpans, wherein Prince Charles Edward in 1745 defeated Colonel Gardiner and his English troops), known also as of Fawside Brae, or of Pinkie, is described with unusual precision by an eye-witness: SeeThe Expedition into Scotland of the most worthily-fortunate Prince Edward Duke of Somerset, uncle to our most noble Sovereign Lord the King’s Majesty Edward the VI., &c., made in the first year of his Majesty’s most prosperous reign, and set out by way of Diary, by W. Patten, Londoner. First published in 1548, this was reprinted in Dalyell’sFragments of Scottish History, Edinburgh, 1798. This old ballad is not included by Dalyell, who probably knew not of its existence.
ByThomas Carew, written before 1638. In Addit. MSS. No. 11,811, fol. 10; No. 22,118, fol. 43; also inWits Recreations(Repr., p. 19); Roxb. Libr. Carew, p. 6, &c.
ByJames Howell, Historiographer to Charles II., and author of the celebratedEpistolæ Ho-Elianæ, 1645, 1647, 1650, and 1655. He died in November, 1666; according to Anthony à Wood, (whose account of him in theAthenæ Oxonienses, iii. 744, edit. 1817, is given by Edward Arber in his excellentEnglish Reprints, vol. viii, 1869, with a welcome promise of editing the saidEpistolæ). This poem of “Black eyes,” &c., occurs among Howell’s poems collected by Sergeant-Major Peter Fisher, p. 68, 1663; again re-issued (the same sheets) asMr. Howell’s Poems upon divers Emergent Occasions; Printed by James Cottrel, and dated 1664.” It is also found in C. F.’s “Wit at a Venture; or,Clio’sPrivy Garden, containing Songs and Poems on Several Occasions,Never before in Print” (which statement is incorrect, as usual). Our text is the earliest we know in type. The only variations, inHowell’s Poems, are: 1st line,dothlie; 4th verse, And bythose spells I ampossest.
This is another of the charming poems byThomas Carew, always a favourite with his own generation (few MS. or printed Collections being without many of them), and deserving of far more affectionate perusal in our own time than he generally meets. It is in Addit. MS. No. 11, 811, fol. 6b., entitled there “His Love Neglected.” Elsewhere, as “A Cruel Mistress.”
Although closely resembling the Catch “What Fortune had I, poor Maid as I am,” of 1661Antidote ag. Melancholy, p, 74, andMerry Drolleryii. 152 (equal to p. 341 of editions 1670 and 1691), this song is virtually distinct, and probably was the earlier version in date. One has been evidently borrowed or adapted from the other.
This vigorous expression of opinion from a robust nature, uncorrupted amid a conventionalized, treacherous, and selfishly-cruel community, is a valuable record of the true Cavalier “all of the olden time.” We have never met it elsewhere. He has no half-likings, no undefined suspicions, and admits of no paltering with the truth, or shirking of one’s duty. As we read we behold the honest man before us, and remember that it was such as he who made our England what she is:—
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,I see the Lords of human kind pass by.
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,I see the Lords of human kind pass by.
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,I see the Lords of human kind pass by.
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the Lords of human kind pass by.
The contemplation of such brave spirits may help to nerve fresh readers to emulate their virtues, despite the sicklyfancies or grovelling politics and social theories of degenerate days. The singer may be somewhat overbearing in announcement of his preferences:
——Just thisOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,Or there exceed the mark,—
——Just thisOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,Or there exceed the mark,—
——Just thisOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,Or there exceed the mark,—
——Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark,—
But, if he errs at all, it is on the safe side.
Composers and arrangers of such collections as this Drollery seem to have often chosen pieces simply for contrast. Thus, after the manly directness of “The Doctor’s Touchstone,” we find the vilely mercenary husband here exhibited, and followed by the truthful description (justifiable, although coarsely outspoken) of “The baseness of Whores.” Such were they of old: such are they ever.
Like the three preceding poems, not yet found elsewhere, but worthy of preservation.
