O mother, thou with thy nine sons, and with one only daughter,Thine only daughter, well beloved, the dearest of thy children,For twelve years thou didst keep the maid, the sun did not behold her,Whom in the darkness thou didst bathe, in secret braid her tresses,And by the starlight and the dawn, didst wind her curling ringlets,Nor knew the neighborhood that thou didst have so fair a daughter,—When came to thee from Babylon a woer's soft entreaty:Eight of the brothers yielded not, but Constantine consented."O mother give thine Arete, bestow her on the stranger,That I may have her solace dear when far away I wander.""Though thou art wise, my Constantine, thou hast unwisely spoken:Be woe my lot or be it joy, who will restore my daughter?"He calls to witness God above, he calls the holy martyrs,Be woe her lot, or be it joy, he would restore her daughter:And when they wedded Arete, in that far distant country,Then comes the year of sorrowing, and all the nine did perish.All lonely was the mother left, like a reed alone in the meadow;O'er the eight graves she beats her breast, o'er eight is heard her wailing,And at the tomb of Constantine, she rends her hair in anguish."Arise, my Constantine, arise, for Arete I languish:On God to witness thou didst call, didst call the holy martyrs,Be woe my lot or be it joy, thou wouldst restore my daughter."And forth at midnight hour he fares, the silent tomb deserting,He makes the cloud his flying steed, he makes the star his bridle,And by the silver moon convoyed, to bring her home he journeys:And finds her combing down her locks, abroad by silvery moonlight,And greets the maiden from afar, and from afar bespeaks her."Arise, my Aretula dear, for thee our mother longeth.""Alas! my brother, what is this? what wouldst at such an hour?If joy betide our distant home, I wear my golden raiment,If woe betide, dear brother mine, I go as now I'm standing.""Think not of joy, think not of woe—return as here thou standest."And while they journey on the way, all on the way returning,They hear the Birds, and what they sing, and what the Birds are saying."Ho! see the maiden all so fair, a Ghost it is that bears her.""Didst hear the Birds, my Constantine, didst list to what they're saying?""Yes: they are Birds, and let them sing, they're Birds, and let them chatter:"And yonder, as they journey on, still other Birds salute them."What do we see, unhappy ones, ah! woe is fallen on us;—Lo! there the living sweep along, and with the dead they travel.""Didst hear, my brother Constantine, what yonder Birds are saying?""Yes! Birds are they, and let them sing, they're Birds, and let them chatter.""I fear for thee, my Brother dear, for thou dost breathe of incense.""Last evening late we visited the church of Saint Johannes,And there the priest perfumed me o'er with clouds of fragrant incense."And onward as they hold their way, still other Birds bespeak them:"O God, how wondrous is thy power, what miracles thou workest!A maid so gracious and so fair, a Ghost it is that bears her:"'Twas heard again by Arete, and now her heart was breaking;"Didst hearken, brother Constantine, to what the Birds are saying?Say where are now thy waving locks, thy strong thick beard, where is it?""A sickness sore has me befallen, and brought me near to dying."They find the house all locked and barred, they find it barred and bolted,And all the windows of the house with cobwebs covered over."Unlock, O mother mine, unlock, thine Arete thou seest.""If thou art Charon, get thee gone—I have no other children:My hapless Arete afar, in stranger lands is dwelling.""Unlock, O mother mine, unlock, thy Constantine entreats thee.I called to witness God above, I called the holy martyrs,Were woe thy lot, or were it joy, I would restore thy daughter."And when unto the door she came, her soul from her departed.
