A CATCH.

7. There was an old man atWaltoncross,[Waltham]Who merrily sung when he liv’d by the loss;Hey tro-ly loly lo.He never was heard to sigh a hey ho,But he sent it out withHey troly loly lo.He chear’d up his heart,When his goods went to wrack[,]With a hem, boy, Hem!And a cup of old Sack;Sing,hey troly loly lo.

7. There was an old man atWaltoncross,[Waltham]

Who merrily sung when he liv’d by the loss;

Hey tro-ly loly lo.

He never was heard to sigh a hey ho,

But he sent it out withHey troly loly lo.

He chear’d up his heart,

When his goods went to wrack[,]

With a hem, boy, Hem!

And a cup of old Sack;

Sing,hey troly loly lo.

8. Come, let us castDicewho shall drink,Mine istwelve, and hissice sink,SixandFowris thine, and he threwnine.Come away,Sink tray;Size ace, fair play;Quater-duceis your throw Sir;[p. 68.]Quater-ace, they run low, sir:Two Dewces, I see;Dewce aceis but three:Oh! where is the Wine? Come, fill up his glasse,For here is the man has thrownAms-ace.

8. Come, let us castDicewho shall drink,

Mine istwelve, and hissice sink,

SixandFowris thine, and he threwnine.

Come away,Sink tray;Size ace, fair play;

Quater-duceis your throw Sir;[p. 68.]

Quater-ace, they run low, sir:

Two Dewces, I see;Dewce aceis but three:

Oh! where is the Wine? Come, fill up his glasse,

For here is the man has thrownAms-ace.

10. Never let a man take heavily the clamor of his wife,But be rul’d by me, and lead a merry life;Let her have her will in every thing,If she scolds, then laugh and sing,Hey derry, derry, ding.

10. Never let a man take heavily the clamor of his wife,

But be rul’d by me, and lead a merry life;

Let her have her will in every thing,

If she scolds, then laugh and sing,

Hey derry, derry, ding.

11. Let’s cast away care, and merrily sing,There is a time for every thing;He that playes at work, and works at his play,Neither keeps working, nor yet Holy day:Set business aside, and let us be merry,And drown our dull thoughts in Canary and Sherry.

11. Let’s cast away care, and merrily sing,

There is a time for every thing;

He that playes at work, and works at his play,

Neither keeps working, nor yet Holy day:

Set business aside, and let us be merry,

And drown our dull thoughts in Canary and Sherry.

12. Hang sorrow, and cast away care,And let us drink up our Sack:They say ’tis good to cherish the blood,And for to strengthen the back:Tis Wine that makes the thoughts aspire,And fills the body with heat;Besides ’tis good, if well understood[p. 69.]To fit a man for the feat;Then call, and drink up all,The drawer is ready to fill:Pox take care, what need we to spare,My Father has made his will.

12. Hang sorrow, and cast away care,

And let us drink up our Sack:

They say ’tis good to cherish the blood,

And for to strengthen the back:

Tis Wine that makes the thoughts aspire,

And fills the body with heat;

Besides ’tis good, if well understood[p. 69.]

To fit a man for the feat;

Then call, and drink up all,

The drawer is ready to fill:

Pox take care, what need we to spare,

My Father has made his will.

[p. 70.]

16. My lady and her Maid, upon a merry pin,They made a match at F—ting, who should the wager win.Jonelights three candles then, and sets them bolt upright;With the first f—— she blew them out,With the next she gave them light:In comes my Lady then, with all her might and main,And blew them out, and in and out, and out and in again.

16. My lady and her Maid, upon a merry pin,

They made a match at F—ting, who should the wager win.

Jonelights three candles then, and sets them bolt upright;

With the first f—— she blew them out,

With the next she gave them light:

In comes my Lady then, with all her might and main,

And blew them out, and in and out, and out and in again.

18. An old house end, an old house end,And many a good fellow wants mon[e]y to spend.If thou wilt borrowCome hither to morrowI dare not part so soon with my friend[.]But let us be merry, and drink of our sherry,But to part with my mon[e]y I do not intend[.]Then a t—d in thy teeth, and an old house end.

18. An old house end, an old house end,

And many a good fellow wants mon[e]y to spend.

If thou wilt borrow

Come hither to morrow

I dare not part so soon with my friend[.]

But let us be merry, and drink of our sherry,

But to part with my mon[e]y I do not intend[.]

Then a t—d in thy teeth, and an old house end.

[p. 71.]

20. Wilt thou lend me thy Mare to ride a mileNo; she’s lame going over a stile,But if thou wilt her to me spareThou shalt have mony for thy mare:Oh say you so, say you so,Mon[e]y will make my mare to go.

