125, these ... babes, PP.137. "A. D. 1588. Dr. Percy, not knowing that the text alludes to a particular event, has altered it toavoyagetoPortugal."Ritson.
125, these ... babes, PP.
137. "A. D. 1588. Dr. Percy, not knowing that the text alludes to a particular event, has altered it toavoyagetoPortugal."Ritson.
In the year 1255, we are told by Matthew Paris, in his account of the reign of Henry III., the Jews of Lincoln stole a boy, named Hugh, of the age of eight years, whom, after torturing for ten days, they crucified before a large council of their people, in contempt of the death of the founder of Christianity. The boy was sought by his mother in the house of a Jew, which he had been seen to enter, and his body was found in a pit. The occupant of the house being seized, acknowledged the crime, and avowed, besides, that the like was committed nearly every year by his nation. Notwithstanding the promise of impunity by which this confession had been obtained, the wretch who made it was tied to the tail of a horse and dragged to the gallows, and after a judicial investigation, eighteen of the richest and most distinguished Jews in Lincoln were hanged for participation in the murder, while many more were detained as prisoners in the Tower of London. On the other hand, the body of the child was buried with the honors of a martyr in Lincoln Cathedral, where a construction, assumed without reason to be his tomb, is still shown. The remains of a young person, found near this spot in 1791, were at once taken for granted to be those ofthe sainted infant, and drawings were made of the relics, which may be seen among the works of the artist Grimm in the British Museum.
Several stories of the same tenor are reported by the English chroniclers. It may be doubted whether there is a grain of truth in any of them, although it would be no wonder if the atrocious injuries inflicted on the Jews should, in an instance or two, have provoked a bloody retaliation, even from that tribe whose badge has always been sufferance. The annual sacrifice of a Christian child, in mockery of the crucifixion of Jesus, is on a par for credibility with the miracles which are said to have followed the death of those innocents.
The exquisite tale which Chaucer has put into the mouth of the Prioress exhibits nearly the same incidents as the following ballad. The legend of Hugh of Lincoln was widely famous. Michel has published an Anglo-Norman ballad, (Hugo de Lincolnia,) on the subject, which appears to be almost contemporary with the event recorded by Matthew Paris, and is certainly of the times of Henry III. The versions of the English ballad are quite numerous. We give here those of Percy, Herd, and Jamieson, and two others in the Appendix. Besides these, fragments have been printed in Sir Egerton Brydges'sRestituta, i. 381, Halliwell'sBallads and Poems respecting Hugh of Lincoln, (1849,) and inNotes and Queries, vol. viii. 614, ix. 320, xii. 496. The most complete of all the versions is to be found in the new edition of theMusical Museum, vol. iv. p. 500; but that copy is evidently made up from others previously published. See, for a collection of most of the poetry, and of muchcurious information on the imputed cruelties of the Jews, Michel'sHugues de Lincoln, and Hume'sSir Hugh of Lincoln. The whole subject is critically examined in theLondon Athenæumfor Dec. 15, 1849.
"The text of the following edition has been givenverbatim, as the editor took it down from Mrs. Brown's recitation; and in it two circumstances are preserved, which are neither to be found in any of the former editions, nor in any of the chronicles in which the transaction is recorded; but which are perfectly in the character of those times, and tend to enhance the miracles to which the discovery is attributed. The first of these is, that, in order that the whole of this infamous sacrifice might be of a piece, and every possible outrage shown to Christianity, the Jews threw the child's body into a well dedicated to the Virgin Mary; and tradition says, that it was 'through the might of Our Ladie,' that the dead body was permitted to speak, and to reveal the horrid story to the disconsolate mother. The other is, the voluntary ringing of the bells, &c., at his funeral. The sound of consecrated bells was supposed to have a powerful effect in driving away evil spirits, appeasing storms, &c., and they were believed to be inspired with sentiments and perceptions which were often manifested in a very miraculous manner."Jamieson'sPopular Ballads, i. 139-156.
Four and twenty bonny boysWere playing at the ba';And by it came him, sweet Sir Hugh,And he play'd o'er them a'.He kick'd the ba' with his right foot,5And catch'd it wi' his knee;And throuch-and-thro' the Jew's window,He gar'd the bonny ba' flee.He's doen him to the Jew's castell,And walk'd it round about;10And there he saw the Jew's daughterAt the window looking out."Throw down the ba', ye Jew's daughter,Throw down the ba' to me!""Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter,15"Till up to me come ye.""How will I come up? How can I come up?How can I come to thee?For as ye did to my auld father,The same ye'll do to me."20She's gane till her father's garden,And pu'd an apple, red and green;'Twas a' to wyle him, sweet Sir Hugh,And to entice him in.She's led him in through ae dark door,25And sae has she thro' nine;She's laid him on a dressing table,And stickit him like a swine.And first came out the thick, thick blood,And syne came out the thin;30And syne came out the bonny heart's blood;There was nae mair within.She's row'd him in a cake o' lead,Bade him lie still and sleep;She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw well,35Was fifty fathom deep.When bells were rung, and mass was sung,And a' the bairns came hame,When every lady gat hame her son,The Lady Maisry gat nane.40She's ta'en her mantle her about,Her coffer by the hand;And she's gane out to seek her son,And wander'd o'er the land.She's doen her to the Jew's castell,45Where a' were fast asleep;"Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,I pray you to me speak."She's doen her to the Jew's garden,Thought he had been gathering fruit;50"Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,I pray you to me speak."She near'd Our Lady's deep draw-well,Was fifty fathom deep;"Whare'er ye be, my sweet Sir Hugh,55I pray you to me speak.""Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear;Prepare my winding sheet;And, at the back o' merry Lincoln,The morn I will you meet."60Now Lady Maisry is gane hame;Made him a winding sheet;And, at the back o' merry Lincoln,The dead corpse did her meet.And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln,65Without men's hands were rung;And a' the books o' merry Lincoln,Were read without man's tongue;And ne'er was such a burialSin Adam's days begun.70
Four and twenty bonny boysWere playing at the ba';And by it came him, sweet Sir Hugh,And he play'd o'er them a'.