Written “by a Person of Quality:” whom we suspect to have beenSir Francis Wortley, but without evidence to substantiate the guess. This is the earliest appearance in print, known to us, of this characteristic outburst of Cavalier vivacity, which re-appears as the Musician’s Song, in “Cromwell’s Conspiracy,” 1660, Act iii. sc. 2; andMerry Drollery, 1661, p. 101. (See alsoM. D. C., pp. 107, 373). As to the introduction of the several ancient philosophers (referred to in former Appendix, p. 373), compare the delightfulChanson a Boire,
Je cherche en vin la vérité,Si le vin n’aide à ma foiblesse,Toute la docte antiquitéDans le vin puisa la sagesse,Oui c’est par le bon vin que le bon sens éclate,J’en attesteHypocrate,Qui dit qu’il fait a chaque moisDu moins s’enivrer une fois,&c.
Je cherche en vin la vérité,Si le vin n’aide à ma foiblesse,Toute la docte antiquitéDans le vin puisa la sagesse,Oui c’est par le bon vin que le bon sens éclate,J’en attesteHypocrate,Qui dit qu’il fait a chaque moisDu moins s’enivrer une fois,&c.
Je cherche en vin la vérité,Si le vin n’aide à ma foiblesse,Toute la docte antiquitéDans le vin puisa la sagesse,Oui c’est par le bon vin que le bon sens éclate,J’en attesteHypocrate,Qui dit qu’il fait a chaque moisDu moins s’enivrer une fois,&c.
Je cherche en vin la vérité,
Si le vin n’aide à ma foiblesse,
Toute la docte antiquité
Dans le vin puisa la sagesse,
Oui c’est par le bon vin que le bon sens éclate,
J’en attesteHypocrate,
Qui dit qu’il fait a chaque mois
Du moins s’enivrer une fois,&c.
(The other twelve verses are given complete in “Brallaghan; or, the Deipnosophists,” 1845, pp. 198-203, with a clever verse-translation, by the foremost of linguistic scholars now alive—the friend of Talfourd and of Dr. W. Maginn—at whom many nowadays presume to scoff, and whom Benchers defame and banish themselves from.)
Also inWindsor Drollery, 1672, p. 126, as “Fire! Fire!lo hereI burn in my desire,” &c. And in Henry Bold’sLatine Songs, 1685, p. 139, where it is inserted, to be alongside of this parody on it by him, song xlvii., or a
MOCK.1.Fire, Fire,Is there no help for thy desire?Are tears all spent? IsHumberlow?DothTrentstand still? DothThamesnot flow?Though all these can’t thy Feaver cure,YetTyburnis a Cooler lure,And since thou can’st not quench thy Fire,Go hang thy self, and thy desire!2.Fire, fire,Here’s one [still] left for thy desire,Since that the Rainbow in the skye,Is bent a deluge to deny,As loth for thee a God should Lye.Let gentle Rope come dangling down,One born to hang shall never drown,And since thou can’st not quench the Fire,Go hang thy self, and thy desire!(Latine Songs, 1685, p. 140.)
MOCK.1.Fire, Fire,Is there no help for thy desire?Are tears all spent? IsHumberlow?DothTrentstand still? DothThamesnot flow?Though all these can’t thy Feaver cure,YetTyburnis a Cooler lure,And since thou can’st not quench thy Fire,Go hang thy self, and thy desire!2.Fire, fire,Here’s one [still] left for thy desire,Since that the Rainbow in the skye,Is bent a deluge to deny,As loth for thee a God should Lye.Let gentle Rope come dangling down,One born to hang shall never drown,And since thou can’st not quench the Fire,Go hang thy self, and thy desire!(Latine Songs, 1685, p. 140.)
MOCK.
1.Fire, Fire,Is there no help for thy desire?Are tears all spent? IsHumberlow?DothTrentstand still? DothThamesnot flow?Though all these can’t thy Feaver cure,YetTyburnis a Cooler lure,And since thou can’st not quench thy Fire,Go hang thy self, and thy desire!
1.
Fire, Fire,
Is there no help for thy desire?
Are tears all spent? IsHumberlow?
DothTrentstand still? DothThamesnot flow?
Though all these can’t thy Feaver cure,
YetTyburnis a Cooler lure,
And since thou can’st not quench thy Fire,
Go hang thy self, and thy desire!
2.Fire, fire,Here’s one [still] left for thy desire,Since that the Rainbow in the skye,Is bent a deluge to deny,As loth for thee a God should Lye.Let gentle Rope come dangling down,One born to hang shall never drown,And since thou can’st not quench the Fire,Go hang thy self, and thy desire!