20. Wilt thou lend me thy Mare to ride a mile

No; she’s lame going over a stile,

But if thou wilt her to me spare

Thou shalt have mony for thy mare:

Oh say you so, say you so,

Mon[e]y will make my mare to go.

21. Your mare is lame; she halts downe right,Then shall we not get toLondonto night:You cry’d ho, ho, mon[e]y made her go,But now I well perceive it is not so[.]You must spur her up, and put her to’tThough mon[e]y will not make her goe, your spurs will do’t.

21. Your mare is lame; she halts downe right,

Then shall we not get toLondonto night:

You cry’d ho, ho, mon[e]y made her go,

But now I well perceive it is not so[.]

You must spur her up, and put her to’t

Though mon[e]y will not make her goe, your spurs will do’t.

[p. 72.]

23. GoodSymon, how comes it your Nose looks so red,And your cheeks and lips look so pale?Sure the heat of the tost your Nose did so rost,When they were both sous’t in Ale.It showes like the Spire ofPaulssteeple on fire,Each Ruby darts forth (such lightning) Flashes,While your face looks as dead, as if it were LeadAnd cover’d all over with ashes.Now to heighten his colour, yet fill his pot fullerAnd nick it not so with froth,Gra-mercy, mine Host! it shall save the[e] a ToastSupSimon, for here is good broth.

23. GoodSymon, how comes it your Nose looks so red,

And your cheeks and lips look so pale?

Sure the heat of the tost your Nose did so rost,

When they were both sous’t in Ale.

It showes like the Spire ofPaulssteeple on fire,

Each Ruby darts forth (such lightning) Flashes,

While your face looks as dead, as if it were Lead

And cover’d all over with ashes.

Now to heighten his colour, yet fill his pot fuller

And nick it not so with froth,

Gra-mercy, mine Host! it shall save the[e] a Toast

SupSimon, for here is good broth.

24. Wilt thou be Fatt, Ile tell thee how,Thou shalt quickly do the Feat;And that so plump a thing as thouWas never yet made up of meat:Drink off thy Sack, twas onely thatMadeBacchusandJack Falstafe, Fatt.Now, every Fat man I advise,That scarce can peep out of his eyes,Which being set, can hardly rise;[p. 73.]Drink off his Sack, and freely quaff:’Twil make him lean, but me [to] laughTo tell him how —— ’tis on a staff.

24. Wilt thou be Fatt, Ile tell thee how,

Thou shalt quickly do the Feat;

And that so plump a thing as thou

Was never yet made up of meat:

Drink off thy Sack, twas onely that

MadeBacchusandJack Falstafe, Fatt.

Now, every Fat man I advise,That scarce can peep out of his eyes,Which being set, can hardly rise;[p. 73.]Drink off his Sack, and freely quaff:’Twil make him lean, but me [to] laughTo tell him how —— ’tis on a staff.

Now, every Fat man I advise,

That scarce can peep out of his eyes,

Which being set, can hardly rise;[p. 73.]

Drink off his Sack, and freely quaff:

’Twil make him lean, but me [to] laugh

To tell him how —— ’tis on a staff.

25. Of all theBirdsthat ever I see,TheOwleis the fairest in her degree;For all the day long she sits in a tree,And when the night comes, away flies she;To whit, to whow, to whom drink[’st] thou,Sir Knave to thou;This song is well sung, I make you a vow,[p. 73.]And he is a knave that drinketh now;Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose?[Cinnamon and gin-ger,]Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose.

25. Of all theBirdsthat ever I see,

TheOwleis the fairest in her degree;

For all the day long she sits in a tree,

And when the night comes, away flies she;

To whit, to whow, to whom drink[’st] thou,

Sir Knave to thou;

This song is well sung, I make you a vow,[p. 73.]And he is a knave that drinketh now;Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose?[Cinnamon and gin-ger,]Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose.

This song is well sung, I make you a vow,[p. 73.]

And he is a knave that drinketh now;

Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose?

[Cinnamon and gin-ger,]

Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose.

26. This Ale, my bonny Lads, is as brown as a berry,Then let us be merry here an houre,And drink it ere its sowreHere’s to the[e], lad,Come to me, lad;Let it come Boy, To my Thumb boy.Drink it off Sir; ’tis enough Sir;Fill mine Host,Tom’sPot and Toast.

26. This Ale, my bonny Lads, is as brown as a berry,

Then let us be merry here an houre,

And drink it ere its sowre

Here’s to the[e], lad,

Come to me, lad;

Let it come Boy, To my Thumb boy.

Drink it off Sir; ’tis enough Sir;

Fill mine Host,Tom’sPot and Toast.