He kick'd the ba' with his right foot,5And catch'd it wi' his knee;And throuch-and-thro' the Jew's window,He gar'd the bonny ba' flee.
He's doen him to the Jew's castell,And walk'd it round about;10And there he saw the Jew's daughterAt the window looking out.
"Throw down the ba', ye Jew's daughter,Throw down the ba' to me!""Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter,15"Till up to me come ye."
"How will I come up? How can I come up?How can I come to thee?For as ye did to my auld father,The same ye'll do to me."20
She's gane till her father's garden,And pu'd an apple, red and green;'Twas a' to wyle him, sweet Sir Hugh,And to entice him in.
She's led him in through ae dark door,25And sae has she thro' nine;She's laid him on a dressing table,And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,And syne came out the thin;30And syne came out the bonny heart's blood;There was nae mair within.
She's row'd him in a cake o' lead,Bade him lie still and sleep;She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw well,35Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,And a' the bairns came hame,When every lady gat hame her son,The Lady Maisry gat nane.40
She's ta'en her mantle her about,Her coffer by the hand;And she's gane out to seek her son,And wander'd o'er the land.
She's doen her to the Jew's castell,45Where a' were fast asleep;"Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,I pray you to me speak."
She's doen her to the Jew's garden,Thought he had been gathering fruit;50"Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,I pray you to me speak."
She near'd Our Lady's deep draw-well,Was fifty fathom deep;"Whare'er ye be, my sweet Sir Hugh,55I pray you to me speak."
"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear;Prepare my winding sheet;And, at the back o' merry Lincoln,The morn I will you meet."60
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame;Made him a winding sheet;And, at the back o' merry Lincoln,The dead corpse did her meet.
And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln,65Without men's hands were rung;And a' the books o' merry Lincoln,Were read without man's tongue;And ne'er was such a burialSin Adam's days begun.70
From Herd'sScottish Songs, i. 157.
A' the boys of merry LinkimWar playing at the ba',An up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh,The flower among them a'.He keppit the ba' than wi' his foot,5And catcht it wi' his knee,And even in at the Jew's window,He gart the bonny ba' flee."Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid,Cast out the ba' to me."10"Ah never a bit of it," she says,"Till ye come up to me."Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,Come up and get the ba';""I winna come, I mayna come,15Without my bonny boys a'.""Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,Come up and speak to me;""I mayna come, I winna come,Without my bonny boys three."20She's taen her to the Jew's garden,Whar the grass grew lang and green,She's pu'd an apple red and white,To wyle the bonny boy in.She's wyled him in through ae chamber,25She's wyled him in through twa,She's wyled him in till her ain chamber,The flower out owr them a'.She's laid him on a dressin board,Whar she did often dine;30She stack a penknife to his heart,And dress'd him like a swine.She row'd him in a cake of lead,Bade him ly still and sleep,She threw him i' the Jew's draw-well,35It was fifty fathom deep.Whan bells were rung, and mass was sung,And a' man bound to bed,Every lady got home her son,But sweet Sir Hugh was dead.
A' the boys of merry LinkimWar playing at the ba',An up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh,The flower among them a'.
He keppit the ba' than wi' his foot,5And catcht it wi' his knee,And even in at the Jew's window,He gart the bonny ba' flee.
"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid,Cast out the ba' to me."10"Ah never a bit of it," she says,"Till ye come up to me.
"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,Come up and get the ba';""I winna come, I mayna come,15Without my bonny boys a'."
"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,Come up and speak to me;""I mayna come, I winna come,Without my bonny boys three."20
She's taen her to the Jew's garden,Whar the grass grew lang and green,She's pu'd an apple red and white,To wyle the bonny boy in.
She's wyled him in through ae chamber,25She's wyled him in through twa,She's wyled him in till her ain chamber,The flower out owr them a'.
She's laid him on a dressin board,Whar she did often dine;30She stack a penknife to his heart,And dress'd him like a swine.
She row'd him in a cake of lead,Bade him ly still and sleep,She threw him i' the Jew's draw-well,35It was fifty fathom deep.
Whan bells were rung, and mass was sung,And a' man bound to bed,Every lady got home her son,But sweet Sir Hugh was dead.
From Percy'sReliques, i. 40; printed from a manuscript copy sent from Scotland.
Mirryland toune is a corruption of Merry Lincoln, and not, as Percy conjectured, of Mailand (Milan) town. In Motherwell's copy we have Maitland town.
The rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune,Sae dois it doune the Pa:Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune,Quhan they play at the ba'.Than out and cam the Jewis dochter,5Said, "Will ye cum in and dine?""I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in,Without my play-feres nine."Scho powd an apple reid and white,To intice the zong thing in:10Scho powd an apple white and reid,And that the sweit bairne did win.And scho has taine out a little pen-knife,And low down by her gair;Scho has twin'd the zong thing and his life;15A word he nevir spak mair.And out and cam the thick thick bluid,And out and cam the thin;And out and cam the bonny herts bluid:Thair was nae life left in.20Scho laid him on a dressing borde,And drest him like a swine,And laughing said, "Gae nou and pleyWith zour sweit play-feres nine."Scho rowd him in a cake of lead,25Bade him lie stil and sleip;Scho cast him in a deip draw-well,Was fifty fadom deip.Quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung,And every lady went hame,30Then ilka lady had her zong sonne,Bot Lady Helen had nane.Scho rowd hir mantil hir about,And sair sair gan she weip,And she ran into the Jewis castèl,35Quhan they wer all asleip."My bonny Sir Hew, my pretty Sir Hew,I pray thee to me speik:""O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well,Gin ze zour sonne wad seik."40Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well,And knelt upon her kne:"My bonny Sir Hew, and ze be here,I pray thee speik to me.""The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,45The well is wondrous deip;A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert,A word I dounae speik."Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir,Fetch me my windling sheet,50And at the back o' Mirry-land toun,Its thair we twa sall meet."
The rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune,Sae dois it doune the Pa:Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune,Quhan they play at the ba'.
Than out and cam the Jewis dochter,5Said, "Will ye cum in and dine?""I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in,Without my play-feres nine."
Scho powd an apple reid and white,To intice the zong thing in:10Scho powd an apple white and reid,And that the sweit bairne did win.
And scho has taine out a little pen-knife,And low down by her gair;Scho has twin'd the zong thing and his life;15A word he nevir spak mair.
And out and cam the thick thick bluid,And out and cam the thin;And out and cam the bonny herts bluid:Thair was nae life left in.20
Scho laid him on a dressing borde,And drest him like a swine,And laughing said, "Gae nou and pleyWith zour sweit play-feres nine."
Scho rowd him in a cake of lead,25Bade him lie stil and sleip;Scho cast him in a deip draw-well,Was fifty fadom deip.
Quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung,And every lady went hame,30Then ilka lady had her zong sonne,Bot Lady Helen had nane.
Scho rowd hir mantil hir about,And sair sair gan she weip,And she ran into the Jewis castèl,35Quhan they wer all asleip.
"My bonny Sir Hew, my pretty Sir Hew,I pray thee to me speik:""O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well,Gin ze zour sonne wad seik."40
Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well,And knelt upon her kne:"My bonny Sir Hew, and ze be here,I pray thee speik to me."
"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,45The well is wondrous deip;A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert,A word I dounae speik.
"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir,Fetch me my windling sheet,50And at the back o' Mirry-land toun,Its thair we twa sall meet."
From Percy'sReliques, i. 81.
The event upon which this ballad is founded, if it has been rightly ascertained, belongs to a remote period in Scottish history. Margaret, the daughter of Alexander III., was, in the year 1281, betrothed to Eric, prince of Norway. The bride was conducted to her husband by a splendid convoy of knights and nobles, and in the month of August was crowned queen. In returning from the celebration of the nuptials, many of the Scottish escort were lost at sea, and among those who perished was Sir Patrick Spence, we are to suppose.
It is in conformity with this view of the origin of the ballad, (the suggestion of Motherwell,) that in Buchan's version the object of the voyage is said to be to take the king's daughter, now "a chosen queen,"toNorway. In Scott's edition, on the other hand, Sir Patrick is deputedto bring homethe king of Norway's daughter. To explain this circumstance in the story, Sir Walter is forced to suppose that an unsuccessful and unrecorded embassy was sent, when the death of Alexander III. had left the Scottish throne vacant, to bring the only daughter of Eric and Margaret, styled by historians the Maid of Norway, to the kingdom of which, after her grandfather's demise, she became theheir. That such an embassy, attended with so disastrous consequences to the distinguished persons who would compose it, should be entirely unnoticed by the chroniclers is, to say the least, exceedingly improbable.
The question concerning the historical basis of the ballad would naturally lose much of its interest, were any importance attached to the arguments by which its genuineness has been lately assailed. These are so trivial as hardly to admit of a statement. The claims of the composition to a high antiquity are first disputed, (Musical Museum, new ed., iv. 457*,) on the ground that such a piece was never heard of till it was sent to Percy by some of his correspondents in Scotland, with other ballads of (assumed) questionable authority. But even the ballad ofSir Hughis liable to any impeachment that can be extracted from these circumstances, since it was first made known by Percy, and was transmitted to him from Scotland, (for aught we know, in suspicious company,) while its story dates also from the 13th century. Then, "an ingenious friend" having remarked to Percy that some of the phrases ofHardyknuteseemed to have been borrowed fromSir Patrick Spenceandotherold Scottish songs, this observation, combined with the fact that the localities of Dunfermline and Aberdour are in the neighborhood of Sir Henry Wardlaw's estate, leads to a conjecture that Lady Wardlaw may have been the author ofSir Patrick Spence, as she is known to have been ofHardyknute. It could never be deemed fair to argue from those resemblances which give plausibility to a counterfeit to the spuriousness of the original, but in fact there isnoresemblance in the two pieces.Hardyknuteis recognized at once by an ordinary criticto be a modern production, and is, notwithstanding the praise it has received, a tame and tiresome one besides.Sir Patrick Spence, on the other hand, if not ancient, has been always accepted as such by the most skilful judges, and is a solitary instance of a successful imitation, in manner and spirit, of the best specimens of authentic minstrelsy.[1]
It is not denied that this ballad has suffered, like others, by corruption and interpolations, and it is not, therefore, maintained that hats and cork-heeld shoon are of the 13th century.