2.
Fire, fire,
Here’s one [still] left for thy desire,
Since that the Rainbow in the skye,
Is bent a deluge to deny,
As loth for thee a God should Lye.
Let gentle Rope come dangling down,
One born to hang shall never drown,
And since thou can’st not quench the Fire,
Go hang thy self, and thy desire!
(Latine Songs, 1685, p. 140.)
A year earlier, this had appeared inWit’s Interpreter, 1655, p. 4 (1671, p. 108), entitled “What is most to be liked in a Mistress.” Robt. Jamieson quotes it, fromChoyce Drollery, in hisPop. Bds., 1806, ii. 309. We believe it to be by the same author as the poem next following, and regret that they remain anonymous. Both are of a stately beauty, and recall to us those Cavalier Ladies with whose portraits Vandyck adorned many family mansions.
One clue, that may hereafter guide us to the authorship, we know the lady’s name. It wasFreeman. This poem also had appeared a year earlier, at least, inWit’s Interpreter, 1655, p. 55 (; 1671 ed., p. 161). Also inWit and Drollery, 1661, p. 162; inOxford Drollery, part ii. 1671, p. 87; and inLoyal Garland, 1686, as “The Platonick Lover” (reprinted by Percy Soc., xxix. 64). There should be a comma in fifth line, after the word Constancy. Various readings:—Verse 2,meanestwit; andyeta; 3, Hisdearaddresses; walls bebrickor stone.
This Song, byJohn Fletcher, in hisLover’s Progress, Act iii. sc. 1., before 1625. The music is found in Additional MS. No. 11,608 (written about 1656), fol. 20; there called “Myne Ost’s Song, sung inye Mad Lover[wrong: a different play], set by Robt. Johnson.” It re-appears inWit and Drollery1661, p. 212; in theAcademy of Complements, 1670, p. 175, &c. It is the Song of the Dead Host, whose return to wait upon his guests and ask their aid to have his body laid in consecrated ground, is so humorously described. His forewarnings of death to Cleander are, to our mind, of thrilling interest. These scenes were Sir Walter Scott’s favourites; but Leigh Hunt, perversely, could see no merit in them. We believe that the tinge of sepulchral dullnessin Mine Host enhances the vividness of the incidents, like the taciturnity of Don Guzman’s stony statue in Shadwell’s “Libertine.”
Thus the hundred-paged volume ofChoyce Drollery, 1656,—“Delicates served up by frugall Messes, as aiming at thy satisfaction not saciety,”—comes to an end, with Beaumont and Fletcher. On them remembrance loves to rest, as the fitting representatives of that class of courtly gentlemen, poets, wits, and scholars, who were, to a great extent, even then, fading away from English society. To them had been visible no phase of the Rebellion, and they probably never conceived that it was near. Beaumont, with his statelier reserve, and his tendency to quiet musing, fostered “under the shade of melancholy boughs” at Grace-Dieu, had early passed away, honoured and lamented; a month before his friend Shakespeare went to rest: Shakespeare, who, having known half a century of busy life, felt contented, doubtless, to fulfil the wish that he had long before expressed, himself, almost prophetically:—
“Let me not live,”—Thus his good melancholy oft began, ...“After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuffOf younger spirits, whose apprehensive sensesAll but new things disdain; whose judgments areMere fathers of their garments; whose constanciesExpire before their fashions:”—this he wished.
“Let me not live,”—Thus his good melancholy oft began, ...“After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuffOf younger spirits, whose apprehensive sensesAll but new things disdain; whose judgments areMere fathers of their garments; whose constanciesExpire before their fashions:”—this he wished.
“Let me not live,”—Thus his good melancholy oft began, ...“After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuffOf younger spirits, whose apprehensive sensesAll but new things disdain; whose judgments areMere fathers of their garments; whose constanciesExpire before their fashions:”—this he wished.
“Let me not live,”—
Thus his good melancholy oft began, ...
“After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are
Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions:”—this he wished.