27. What! are we met? come, let’s seeIf here’s enough to sing this Glee.Look about, count your number,Singing will keep us from crazy slumber;1, 2, and 3, so many there be that can sing,The rest for wine may ring:Here isTom,JackandHarry;Sing away and doe not tarry,Merrily now let’s sing, carouse, and tiple,Here’sBristowmilk, come suck this niple,There’s a fault sir, never halt Sir, before a criple.

27. What! are we met? come, let’s see

If here’s enough to sing this Glee.

Look about, count your number,

Singing will keep us from crazy slumber;

1, 2, and 3, so many there be that can sing,

The rest for wine may ring:

Here isTom,JackandHarry;

Sing away and doe not tarry,

Merrily now let’s sing, carouse, and tiple,

Here’sBristowmilk, come suck this niple,

There’s a fault sir, never halt Sir, before a criple.

28. Jog on, jog on the Foot path-way,And merrily hen’t the stile-a;Your merry heart go’es all the day,Your sad tires in a mile-a.Your paltry mony bags of Gold,What need have we to stare-for,When little or nothing soon is told,And we have the less to care-for?Cast care away, let sorrow cease,[p. 74.]A Figg for Melancholly;Let’s laugh and sing, or if you please,We’l frolick with sweetDolly.

28. Jog on, jog on the Foot path-way,

And merrily hen’t the stile-a;

Your merry heart go’es all the day,

Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Your paltry mony bags of Gold,

What need have we to stare-for,

When little or nothing soon is told,

And we have the less to care-for?

Cast care away, let sorrow cease,[p. 74.]

A Figg for Melancholly;

Let’s laugh and sing, or if you please,

We’l frolick with sweetDolly.

Translated out of Greek.

30. The parchtEarthdrinks theRain,Treesdrink it up again;TheSeatheAyredoth quaff,Soldrinks theOceanoff;And when that Health is done,PaleCinthiadrinks the sun:Why, then, d’ye stem my drinking Tyde,Striving to make me sad, I will, I will be mad.

30. The parchtEarthdrinks theRain,

Treesdrink it up again;

TheSeatheAyredoth quaff,

Soldrinks theOceanoff;

And when that Health is done,

PaleCinthiadrinks the sun:

Why, then, d’ye stem my drinking Tyde,

Striving to make me sad, I will, I will be mad.

[p. 75.]

31. Fly, Boy, Fly, Boy, to the Cellars bottom:View well your Quills and Bung, Sir.Draw Wine to preserve the Lungs Sir;Not rascally Wine to Rot u’m.If the Quill runs foul,Be a trusty soul, and cane it;For the Health is suchAn ill drop will much profane it.

31. Fly, Boy, Fly, Boy, to the Cellars bottom:

View well your Quills and Bung, Sir.

Draw Wine to preserve the Lungs Sir;

Not rascally Wine to Rot u’m.

If the Quill runs foul,

Be a trusty soul, and cane it;

For the Health is such

An ill drop will much profane it.

32. A Man ofWales, a litle beforeEasterRan on his Hostes score for Cheese a teaster:His Hostes chalkt it up behind the doore,And said, For Cheese (good Sir) Come pay the score:Cod’sPluternails(quoth he) what meaneth these?What dost thou think her knows not Chalk from Cheese?

32. A Man ofWales, a litle beforeEaster

Ran on his Hostes score for Cheese a teaster:

His Hostes chalkt it up behind the doore,

And said, For Cheese (good Sir) Come pay the score:

Cod’sPluternails(quoth he) what meaneth these?

What dost thou think her knows not Chalk from Cheese?

33. Drink, drink, all you that thinkTo cure your souls of sadnesse;Take up your Sack, ’tis all you lack,All worldly care is madness.Let Lawyers plead, and Schollars read,And Sectaries still conjecture,Yet we can be as merry as they,With a Cup ofApollo’snectar.Let gluttons feed, and souldiers bleed,And fight for reputation,Physicians be fools to fill up close stools,And cure men by purgation:Yet we have a way far better than they,WhichGalencould never conjecture,To cure the head, nay quicken the dead,With a cup ofApollo’sNectar.We do forget we are in debtWhen we with liquor are warmed;We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace,[p. 76.]And Martiall Troops though armed.TheSwedishKing much honour did win,And valiant was asHector;Yet we can be as valiant as he,With a cup ofApollo’sNectar.Let the worlds slave his comfort have,And hug his hoards of treasure,Till he and his wish meet both in a dish,So dies a miser in pleasure.’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm,We scorn this greedy conjecture;’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commendThis cup ofApollo’sNectar.The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot,Wherewith we keep a quarter;Enough for to choak with fire and smoakThe GreatTurkand theTartar.Our faces red, our ensignes spread,Apollois our Protector:To rear up the Scout, to run in and out,And drink up this cup of Nectar.