O mother, thou with thy nine sons, and with one only daughter,Thine only daughter, well beloved, the dearest of thy children,For twelve years thou didst keep the maid, the sun did not behold her,Whom in the darkness thou didst bathe, in secret braid her tresses,And by the starlight and the dawn, didst wind her curling ringlets,Nor knew the neighborhood that thou didst have so fair a daughter,—When came to thee from Babylon a woer's soft entreaty:Eight of the brothers yielded not, but Constantine consented."O mother give thine Arete, bestow her on the stranger,That I may have her solace dear when far away I wander.""Though thou art wise, my Constantine, thou hast unwisely spoken:Be woe my lot or be it joy, who will restore my daughter?"He calls to witness God above, he calls the holy martyrs,Be woe her lot, or be it joy, he would restore her daughter:And when they wedded Arete, in that far distant country,Then comes the year of sorrowing, and all the nine did perish.All lonely was the mother left, like a reed alone in the meadow;O'er the eight graves she beats her breast, o'er eight is heard her wailing,And at the tomb of Constantine, she rends her hair in anguish."Arise, my Constantine, arise, for Arete I languish:On God to witness thou didst call, didst call the holy martyrs,Be woe my lot or be it joy, thou wouldst restore my daughter."And forth at midnight hour he fares, the silent tomb deserting,He makes the cloud his flying steed, he makes the star his bridle,And by the silver moon convoyed, to bring her home he journeys:And finds her combing down her locks, abroad by silvery moonlight,And greets the maiden from afar, and from afar bespeaks her."Arise, my Aretula dear, for thee our mother longeth.""Alas! my brother, what is this? what wouldst at such an hour?If joy betide our distant home, I wear my golden raiment,If woe betide, dear brother mine, I go as now I'm standing.""Think not of joy, think not of woe—return as here thou standest."And while they journey on the way, all on the way returning,They hear the Birds, and what they sing, and what the Birds are saying."Ho! see the maiden all so fair, a Ghost it is that bears her.""Didst hear the Birds, my Constantine, didst list to what they're saying?""Yes: they are Birds, and let them sing, they're Birds, and let them chatter:"And yonder, as they journey on, still other Birds salute them."What do we see, unhappy ones, ah! woe is fallen on us;—Lo! there the living sweep along, and with the dead they travel.""Didst hear, my brother Constantine, what yonder Birds are saying?""Yes! Birds are they, and let them sing, they're Birds, and let them chatter.""I fear for thee, my Brother dear, for thou dost breathe of incense.""Last evening late we visited the church of Saint Johannes,And there the priest perfumed me o'er with clouds of fragrant incense."And onward as they hold their way, still other Birds bespeak them:"O God, how wondrous is thy power, what miracles thou workest!A maid so gracious and so fair, a Ghost it is that bears her:"'Twas heard again by Arete, and now her heart was breaking;"Didst hearken, brother Constantine, to what the Birds are saying?Say where are now thy waving locks, thy strong thick beard, where is it?""A sickness sore has me befallen, and brought me near to dying."They find the house all locked and barred, they find it barred and bolted,And all the windows of the house with cobwebs covered over."Unlock, O mother mine, unlock, thine Arete thou seest.""If thou art Charon, get thee gone—I have no other children:My hapless Arete afar, in stranger lands is dwelling.""Unlock, O mother mine, unlock, thy Constantine entreats thee.I called to witness God above, I called the holy martyrs,Were woe thy lot, or were it joy, I would restore thy daughter."And when unto the door she came, her soul from her departed.
A Mery Ballet of the Hathorne Tre, from a MS. in the Cotton Library, Vespasian, A. xxv. The MS. has "G. Peele" appended to it, but in a hand more modern than the ballad. Mr. Dyce, with very good reason, "doubts" whether Peele is the author of the ballad, but has printed it, Peele'sWorks, ii. 256. It is given also by Evans, i. 342, and partly in Chappell'sPopular Music, i. 64.
The true character of this piece would never be suspected by one reading it in English. The same is true of the German, where the ballad is very common, and much prettier than in English, e.g.Das Mädchen und die Hasel,Das Mädchen und der Sagebaum, Erk'sLiederhort, No. 33, five copies; Hoffmann,Schlesische Volkslieder, No. 100, three copies, etc. In Danish and Swedish we find a circumstantial story:Jomfruen i Linden, Grundtvig, No. 66;Linden, Svenska Folkvisor, No. 87. The tree is an enchanted damsel, one of eleven children transformed by a step-mother into various less troublesome things, and the spell can be removed only by a kiss from the king's son. By the intervention of the maiden, this rite is performed, and the beautiful linden is changed to as beautiful a young woman, who of course becomes theprince's bride. A Wendish ballad resembling the German is given by Haupt and Schmaler, and ballads akin to the Danish, are found in Slovensk and Lithuanian (see Grundtvig).