Fletcher survived nine years, and battled on with somewhat of spasmodic action; at once widowed and orphaned by the death of his close friend and work-fellow; winning fresh triumphs, it is true, and leaving many a trace of his bright genius like a gleam of heaven’s own light across the sadness and corruption of an imaginary world, that was not at all unreal in heroism or in wickedness. He also passed away while young; a few months later than the time when Charles the First came to the throne, suddenly elevated by the death of his father James, bringing abruptly to a consummation that marriage with theFrench Princess which did so much to lead him and his country into ruin. The year 1625 was the separating date between the autumnal ripeness and the chill of fruitless winter. A sunny glow remains on Fletcher to the last. With him it fades, and the world that he had known is changed.
[End of Notes toChoyce Drollery.]
Gratiano.—“Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundiceBy being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,—I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—There are a sort of men, whose visagesDo cream and mantle like a standing pond,And do a wilful stillness entertain,With purpose to be dress’d in an opinionOf wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!’”(Merchant of Venice, Act i. sc. 1.)
Gratiano.—“Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundiceBy being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,—I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—There are a sort of men, whose visagesDo cream and mantle like a standing pond,And do a wilful stillness entertain,With purpose to be dress’d in an opinionOf wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!’”(Merchant of Venice, Act i. sc. 1.)
Gratiano.—“Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundiceBy being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,—I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—There are a sort of men, whose visagesDo cream and mantle like a standing pond,And do a wilful stillness entertain,With purpose to be dress’d in an opinionOf wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!’”
Gratiano.—“Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,—
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!’”
(Merchant of Venice, Act i. sc. 1.)
We have already, in a brief Introduction, (pp. 105-110), explained our reason for adding all that was necessary to complete this work; a large portion having been anticipated inMerry Drolleryof the same year, 1661. In the Postscript (pp.161-165), we endeavoured to trace the authorship of the entire collection; leaving to these following notes, and those attached toM. Drollery, Compleat, the search for separate poems or songs. Also, on pp.166-175, we traced the history of “Arthur o’ Bradley,” delaying the important song of his Wedding (from an original of the date 1656), untoPart IV. of ourAppendix.
To no other living writer are we lovers of old literature more deeply indebted than to the veteran John Payne Collier, who is now far advanced in his eighty-seventh year, and whose intellect and industry remain vigorously employed at this great age: one proof of the fact being his new edition of Shakespeare (each play in a separate quarto, issued to private subscribers), begun in January, 1875, and already the Comedies are finished, in the third volume. Among his numerous choice reprints of rare originals, his series of the more than “Seven Early Poetical Miscellanies” was a work of greatest value. To these, with his new “Shakespeare,” the interesting “Old Man’s Diary,” his “Bibliographical and Critical Account of the Rarest Books in the English Language,” his “Annals of the Stage,” “The Poetical Decameron,” his charming “Book of Roxburghe Ballads,” 1847, his “Broadside Black-Letter-Ballads,” 1868, and other labours, no less than to his warmth of heart and friendly encouragement by letters, the present Editor owes many happy hours, and for them makes grateful acknowledgment.
About the year 1870, J. P. Collier issued to private subscribers his very limited and elegant Reprint, in quarto, of “An Antidote against Melancholy,” 1661. This is already nearly as unattainable as the original.
J. P. Collier gave no notes to his Reprint of the “Antidote,” but, in the brief Introduction thereunto, he mentioned that:—“This poetical tract has been selected for our reprint on account of its rarity, the excellence of the greater part of its contents, the high antiquity of some of them, and from the fact that many of the ballads and humorous pieces of versification are either not met with elsewhere, or have been strangely corrupted in repetition through the press. Two or three of them are used by Shakespeare, and the word ‘incarnadine’ [see our p. 148] is only found in ‘Macbeth’ (A. ii., sc. 2), in Carew’s poems, and in this tract: here we have it as the name of a red wine; and nobody hitherto has noticed it in that sense.
“When Ritson published his ‘Robin Hood’ in 1795, he relied chiefly upon the text of the famous ballad of‘Arthur o’ Bradley,’ as he discovered it in the miscellany before us [See ourMerry Drollery, Compleat, pp. 312, 399; also, in present volume,p. 166, andAdditional Note]; but, learned in such matters as he undoubtedly was, he was not aware of the very early period at which ‘Arthur o’ Bradley’ was so popular as to be quoted in one of our Old Moralities, which may have been in existence in the reigns of Henry VI. or Henry VII., which was acted while Henry VIII. or Edward VI. were on the throne, and which is contained in a manuscript bearing the date of 1579.