33. Drink, drink, all you that think

To cure your souls of sadnesse;

Take up your Sack, ’tis all you lack,

All worldly care is madness.

Let Lawyers plead, and Schollars read,

And Sectaries still conjecture,

Yet we can be as merry as they,

With a Cup ofApollo’snectar.

Let gluttons feed, and souldiers bleed,And fight for reputation,Physicians be fools to fill up close stools,And cure men by purgation:Yet we have a way far better than they,WhichGalencould never conjecture,To cure the head, nay quicken the dead,With a cup ofApollo’sNectar.

Let gluttons feed, and souldiers bleed,

And fight for reputation,

Physicians be fools to fill up close stools,

And cure men by purgation:

Yet we have a way far better than they,

WhichGalencould never conjecture,

To cure the head, nay quicken the dead,

With a cup ofApollo’sNectar.

We do forget we are in debtWhen we with liquor are warmed;We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace,[p. 76.]And Martiall Troops though armed.TheSwedishKing much honour did win,And valiant was asHector;Yet we can be as valiant as he,With a cup ofApollo’sNectar.

We do forget we are in debt

When we with liquor are warmed;

We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace,[p. 76.]

And Martiall Troops though armed.

TheSwedishKing much honour did win,

And valiant was asHector;

Yet we can be as valiant as he,

With a cup ofApollo’sNectar.

Let the worlds slave his comfort have,And hug his hoards of treasure,Till he and his wish meet both in a dish,So dies a miser in pleasure.’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm,We scorn this greedy conjecture;’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commendThis cup ofApollo’sNectar.

Let the worlds slave his comfort have,

And hug his hoards of treasure,

Till he and his wish meet both in a dish,

So dies a miser in pleasure.

’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm,

We scorn this greedy conjecture;

’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend

This cup ofApollo’sNectar.

The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot,Wherewith we keep a quarter;Enough for to choak with fire and smoakThe GreatTurkand theTartar.Our faces red, our ensignes spread,Apollois our Protector:To rear up the Scout, to run in and out,And drink up this cup of Nectar.

The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot,

Wherewith we keep a quarter;

Enough for to choak with fire and smoak

The GreatTurkand theTartar.

Our faces red, our ensignes spread,

Apollois our Protector:

To rear up the Scout, to run in and out,

And drink up this cup of Nectar.

34. Welcome, welcome again to thy wits,This is a Holy day:I’le have no plots nor melancholly fits,But merrily passe the time away:They are mad that are sad;Be rul’d, by me,And none shall be so merry as we;The Kitchin shall catch cold no more,And we’l have no key to the Buttery dore,The fidlers shall sing,And the house shall ring,And the world shall seeWhat a merry couple,Merry couple,We will be.

34. Welcome, welcome again to thy wits,

This is a Holy day:

I’le have no plots nor melancholly fits,

But merrily passe the time away:

They are mad that are sad;

Be rul’d, by me,

And none shall be so merry as we;

The Kitchin shall catch cold no more,

And we’l have no key to the Buttery dore,

The fidlers shall sing,

And the house shall ring,

And the world shall see

What a merry couple,

Merry couple,

We will be.

FINIS.

Thanks be to the worthy bookseller, George Thomason,[8]for prudence in laying aside the “tall copy” of this amusing book, from which we make our transcript of text and engraving. Probably it did not exceed two shillings, in price; (at least, we have seenthat Anthony à Wood’s uncropt copy of “Merry Drollery,” 1661, is marked in contemporary manuscript at “1s. 3d.,” each part). The title says:—

These witty Poems, though sometime [they]may seem to halt on crutches,Yet they’l all merrily please youfor your charge, which not much is.

These witty Poems, though sometime [they]

may seem to halt on crutches,

Yet they’l all merrily please you

for your charge, which not much is.

Who was the “N. D.” to whose light labours we are indebted for the compounding of these “Witty Ballads, jovial Songs, and merry Catches” in Pills warranted to cure the ills of Melancholy, had not hitherto been ascertained[9]; or whether he wrote anything beside the above couplet, and the humorous address To the Reader, beginning,

There’s no Purge ’gainstMelancholy,But withBacchusto be jolly:All else are but dreggs of Folly, &c.(p. 111.)

There’s no Purge ’gainstMelancholy,

But withBacchusto be jolly:

All else are but dreggs of Folly, &c.(p. 111.)