We have assigned to Percy's copy the first place, because its brevity and directness give it a peculiar vigor.Scott's edition follows, made up from two MS. copies, (one of which has been printed in Jamieson'sPopular Ballads, i. 157,) collated with several verses recited by a friend. Buchan's version, obtained from recitation, isin the Appendix. The variations in recited copies are numerous: some specimens are given by Motherwell, p. xlv.
The king sits in Dumferling[2]toune,Drinking the blude-reid wine:"O quhar will I get guid sailor,To sail this schip of mine?"Up and spak an eldern knicht,5Sat at the kings richt kne:"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor,That sails upon the se."The king has written a braid letter,And signd it wi' his hand,10And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,Was walking on the sand.The first line that Sir Patrick red,A loud lauch lauched he:The next line that Sir Patrick red,15The teir blinded his ee."O quha is this has don this deid,This ill deid don to me;To send me out this time o' the zeir,To sail upon the se?20"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,Our guid schip sails the morne.""O say na sae, my master deir,For I feir a deadlie storme."Late late yestreen I saw the new moone25Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;And I feir, I feir, my deir master,That we will com to harme."O our Scots nobles wer richt laithTo weet their cork-heild schoone;30Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,Thair hats they swam aboone.O lang, lang, may their ladies sitWi' thair fans into their hand,Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence35Cum sailing to the land.O lang, lang, may the ladies standWi' thair gold kems in their hair,Waiting for thair ain deir lords,For they'll se thame na mair.40Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,It's fiftie fadom deip:And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
The king sits in Dumferling[2]toune,Drinking the blude-reid wine:"O quhar will I get guid sailor,To sail this schip of mine?"
Up and spak an eldern knicht,5Sat at the kings richt kne:"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor,That sails upon the se."
The king has written a braid letter,And signd it wi' his hand,10And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,A loud lauch lauched he:The next line that Sir Patrick red,15The teir blinded his ee.
"O quha is this has don this deid,This ill deid don to me;To send me out this time o' the zeir,To sail upon the se?20
"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,Our guid schip sails the morne.""O say na sae, my master deir,For I feir a deadlie storme.
"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone25Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;And I feir, I feir, my deir master,That we will com to harme."
O our Scots nobles wer richt laithTo weet their cork-heild schoone;30Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang, may their ladies sitWi' thair fans into their hand,Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence35Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang, may the ladies standWi' thair gold kems in their hair,Waiting for thair ain deir lords,For they'll se thame na mair.40
Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,It's fiftie fadom deip:And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
[1]This controversy has been recently re-opened by R. Chambers,The Romantic Scottish Ballads, their Epoch and Authorship, Edin. 1859; and in reply,The Romantic Scottish Ballads and the Lady Wardlaw Heresy, by Norval Clyne, Aberdeen, 1859.[2]The palace of Dunfermline was the favorite residence of King Alexander III.
[1]This controversy has been recently re-opened by R. Chambers,The Romantic Scottish Ballads, their Epoch and Authorship, Edin. 1859; and in reply,The Romantic Scottish Ballads and the Lady Wardlaw Heresy, by Norval Clyne, Aberdeen, 1859.
[2]The palace of Dunfermline was the favorite residence of King Alexander III.
41-44. "It is true that the name of Sir Patrick Spens is not mentioned in history; but I am able to state that tradition has preserved it. In the little island of Papa Stronsay, one of the Orcadian group, lying over against Norway, there is a large grave or tumulus, which has been known to the inhabitants, from time immemorial, as 'The grave of Sir Patrick Spens.' The Scottish ballads were not early current in Orkney, a Scandinavian country; so it is very unlikely that the poem could have originated the name. The people know nothing beyond the traditional appellation of the spot, and they have no legend to tell." Aytoun,Ballads of Scotland, i. 2.—This passage is cited simply as a piece ofexternalevidence to the antiquity of the legend of Sir Patrick Spens,—supposing the matter of fact to be well established, and the alleged tradition to be of long standing.
41-44. "It is true that the name of Sir Patrick Spens is not mentioned in history; but I am able to state that tradition has preserved it. In the little island of Papa Stronsay, one of the Orcadian group, lying over against Norway, there is a large grave or tumulus, which has been known to the inhabitants, from time immemorial, as 'The grave of Sir Patrick Spens.' The Scottish ballads were not early current in Orkney, a Scandinavian country; so it is very unlikely that the poem could have originated the name. The people know nothing beyond the traditional appellation of the spot, and they have no legend to tell." Aytoun,Ballads of Scotland, i. 2.—This passage is cited simply as a piece ofexternalevidence to the antiquity of the legend of Sir Patrick Spens,—supposing the matter of fact to be well established, and the alleged tradition to be of long standing.