“The few known copies of ‘An Antidote against Melancholy’ are dated 1661, the year after the Restoration, when lawless licence was allowed both to the press and in social intercourse; and, if we permitted ourselves to mutilate our originals, we might not have reproduced such coarseness; but still no words will be found which, even a century afterwards, were not sometimes used in private conversation, and which did not even make their appearance at full length in print. Mere words may be said to be comparatively harmless; but when, as in the time of Charles II, they were employed as incentives to vice and laxity of manners, they become dangerous. The repetition of them in our day, in a small number of reprints, can hardly be offensive to decorum, and unquestionably cannot be injurious to public morals. We always address ourselves to the students of our language and habits of life.”
Joseph Ritson gave this Bacchanalian chant in the second volume of his “English Songs,” p. 58, 1783. Forty-six verses, out of the seventy, had been repeated in the “Collection of Old Ballads,” 1723-25, (which Ambrose Philips and David Mallet may have edited,) “The Ex-Ale-tation of Ale” is in vol. iii. p. 166. Part, if not all, must have been in existence fully ten years before it appeared in the “Antidote,” as we find “O Aleab alendo, thou Liquor of life!” with music by John Hilton, in his “Catchthat Catch Can,” p. 5, 1652. It is also inWit’s Merriment; or, Lusty Drollery, 1656, p. 118; eight verses only. These are: 1. Not drunken; 2. But yet to commend it; 3. But yet, by your leave; 4. It makes a man merry; 5. The old wife whose teeth; 6. The Ploughman, the Lab’rer; 7. The man that hath a black blous to his wife; 8. With that my friend said, &c. Still earlier, the poem had appeared, imperfectly, in a four-paged quarto pamphlet, dated 1642 (along with “The Battle fought between the Norfolk Cock and the Wisbeach Cock,” seeM. D. C., p. 242) as byThomas Randall, i.e.Randolph. Accordingly, it has been included (34 verses only) in the 1875 edition of his Works, p. 662. We personally attach no weight to the pamphlet’s ascription of it to Randolph, (who died in March, 1634-5). It is far more likely to have been the work ofSamuel Rowlands, in whoseCrew of Kind London Gossips, 1663, we meet it, p. 129-141, and whose style it more closely resembles. Some poems duly assigned to Randolph are in the same volume, but the “Exaltation of Ale” isnotthus distinguished. There are seventy-two verses given, and the motto isTempus edax rerum, &c.We have not been able to consult an earlier edition of S. Rowland’s “Crew,” &c., about 1650.
So long afterwards as 1788, we find an abbreviated copy of the song, six verses, in Lackington’s “British Songster,” p. 202, entitled “A Tankard of Ale.” The first verse runs thus:—
“Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both,I met with a man upon Aylesbury Vale,I saw in his face that he was in good caseTo go and take part of a tankard of ale.”
“Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both,I met with a man upon Aylesbury Vale,I saw in his face that he was in good caseTo go and take part of a tankard of ale.”
“Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both,I met with a man upon Aylesbury Vale,I saw in his face that he was in good caseTo go and take part of a tankard of ale.”
“Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both,
I met with a man upon Aylesbury Vale,
I saw in his face that he was in good case
To go and take part of a tankard of ale.”
Omitting all sequence of narrative, the other verses are adapted from theAntidote’s21st, 19th, 10th, 26th, and 50th; concerning the hedger, beggar, widow, clerk, and amicable conclusion over a tankard of ale. In aConvivial Songster, of 1807, by Tegg, London, these six are given with addition of another as fifth:—
The old parish Vicar, when he’s in his liquor,Will merrily at his parishioners rail,“Come, pay all your tithes, or I’ll kiss all your wives,”When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
The old parish Vicar, when he’s in his liquor,Will merrily at his parishioners rail,“Come, pay all your tithes, or I’ll kiss all your wives,”When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
The old parish Vicar, when he’s in his liquor,Will merrily at his parishioners rail,“Come, pay all your tithes, or I’ll kiss all your wives,”When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
The old parish Vicar, when he’s in his liquor,
Will merrily at his parishioners rail,
“Come, pay all your tithes, or I’ll kiss all your wives,”
When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
It had appeared in a Chap-book (circa 1794, according to Wm. Logan; see his amusing “Pedlar’s Pack,” pp. 224-6), with other five verses inserted before the Finale. We give them to complete the tale:—
There’s the blacksmith by trade, a jolly brisk blade,Cries, “Fill up the bumper, dear host, from the pail;”So cheerful he’ll sing, and make the house ring,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru la re, laru, &c. So cheerful, &c.There’s the tinker, ye ken, cries “old kettles to mend,”With his budget and hammer to drive in the nail;Will spend a whole crown, at one sitting down,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.There’s the mason, braveJohn, the carver of stone,The Master’s grand secret he’ll never reveal;Yet how merry is he with his lass on his knee,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.You maids who feel shame, pray me do not blame,Though your private ongoings in public I tell;YoungBridgetandNellto kiss will not failWhen once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.There’s some jolly wives, love drink as their lives,Dear neighbours but mind the sad thread of my tale;Their husbands they’ll scorn, as sure’s they were born,If once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.From wrangling or jangling, and ev’ry such strife,Or anything else that may happen to fall;From words come to blows, and sharp bloody nose,But friends again over a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.