As we suspected (flowing though his verse might be), he was more of bookseller than ballad-maker. His injunctions for us to “be wise andbuy, notborrow,” had a terribly tradesman-like sound. Yet he was right. Book-borrowing is an evil practice; and book-lending is not much better. Woeful chasms, in what should be the serried ranks of our Library companions, remind us pathetically, in too many cases (book-cases, especially,) of some Coleridge-like “lifter” of Lambs, who made a raid upon our borders, and carried off plunder, sometimes an unique quarto, on other days an irrecoverable duodecimo: With Schiller, we bewail the departed,—

“The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.”

The title of “Pills to Purge Melancholy” was by Playford and Tom D’Urfey afterwards employed, and kept alive before the public, in many a volume from before 1684 until 1720, if not later. Whether “N. D.” himself were the “Mer[cury] Melancholicus” whose name appears as printer, for the book to be “sold in London and Westminster,” is to us not doubtful. By April 18, 1661,[10]Thomason had secured hiscopy, and there need be no question that it was for sport, and not through any fear of rigid censorship or malicious pettifogging interference by the law, that, instead of printer’s name, this pseudonym or nickname was adopted.

We believe that the mystery shrouding the personality of “N. D.” can be dispelled. The discovery helps us in more ways than one, and connects theAntidote against Melancholy, of 1661, in an intelligible and legitimate manner, with much jocular literature of later date. To us it seems clear that N. D. was no other than[He]n[ry] [Playfor]d. The triplets addressed in 1661 To the Reader, beginning “There’s no purge ’gainst Melancholy,” are repeated at commencement of the 1684 edition of “Wit and Mirth; or, an Antidote to Melancholy” (the third edition of “Pills to Purge Melancholy”) where they are entitled “The Stationer to the Reader,” and signed, not “N. D.,” but “H. P.;” for Henry Playford, whose name appears in full as publisher “near the Temple Church.” Thus, the repetition or alteration of the original title, “An Antidote against Melancholy, made up in Pills,” or, as the head-line puts it, “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” was, in all probability, a perfectly business-like reproduction of what Playford had himself originated. What relation Henry Playford was to John Playford, the publisher of “Select Ayres,”“Choice Ayres,” 1652, &c., we are not yet certain. Thirteen of the longest and most important poems from the 1661Antidote[11]re-appear in that of 1684, beside four of the Catches. Indeed, the transmission of many of these Lyrics (by the editions of 1699, 1700, 1706, 1707) to the six volume edition, superintended by Tom D’Urfey in 1719-20, is unbroken; though we have still to find the edition published between 1661 and 1684.

But even the 1661Antidoteis not entitled to bear the credit of originating the phrase:Pills to purge Melancholy. So far as we know, by personal search, this belongs to Robert Hayman, thirty years earlier. Among hisQuodlibets, 1628, on p. 74, we find the following epigram:—

“To one of the elders of the Sanctified Parlour of Amsterdam.Though thou maist call my merriments, my folly,They are my Pills to purge my melancholy;They would purge thine too, wert thou not foole-holy.”

“To one of the elders of the Sanctified Parlour of Amsterdam.

Though thou maist call my merriments, my folly,They are my Pills to purge my melancholy;They would purge thine too, wert thou not foole-holy.”

Though thou maist call my merriments, my folly,

They are my Pills to purge my melancholy;

They would purge thine too, wert thou not foole-holy.”

(Merry Drollery, Compleat, p. 312, 395;Antidote ag. Mel., p. 16.)

“Before we came in we heard a great shouting,And all that were in it look’d madly;But some were on Bull-back, some dancing a morris,And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.”—(Robin Hood’s Birth, &c.Printed by Wm. Onlen, about 1650. InRoxburghe Collection of Black-LetterBallads, i., 360.)

“Before we came in we heard a great shouting,And all that were in it look’d madly;But some were on Bull-back, some dancing a morris,And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.”

“Before we came in we heard a great shouting,

And all that were in it look’d madly;

But some were on Bull-back, some dancing a morris,

And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.”

—(Robin Hood’s Birth, &c.Printed by Wm. Onlen, about 1650. InRoxburghe Collection of Black-LetterBallads, i., 360.)