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, i. 299.
In singing, the interjection O is added to the second and fourth lines.
The king sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine:"O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship of mine?"O up and spake an eldern knight,5Sat at the king's right knee:"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sailed the sea."Our king has written a braid letter,And sealed it with his hand,10And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand."To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,15'Tis thou maun bring her hame!"The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blindit his e'e.20"O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o' me,To send us out at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,25Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame."They hoysed their sails on Monenday mornWi' a' the speed they may;30They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway, but twae,When that the lords o' Noroway35Began aloud to say:"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!Fu' loud I hear ye lie!40"For I brought as much white monieAs gane my men and me,—And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goudOut o'er the sea wi' me."Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'!45Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake! my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;50And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm."They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league, but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,55And gurly grew the sea.The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves came o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.60"O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall topmast,To see if I can spy land?""O here am I, a sailor gude,65To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall topmast,—But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."He hadna gane a step, a step,A step, but barely ane,70When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in."Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,75And letna the sea come in."They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.80"O laith laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeled shoon!But lang or a' the play was played,They wat their hats aboon.And mony was the feather-bed85That flatter'd on the faem;And mony was the gude lord's sonThat never mair cam hame.The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair;90A' for the sake of their true loves,For them they'll see nae mair.O lang lang may the ladyes sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick Spens95Come sailing to the strand!And lang lang may the maidens sit,Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves,For them they'll see nae mair.100O forty miles off Aberdeen'Tis fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick SpensWi' the Scots lords at his feet.
The king sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine:"O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship of mine?"
O up and spake an eldern knight,5Sat at the king's right knee:"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sailed the sea."
Our king has written a braid letter,And sealed it with his hand,10And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,15'Tis thou maun bring her hame!"
The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blindit his e'e.20
"O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o' me,To send us out at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?
"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,25Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame."
They hoysed their sails on Monenday mornWi' a' the speed they may;30They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway, but twae,When that the lords o' Noroway35Began aloud to say:
"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!Fu' loud I hear ye lie!40
"For I brought as much white monieAs gane my men and me,—And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goudOut o'er the sea wi' me.
"Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'!45Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake! my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!
"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;50And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm."
They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league, but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,55And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves came o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.60
"O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall topmast,To see if I can spy land?"
"O here am I, a sailor gude,65To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall topmast,—But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,A step, but barely ane,70When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.
"Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,75And letna the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.80
"O laith laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeled shoon!But lang or a' the play was played,They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather-bed85That flatter'd on the faem;And mony was the gude lord's sonThat never mair cam hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair;90A' for the sake of their true loves,For them they'll see nae mair.
O lang lang may the ladyes sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick Spens95Come sailing to the strand!
And lang lang may the maidens sit,Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves,For them they'll see nae mair.100
O forty miles off Aberdeen'Tis fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick SpensWi' the Scots lords at his feet.
FromReliques of English Poetry, i. 65.
"This romantic legend," says Percy, "is given from two copies, one of them in the Editor's folio MS., but which contained very great variations." This second copy has been conjectured to be of Percy's own making, the ballad never having been heard of by any one else, out of his manuscript. Judging from the internal evidence, the alterations made in the printed text were not very serious.
King Easter and King Wester have appeared in the ballad ofFause Foodrage, (vol. iii. p. 40.) In another version of the same, they are called the Eastmure king and the Westmure king, (Motherwell'sMinstrelsy, p. lix.) There is also a tale cited in theComplaynt of Scotland, (i. 98,) of a king of Estmureland that married the daughter of the king of Westmureland. This is plausibly supposed by Ritson to have been a romance of Horn, in which case the two countries should mean England and Ireland. King Esmer is one of King Diderik's champions (in the Danish ballad,Kong Diderik og hans Kæmper), and the father of Svend Vonved (inSvend Vonved). In the Flemish and German romances ofThe Knight of the Swan, Essmer, or Esmerés, is one of the seven sons of Oriant, and inLe Dit de Flourence de Romme(Jubinal,Nouveau Recueil de Contes, etc., i. 88), Esmère is a Roman prince. (Grundtvig, i. 78, 236.) For the nonce, we are toldthat King Estmere was an English prince, and we may, perhaps, infer from the eighth stanza that King Adland's dominions were on the same island. But no subject of inquiry can be more idle than the geography of the romances.