There’s the blacksmith by trade, a jolly brisk blade,Cries, “Fill up the bumper, dear host, from the pail;”So cheerful he’ll sing, and make the house ring,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru la re, laru, &c. So cheerful, &c.There’s the tinker, ye ken, cries “old kettles to mend,”With his budget and hammer to drive in the nail;Will spend a whole crown, at one sitting down,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.There’s the mason, braveJohn, the carver of stone,The Master’s grand secret he’ll never reveal;Yet how merry is he with his lass on his knee,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.You maids who feel shame, pray me do not blame,Though your private ongoings in public I tell;YoungBridgetandNellto kiss will not failWhen once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.There’s some jolly wives, love drink as their lives,Dear neighbours but mind the sad thread of my tale;Their husbands they’ll scorn, as sure’s they were born,If once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.From wrangling or jangling, and ev’ry such strife,Or anything else that may happen to fall;From words come to blows, and sharp bloody nose,But friends again over a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.
There’s the blacksmith by trade, a jolly brisk blade,Cries, “Fill up the bumper, dear host, from the pail;”So cheerful he’ll sing, and make the house ring,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru la re, laru, &c. So cheerful, &c.
There’s the blacksmith by trade, a jolly brisk blade,
Cries, “Fill up the bumper, dear host, from the pail;”
So cheerful he’ll sing, and make the house ring,
When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
Laru la re, laru, &c. So cheerful, &c.
There’s the tinker, ye ken, cries “old kettles to mend,”With his budget and hammer to drive in the nail;Will spend a whole crown, at one sitting down,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.
There’s the tinker, ye ken, cries “old kettles to mend,”
With his budget and hammer to drive in the nail;
Will spend a whole crown, at one sitting down,
When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
Laru, &c.
There’s the mason, braveJohn, the carver of stone,The Master’s grand secret he’ll never reveal;Yet how merry is he with his lass on his knee,When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.
There’s the mason, braveJohn, the carver of stone,
The Master’s grand secret he’ll never reveal;
Yet how merry is he with his lass on his knee,
When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
Laru, &c.
You maids who feel shame, pray me do not blame,Though your private ongoings in public I tell;YoungBridgetandNellto kiss will not failWhen once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.
You maids who feel shame, pray me do not blame,
Though your private ongoings in public I tell;
YoungBridgetandNellto kiss will not fail
When once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.
Laru, &c.
There’s some jolly wives, love drink as their lives,Dear neighbours but mind the sad thread of my tale;Their husbands they’ll scorn, as sure’s they were born,If once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.
There’s some jolly wives, love drink as their lives,
Dear neighbours but mind the sad thread of my tale;
Their husbands they’ll scorn, as sure’s they were born,
If once they shake hands with a tankard of ale.
Laru, &c.
From wrangling or jangling, and ev’ry such strife,Or anything else that may happen to fall;From words come to blows, and sharp bloody nose,But friends again over a tankard of ale.Laru, &c.
From wrangling or jangling, and ev’ry such strife,
Or anything else that may happen to fall;
From words come to blows, and sharp bloody nose,
But friends again over a tankard of ale.
Laru, &c.
Notice the characteristic mention of William Elderton, the Ballad-writer (who died before 1592), in the thirty-third verse (ourp. 119):—