So long ago as the Editor can remember, the words and music of “Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding” rang pleasantly in his ears. The jovial rollicking strain prepared him to feel interest in the bridal attire of Shakespeare’s Petruchio; who, not improbably, when about to be married unto “Kate the Curst,” borrowed the details of costume and demeanour from this popular hero of song. Orvice versa. To this day, theliltof the tune holds a fascination, and we sometimes behold, under favourable planetary aspects, the long procession of dancing couples who have, during three centuries, footed the grass, the rashes, or chalked floor, to that jig-melody, accompanied by thebagpipes or fiddle of some rustic Crowdero. Can it be possible? Yes, the line is headed by the venerable Queen Elizabeth, holding up her fardingale with tips of taper fingers, and looking preternaturally grim, to show that dancing is a serious undertaking for a virgin sovereign (especially when the Spanish Ambassador watches her, with comments of wonder that the Head of the Church can dance at all). Yet is there a sly under-glance that tells of fun, to those who are her Majesty’s familiars. Her “Cousin James” is not the neatest figure as a partner (which accounts for her having chosen Leicester instead, let alone chronology); but we see him, close behind, with Anne of Denmark, twirling his crooked little legs about in obedience to the music, until his round hose swell like hemispheres on school-maps. “Baby Charles and Steenie,” half mockingly, follow after with the Infanta. We did once catch a glimpse of handsome Carr and his wicked paramour, Frances Howard, trying to join the Terpsichorean revellers; but, beautiful as they both were, it was felt necessary to exclude them, “for the honour of Arthur o’ Bradley,” since they possessed none of their own. What a gallant assemblage of poets and dramatists covered the buckle and snapped their fingers gleefully to the merry notes! Foremost among them was rare Ben Jonson (unable to resist clothing Adam Overdo in Arthur’s own mantle); andhonest Thomas Dekker “followed after in a dream” (as had been memorably printed on ourseventh pageofChoyce Drollery), thinking of Bellafront’s repentance, and her quotation of the well-known burden, “O brave Arthur o’ Bradley, then!” A score of poets are junketting with merry milkmaids and Wives of Windsor. Richard Brathwaite (the creator of Drunken Barnaby) is not absent from among them; although he sees, outside the circle that for a moment has formed around a Maypole, an angry crowd of schismatic Puritans, who are scowling at them with malignant eyes, and denunciations misquoted from Scripture. Many a fair Precisian, nevertheless, yields to the honeyed pleading of a be-love-locked Cavalier, and the irresistible charms of “Arthur o’ Bradley, ho!” showing the prettiest pair of ankles, and the most delightful mixture of bashfulness and enjoyment; until the Roundhead Buff-coats prove too numerous, and whisk her off to a conventicle, where, the sexes sitting widely apart, for aught we know, the crop-eared rout sing unpoetic versions of the Psalmist to the tune of Arthur o’ Bradley, “godlified” and eke expurgated.

Cromwell, we know, loved music, withal, and it is not unlikely that those two ladies are his daughters, whom we behold dancing somewhat stiffly in John Hingston’s music-chamber; Mrs. Claypole and her sister, Mrs Rich: there are L’Estrange, who fiddlesto them, and Old Noll, smiling pleasantly, though the tune be Arthur o’ Bradley. Our Second Charles (not yet “Restored”) is also dancing to it, at the Hague (as we see in Janssen’s Windsor picture), with the Princess Palatine Elizabeth, and such a bevy of bright faces round them, that we lose our heart entirely. Can we not see him again—crowned now, and self-acknowledged as “Old Rowley”—at one of the many balls in Whitehall recorded by Samuel Pepys,[12]enteringgaily into all the mirth with that grave, swarthy face of his; not noticing the pouts of Catherine, who sits neglected while The Castlemaine laughs loudly, the fair Stewart simpers, and the little spaniels bark or caper through the palace, snapping at the dancers’ heels? Be sure that pretty Nelly and saucy Knipp were also well acquainted with the music of “rare Arthur o’ Bradley,” as indeed were thousands of the play-goers to whom the former once sold oranges.

And lower ranks delighted in it. Pierce, the Bagpiper, is himself the central figure, when we look again, “with cheeks as big as a mitre,” such time as that table-full of Restoration revellers (whom we catch sight of in ourfrontispieceto theAntidote, 1661) are beginning to shake a toe in honour of the music.

So it continues for two centuries more, with all varieties of costume and feature. Certain are we that plump Sir Richard Steele whistled the tune, and Dean Swift gave the Dublin ballad-singer a couple of thirteens for singing it. Dr. Johnson grunted an accompaniment whenever he heard the melody, and James Boswell insisted on dancing to it, though a little “overtaken,” and got his sword entangled betwixt his legs, which cost him a fall and a plastered head-piece, by no means for the only time on record. It is reported that good old George the Third was seen endeavouring to persuade Queen Charlotte to accompanyhim on the Spinnet, while he set their numerous olive-branches jigging it delightedly “for the honour ofArthuro’Bradley.” But whenever Dr. John Wolcot was reported to be prowling near at hand, with Peter Pindaresque eyes, the motion ceased. Well was it loved by honest Joseph Ritson,impiger, iracundus inexorabilis, acer—better than vegetable diet and eccentric spelling, or the flagellation of inexact antiquarian Bishops. We ourselves may have beheld him in high glee perusing the black-letter ballad, and rectifying its corrupt text by theAntidote against Melancholy’s. How lustily he skipped, shouting meanwhile the burden of “braveArthuro’Bradley!” so that unconsciously he joined the ten-mile train of dancers. They are still winding around us, some in a Nineteenth-Century garb (a little tattered, but it adds to the picturesqueness), blithe Hop-pickers of West-Bridge Deanery. There are a few New Zealanders, we understand, waiting to join the throng, (including Macaulay’s own particular circumnavigating meditator, yet unborn); so that as long as the world wags no welcome may be lacking to the mirth and melody, jigging and joustling,

“For the honour ofArthuro’Bradley,O rareArthuro’Bradley,O braveArthuro’Bradley,Arthuro’Bradley. O!”