Hearken to me, gentlemen,Come and you shall heare;Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren,That ever born y-were.The tone of them was Adler yonge,5The tother was kyng Estmere;They were as bolde men in their deedesAs any were, farr and neare.As they were drinking ale and wineWithin kyng Estmeres halle,10"When will ye marry a wyfe, brother,A wyfe to gladd us all?"Then bespake him kyng Estmere,And answered him hartilye:"I knowe not that ladye in any lande,15That is able to marry with mee.""Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,Men call her bright and sheene;If I were kyng here in your stead,That ladye shold be queene."20Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother,Throughout merry England,Where we might find a messengerBetweene us two to sende."Sayes, "You shall ryde yourselfe, brother,25Ile beare you companee;Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,And I feare lest soe shold wee."Thus they renisht them to rydeOn twoe good renisht steedes,30And when they came to kyng Adlands halle,Of red golde shone their weedes.And when they came to kyng Adlands halle,Before the goodlye yate,Ther they found good kyng Adland,35Rearing himselfe theratt."Nowe Christ thee save, good kyng Adland,Nowe Christ thee save and see:"Sayd, "You be welcome, kyng Estmere,Right hartilye to mee."40"You have a daughter," sayd Adler yonge,"Men call her bright and sheene;My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,Of Englande to be queene.""Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter45The king his sonne of Spayn;And then she nicked him of naye;I feare sheele do youe the same.""The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,And 'leeveth on Mahound,50And pitye it were that fayre ladyeShold marrye a heathen hound.""But grant to me," sayes kyng Estmere,"For my love I you praye,That I may see your daughter dere55Before I goe hence awaye.""Althoughe itt is seven yeare and moreSyth my daughter was in halle,She shall come downe once for your sake,To glad my guestès alle."60Downe then came that mayden fayre,With ladyes lacede in pall,And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes,To bring her from bowre to hall,And eke as manye gentle squieres,65To waite upon them all.The talents of golde were on her head sette,Hunge lowe downe to her knee;And everye rynge on her small fingerShone of the chrystall free.70Sayes, "Christ you save, my deare madame,"Sayes, "Christ you save and see:"Sayes, "You be welcome, kyng Estmere,Right welcome unto mee."And iff you love me, as you saye,75So well and hartilee,All that ever you are comen aboutSoone sped now itt may bee."Then bespake her father deare,"My daughter, I saye naye;80Remember well the kyng of Spayne,What he sayd yesterdaye."He wold pull downe my halles and castles,And reave me of my lyfe:And ever I feare that paynim kyng,85Iff I reave him of his wyfe.""Your castles and your towres, father,Are stronglye built aboute;And therefore of that foule paynimWee neede not stande in doubte.90"Plyght me your troth nowe, kyng Estmere,By heaven and your righte hande,That you will marrye me to your wyfe,And make me queene of your land."Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth95By heaven and his righte hand,That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,And make her queene of his land.And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,To goe to his owne countree,100To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,That marryed they might bee.They had not ridden scant a myle,A myle forthe of the towne,But in did come the kynge of Spayne,105With kempès many a one:But in did come the kyng of Spayne,With manye a grimme barone,Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,Tother daye to carrye her home.110Then shee sent after kyng Estmere,In all the spede might bee,That he must either returne and fighte,Or goe home and lose his ladye.One whyle then the page he went,115Another whyle he ranne;Till he had oretaken king Estmere,Iwis he never blanne."Tydinges, tydinges, kyng Estmere!""What tydinges nowe, my boye?"120"O tydinges I can tell to you,That will you sore annoye."You had not ridden scant a myle,A myle out of the towne,But in did come the kyng of Spayne125With kempès many a one:"But in did come the kyng of SpayneWith manye a grimme barone,Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,Tother daye to carrye her home.130"That ladye fayre she greetes you well,And ever-more well by mee:You must either turne againe and fighte,Or goe home and lose your ladye."Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother,135My reade shallryseat thee,Whiche way we best may turne and fighte,To save this fayre ladye.""Now hearken to me," sayes Adler yonge,"And your reade must rise at me;140I quicklye will devise a wayeTo sette thy ladye free."My mother was a westerne woman,And learned in gramarye,And when I learned at the schole,145Something shee taught itt me."There groweth an hearbe within this fielde,And iff it were but knowne,His color which is whyte and redd,It will make blacke and browne.150"His color which is browne and blacke,Itt will make redd and whyte;That sword is not in all Englande,Upon his coate will byte."And you shal be a harper, brother,155Out of the north countree;And Ile be your boye, so faine of fighte,To beare your harpe by your knee."And you shall be the best harperThat ever tooke harpe in hand;160And I will be the best singerThat ever sung in this land."Itt shal be written in our forheads,All and in grammarye,That we towe are the boldest men165That are in all Christentye."And thus they renisht them to ryde,On towe good renish steedes;And whan they came to king Adlands hall,Of redd gold shone their weedes.170And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,Untill the fayre hall yate,There they found a proud porter,Rearing himselfe theratt.Sayes, "Christ thee save, thou proud porter,"175Sayes, "Christ thee save and see:""Nowe you be welcome," sayd the porter,"Of what land soever ye bee.""We been harpers," sayd Adler yonge,"Come out of the northe countree;180We beene come hither untill this place,This proud weddinge for to see."Sayd, "And your color were white and redd,As it is blacke and browne,Ild saye king Estmere and his brother185Were comen untill this towne."Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,Layd itt on the porters arme:"And ever we will thee, proud porter,Thow wilt saye us no harme."190Sore he looked on kyng Estmere,And sore he handled the ryng,Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,He lett for no kind of thyng.Kyng Estmere he light off his steede,195Up att the fayre hall board;The frothe that came from his brydle bitteLight on kyng Bremors beard.Sayes, "Stable thy steede, thou proud harper,Go stable him in the stalle;200Itt doth not beseeme a proud harperTo stable him in a kyngs halle.""My ladd he is so lither," he sayd,"He will do nought that's meete;And aye that I cold but find the man,205Were able him to beate.""Thou speakst proud words," sayd the paynim king,"Thou harper, here to mee;There is a man within this halle,That will beate thy lad and thee."210"O lett that man come downe," he sayd,"A sight of him wold I see;And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd,Then he shall beate of mee."Downe then came the kemperye man,215And looked him in the eare;For all the gold that was under heaven,He durst not neigh him neare."And how nowe, kempe," sayd the kyng of Spayne,"And how what aileth thee?"220He sayes, "Itt is written in his forhead,All and in gramarye,That for all the gold that is under heaven,I dare not neigh him nye."Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe,225And played thereon so sweete:Upstarte the ladye from the kynge,As hee sate at the meate."Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,Now stay thy harpe, I say;230For an thou playest as thou beginnest,Thou'lt till my bride awaye."He strucke upon his harpe agayne,And playd both fayre and free;The ladye was so pleasde theratt,235She laught loud laughters three."Nowe sell me thy harpe," sayd the kyng of Spayne,"Thy harpe and stryngs eche one,And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,As there be stryngs thereon."240"And what wold ye doe with my harpe," he sayd,Iff I did sell it yee?""To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,When abed together we bee.""Now sell me," quoth hee, "thy bryde soe gay,245As shee sitts laced in pall,And as many gold nobles I will give,As there be rings in the hall.""And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,Iff I did sell her yee?250More seemelye it is for her fayre bodyeTo lye by mee than thee."Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,And Adler he did syng,"O ladye, this is thy owne true love;255Noe harper, but a kyng."O ladye, this is thy owne true love,As playnlye thou mayest see;And Ile rid thee of that foule paynim,Who partes thy love and thee."260The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,And blushte and lookt agayne,While Adler he hath drawne his brande,And hath the Sowdan slayne.Up then rose the kemperye men,265And loud they gan to crye:"Ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,And therefore yee shall dye."Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand;270And Estmere he, and Adler yonge,Right stiffe in stour can stand.And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,Through helpe of gramarye,That soone they have slayne the kempery men,275Or forst them forth to flee.Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladye,And marryed her to his wiffe,And brought her home to merrye England,With her to leade his life.280
Hearken to me, gentlemen,Come and you shall heare;Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren,That ever born y-were.
The tone of them was Adler yonge,5The tother was kyng Estmere;They were as bolde men in their deedesAs any were, farr and neare.
As they were drinking ale and wineWithin kyng Estmeres halle,10"When will ye marry a wyfe, brother,A wyfe to gladd us all?"
Then bespake him kyng Estmere,And answered him hartilye:"I knowe not that ladye in any lande,15That is able to marry with mee."
"Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,Men call her bright and sheene;If I were kyng here in your stead,That ladye shold be queene."20
Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother,Throughout merry England,Where we might find a messengerBetweene us two to sende."
Sayes, "You shall ryde yourselfe, brother,25Ile beare you companee;Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,And I feare lest soe shold wee."
Thus they renisht them to rydeOn twoe good renisht steedes,30And when they came to kyng Adlands halle,Of red golde shone their weedes.
And when they came to kyng Adlands halle,Before the goodlye yate,Ther they found good kyng Adland,35Rearing himselfe theratt.
"Nowe Christ thee save, good kyng Adland,Nowe Christ thee save and see:"Sayd, "You be welcome, kyng Estmere,Right hartilye to mee."40
"You have a daughter," sayd Adler yonge,"Men call her bright and sheene;My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,Of Englande to be queene."
"Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter45The king his sonne of Spayn;And then she nicked him of naye;I feare sheele do youe the same."
"The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,And 'leeveth on Mahound,50And pitye it were that fayre ladyeShold marrye a heathen hound."
"But grant to me," sayes kyng Estmere,"For my love I you praye,That I may see your daughter dere55Before I goe hence awaye."
"Althoughe itt is seven yeare and moreSyth my daughter was in halle,She shall come downe once for your sake,To glad my guestès alle."60
Downe then came that mayden fayre,With ladyes lacede in pall,And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes,To bring her from bowre to hall,And eke as manye gentle squieres,65To waite upon them all.
The talents of golde were on her head sette,Hunge lowe downe to her knee;And everye rynge on her small fingerShone of the chrystall free.70
Sayes, "Christ you save, my deare madame,"Sayes, "Christ you save and see:"Sayes, "You be welcome, kyng Estmere,Right welcome unto mee.
"And iff you love me, as you saye,75So well and hartilee,All that ever you are comen aboutSoone sped now itt may bee."
Then bespake her father deare,"My daughter, I saye naye;80Remember well the kyng of Spayne,What he sayd yesterdaye.
"He wold pull downe my halles and castles,And reave me of my lyfe:And ever I feare that paynim kyng,85Iff I reave him of his wyfe."
"Your castles and your towres, father,Are stronglye built aboute;And therefore of that foule paynimWee neede not stande in doubte.90
"Plyght me your troth nowe, kyng Estmere,By heaven and your righte hande,That you will marrye me to your wyfe,And make me queene of your land."
Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth95By heaven and his righte hand,That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,And make her queene of his land.
And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,To goe to his owne countree,100To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,That marryed they might bee.
They had not ridden scant a myle,A myle forthe of the towne,But in did come the kynge of Spayne,105With kempès many a one:
But in did come the kyng of Spayne,With manye a grimme barone,Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,Tother daye to carrye her home.110
Then shee sent after kyng Estmere,In all the spede might bee,That he must either returne and fighte,Or goe home and lose his ladye.
One whyle then the page he went,115Another whyle he ranne;Till he had oretaken king Estmere,Iwis he never blanne.
"Tydinges, tydinges, kyng Estmere!""What tydinges nowe, my boye?"120"O tydinges I can tell to you,That will you sore annoye.
"You had not ridden scant a myle,A myle out of the towne,But in did come the kyng of Spayne125With kempès many a one:
"But in did come the kyng of SpayneWith manye a grimme barone,Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,Tother daye to carrye her home.130
"That ladye fayre she greetes you well,And ever-more well by mee:You must either turne againe and fighte,Or goe home and lose your ladye."
Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother,135My reade shallryseat thee,Whiche way we best may turne and fighte,To save this fayre ladye."
"Now hearken to me," sayes Adler yonge,"And your reade must rise at me;140I quicklye will devise a wayeTo sette thy ladye free.
"My mother was a westerne woman,And learned in gramarye,And when I learned at the schole,145Something shee taught itt me.
"There groweth an hearbe within this fielde,And iff it were but knowne,His color which is whyte and redd,It will make blacke and browne.150
"His color which is browne and blacke,Itt will make redd and whyte;That sword is not in all Englande,Upon his coate will byte.
"And you shal be a harper, brother,155Out of the north countree;And Ile be your boye, so faine of fighte,To beare your harpe by your knee.
"And you shall be the best harperThat ever tooke harpe in hand;160And I will be the best singerThat ever sung in this land.
"Itt shal be written in our forheads,All and in grammarye,That we towe are the boldest men165That are in all Christentye."
And thus they renisht them to ryde,On towe good renish steedes;And whan they came to king Adlands hall,Of redd gold shone their weedes.170
And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,Untill the fayre hall yate,There they found a proud porter,Rearing himselfe theratt.
Sayes, "Christ thee save, thou proud porter,"175Sayes, "Christ thee save and see:""Nowe you be welcome," sayd the porter,"Of what land soever ye bee."
"We been harpers," sayd Adler yonge,"Come out of the northe countree;180We beene come hither untill this place,This proud weddinge for to see."
Sayd, "And your color were white and redd,As it is blacke and browne,Ild saye king Estmere and his brother185Were comen untill this towne."
Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,Layd itt on the porters arme:"And ever we will thee, proud porter,Thow wilt saye us no harme."190
Sore he looked on kyng Estmere,And sore he handled the ryng,Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,He lett for no kind of thyng.
Kyng Estmere he light off his steede,195Up att the fayre hall board;The frothe that came from his brydle bitteLight on kyng Bremors beard.
Sayes, "Stable thy steede, thou proud harper,Go stable him in the stalle;200Itt doth not beseeme a proud harperTo stable him in a kyngs halle."
"My ladd he is so lither," he sayd,"He will do nought that's meete;And aye that I cold but find the man,205Were able him to beate."
"Thou speakst proud words," sayd the paynim king,"Thou harper, here to mee;There is a man within this halle,That will beate thy lad and thee."210
"O lett that man come downe," he sayd,"A sight of him wold I see;And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd,Then he shall beate of mee."
Downe then came the kemperye man,215And looked him in the eare;For all the gold that was under heaven,He durst not neigh him neare.
"And how nowe, kempe," sayd the kyng of Spayne,"And how what aileth thee?"220He sayes, "Itt is written in his forhead,All and in gramarye,That for all the gold that is under heaven,I dare not neigh him nye."
Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe,225And played thereon so sweete:Upstarte the ladye from the kynge,As hee sate at the meate.
"Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,Now stay thy harpe, I say;230For an thou playest as thou beginnest,Thou'lt till my bride awaye."
He strucke upon his harpe agayne,And playd both fayre and free;The ladye was so pleasde theratt,235She laught loud laughters three.
"Nowe sell me thy harpe," sayd the kyng of Spayne,"Thy harpe and stryngs eche one,And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,As there be stryngs thereon."240
"And what wold ye doe with my harpe," he sayd,Iff I did sell it yee?""To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,When abed together we bee."
"Now sell me," quoth hee, "thy bryde soe gay,245As shee sitts laced in pall,And as many gold nobles I will give,As there be rings in the hall."
"And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,Iff I did sell her yee?250More seemelye it is for her fayre bodyeTo lye by mee than thee."
Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,And Adler he did syng,"O ladye, this is thy owne true love;255Noe harper, but a kyng.
"O ladye, this is thy owne true love,As playnlye thou mayest see;And Ile rid thee of that foule paynim,Who partes thy love and thee."260
The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,And blushte and lookt agayne,While Adler he hath drawne his brande,And hath the Sowdan slayne.
Up then rose the kemperye men,265And loud they gan to crye:"Ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,And therefore yee shall dye."
Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand;270And Estmere he, and Adler yonge,Right stiffe in stour can stand.
And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,Through helpe of gramarye,That soone they have slayne the kempery men,275Or forst them forth to flee.
Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladye,And marryed her to his wiffe,And brought her home to merrye England,With her to leade his life.280