“For the honour ofArthuro’Bradley,

O rareArthuro’Bradley,

O braveArthuro’Bradley,

Arthuro’Bradley. O!”

Having relieved our feelings, for once, we resume the sober duties of Annotation in a chastened spirit:—

InMerry Drollery Compleat, Reprint (Appendix, p. 401), we gave the full quotation from a Sixteenth Century Interlude,The Contract of Marriage between Wit and Wisdom, the point being this:—

“For the honour ofArtrebradley,This age would make me swear madly!”

“For the honour ofArtrebradley,

This age would make me swear madly!”

Arthur o’ Bradley is mentioned by Thomas Dekker, near the end of the first part of hisHonest Whore, 1604; when Bellafront, assuming to be mad, hears that Mattheo is to marry her, she exclaims—

“Shall he? O braveArthurofBradley, then?”

In Ben Jonson’sBartholomew Fair, 1614, (which covers the Puritans with ridicule, for the delight of James 1st.), Act ii. Scene 1, when Adam Overdo, the Sectary, is disguised in a “garded coat” as Arthur o’ Bradley, to gesticulate outside a booth, Mooncalf salutes him thus:—“O Lord! do you not know him, Mistress?’tis madArthurofBradleythat makes the orations.—Brave master, old Arthur of Bradley, how do you do? Welcome to the Fair! When shall we hear you again, to handle your matters,with your back against a booth, ha?”

In Richard Brathwaite’sStrappado for the Diuell, 1615, p. 225 (in a long poem, containing notices of Wakefield, Bradford, and Kendall, addressed “to all true-bred Northerne Sparks, of the generous Society of the Cottoneers,” &c.) is the following reference to this tune, and to other two, viz. “Wilson’s Delight,” and “Mal Dixon’s Round:”

“So each (through peace of conscience) rapt with pleasureShall ioifully begin to dance his measure.One footing actiuelyWilson’sdelight, ...The fourth is chanting of his Notes so gladly,Keeping the tune for th’ honour ofArthura Bradly;The5[th]so pranke he scarce can stand on ground,Asking who’le sing with himMal Dixon’sround.”

“So each (through peace of conscience) rapt with pleasure

Shall ioifully begin to dance his measure.

One footing actiuelyWilson’sdelight, ...

The fourth is chanting of his Notes so gladly,

Keeping the tune for th’ honour ofArthura Bradly;

The5[th]so pranke he scarce can stand on ground,

Asking who’le sing with himMal Dixon’sround.”

(By the way: The same author, Richard Brathwaite, in his amusingShepherds Tales, 1621, p. 211, mentions as other Dance-tunes,

Roundelayes,||Irish-hayes,Cogs and rongs andPeggie Ramsie,Spaniletto||The Venetto,Johncome kisse me,Wilson’sFancie.)

Roundelayes,||Irish-hayes,

Cogs and rongs andPeggie Ramsie,

Spaniletto||The Venetto,

Johncome kisse me,Wilson’sFancie.)

Again, Thomas Gayton writes concerning the hero:—“’Tis not alwaies sure that’tis merry in hall when beards Wag all, for these men’s beards wagg’d as fast as they could tag ’em, but mov’d no mirth at all: They were verifying that song of—

Heigh, braveArthuro’Bradley,A beard without hair looks madly.”(Festivous Notes on Don Quixot, 1654, p. 141.)

Heigh, braveArthuro’Bradley,

A beard without hair looks madly.”

(Festivous Notes on Don Quixot, 1654, p. 141.)

On pp. 540, 604, of William Chappell’s excellent work,The Popular Music of the Olden Time, are given two tunes, one for theAntidoteversion, and the other for the modern, as sung by Taylor, “Come neighbours, and listen a while.” He quotes the two lines from Gayton, and also this from Wm. Wycherley’sGentleman Dancing Master, 1673, Act i, Sc. 2, where Gerrard says:—“Sing him ‘Arthur of Bradley,’ or ‘I am the Duke of Norfolk.’”

It is quite evident, from such passages, that during a long time a proverbial and popular character attached to this noisy personage: such has not yet passed away. The earliest complete imprint of “Arthur o’ Bradley” as a Song, (from a printed original, of 1656, beginning “Allyou that desire to merry be,”) in our presentAppendix, Part iv. Quite distinct from this hitherto unnoticed examplar, not already reprinted, is “Saw you notPierce, the piper,” &c., the ballad reproduced by us, fromMerry Drollery, 1661, Part 2nd., p. 124, (and ditto,Compleat1670, 1691, p. 312); which agrees with theAntidote against Melancholy, same date, 1661, p. 16. More than a Century later, an inferior rendering was common, printed on broadsheets. It was mentioned, in 1797, by Joseph Ritson, as being a “much more modern ballad [than theAntidoteversion] upon this popular subject, in the same measure intitledArthur o’ Bradley, and beginning ‘All in the merry month of May.’” (Robin Hood, 1797, ii. 211.) Of this we already gave two verses, (in Appendix toM. Drollery C., p. 400), but as we believe the ballad has not been reprinted in this century, we may give all that is extant, from the only copy within reach, ofArthur o’ Bradley:—

“All in the merry month of May,The maids [they will be gay,For] a May-pole they will have, &c.”(See the present Appendix, Part iv.)

“All in the merry month of May,

The maids [they will be gay,

For] a May-pole they will have, &c.”

(See the present Appendix, Part iv.)

In this, doubtless, we detect two versions, garbed together. What is now the final verse is merely a variation of the sixth: probably the broadsheet-printer could not meet with a genuine eighth verse. Robert Bell denounced the whole as “a miserable composition” (even as he had declared against the amatory Lyrics of Charles the Second’s time): but then, he might have added, with Goldsmith, “My Bear dances to none but the werry genteelest of tunes.”

Far superior to this was the “Arthur o’ Bradley’s Wedding:

“Come, neighbours, and listen awhile, If ever you wished to smile,” &c.,which was sung by ... Taylor, a comic actor, about the beginning of this century. It is not improbable that he wrote or adapted it, availing himself of such traditional scraps as he could meet with. Two copies of it, duplicate, on broadsheets, are in the Douce Collection at Oxford, vol. iv. pp. 18, 19. A copy, also, in J. H. Dixon’sBds. and Sgs. of the Peasantry, Percy Soc., 1845, vol. xvii. (and in R. B.’sAnnotated Ed. B. P., p. 138.)

There is still another “Arthur o’ Bradley,” but not much can, or need, be said in its favour; except that it contains only three verses. Yet even these are more than two which can be spared. Its only tolerable lines are borrowed from the Roxburghe Ballad. It is thenadirof Bradleyism, and has not even a title, beyond the burden “O rareArthuro’Bradley, O!” Let us, briefly, be in at the death: although Arthur makes not a Swan-like end, with the help of his Catnach poet. It begins thus:

’Twas in the sweet month of May, I walked out to take the air,My Father he died one day, and he left me his son and heir;He left me a good warm house, that wanted only a thatch,A strong oak door to my chamber, that only wanted a latch;He left me a rare old cow, I wish he’d have left me a sow,A cock that in fighting was shy, and a horse with a sharp wall eye, &c.(Universal Songster, 1826, i. 368.)

’Twas in the sweet month of May, I walked out to take the air,

My Father he died one day, and he left me his son and heir;

He left me a good warm house, that wanted only a thatch,

A strong oak door to my chamber, that only wanted a latch;

He left me a rare old cow, I wish he’d have left me a sow,

A cock that in fighting was shy, and a horse with a sharp wall eye, &c.

(Universal Songster, 1826, i. 368.)

Even Ophelia could not ask, after Arthur sinking so low, “And will he not come again?”

J. W. E.

September, 1875.

[So far as possible, to give completeness to our Reprint ofWestminster Drolleryof 1671-2, andMerry Drollery, Compleat, 1670-1691, we now add the Extra Songs belonging to the former work, edition 1674; and to the latter, in its earlier edition, 1661: with their respective title-pages.]

Westminster-Drollery.Or, A ChoiceCOLLECTIONof the NewestSONGS & POEMSBOTH ATCourt and Theaters.BYA Person of Quality.The third Edition, with many moreAdditions.LONDON,Printed forH. Brome, at theGunin St.Paul’sChurch Yard, near the West End.MDCLXXIV.

Westminster-Drollery.

Or, A ChoiceCOLLECTIONof the NewestSONGS & POEMSBOTH ATCourt and Theaters.

BYA Person of Quality.

The third Edition, with many moreAdditions.

LONDON,Printed forH. Brome, at theGunin St.Paul’sChurch Yard, near the West End.MDCLXXIV.

[p. 111.]

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