It was a maide of my countrè,As she came by a hathorne-tre,As full of flowers as might be seen,'She' merveld to se the tree so grene.5At last she asked of this tre,"Howe came this freshness unto the,And every branche so faire and cleane?I mervaile that you growe so grene."The tre 'made' answere by and by:10"I have good causse to growe triumphantly;The swetest dewe that ever be seneDoth fall on me to kepe me grene.""Yea," quoth the maid, "but where you growe,You stande at hande for every blowe;15Of every man for to be seen;I mervaile that you growe so grene.""Though many one take flowers from me,And manye a branche out of my tre,I have suche store they wyll not be sene,20For more and more my'twegges'growe grene.""But howe and they chaunce to cut the downe,And carry thie braunches into the towne?Then will they never no more be seneTo growe againe so freshe and grene."25"Though that you do, yt ys no boote;Althoughe they cut me to the roote,Next yere againe I will be seneTo bude my branches freshe and grene."And you, faire maide, canne not do so;30For yf you let youre maid-hode goe,Then will yt never no more be sene,As I with my braunches can growe grene."The maide wyth that beganne to blushe,And turned her from the hathorne-bushe;35She though[t]e herselffe so faire and clene,Her bewtie styll would ever growe grene.Whan that she harde this marvelous dowbte,She wandered styll then all aboute,Suspecting still what she would wene,40Her maid-heade lost would never be seen.Wyth many a sighe, she went her waye,To se howe she made herselff so gay,To walke, to se, and to be sene,And so out-faced the hathorne grene.45Besides all that, yt put her in feareTo talke with companye anye where,For feare to losse the thinge that shuld be seneTo growe as were the hathorne grene.But after this never could I here50Of this faire mayden any where,That ever she was in forest seneTo talke againe of the hathorne grene.
It was a maide of my countrè,As she came by a hathorne-tre,As full of flowers as might be seen,'She' merveld to se the tree so grene.
5At last she asked of this tre,"Howe came this freshness unto the,And every branche so faire and cleane?I mervaile that you growe so grene."
The tre 'made' answere by and by:10"I have good causse to growe triumphantly;The swetest dewe that ever be seneDoth fall on me to kepe me grene."
"Yea," quoth the maid, "but where you growe,You stande at hande for every blowe;15Of every man for to be seen;I mervaile that you growe so grene."
"Though many one take flowers from me,And manye a branche out of my tre,I have suche store they wyll not be sene,20For more and more my'twegges'growe grene."
"But howe and they chaunce to cut the downe,And carry thie braunches into the towne?Then will they never no more be seneTo growe againe so freshe and grene."
25"Though that you do, yt ys no boote;Althoughe they cut me to the roote,Next yere againe I will be seneTo bude my branches freshe and grene.
"And you, faire maide, canne not do so;30For yf you let youre maid-hode goe,Then will yt never no more be sene,As I with my braunches can growe grene."
The maide wyth that beganne to blushe,And turned her from the hathorne-bushe;35She though[t]e herselffe so faire and clene,Her bewtie styll would ever growe grene.
Whan that she harde this marvelous dowbte,She wandered styll then all aboute,Suspecting still what she would wene,40Her maid-heade lost would never be seen.
Wyth many a sighe, she went her waye,To se howe she made herselff so gay,To walke, to se, and to be sene,And so out-faced the hathorne grene.
45Besides all that, yt put her in feareTo talke with companye anye where,For feare to losse the thinge that shuld be seneTo growe as were the hathorne grene.
But after this never could I here50Of this faire mayden any where,That ever she was in forest seneTo talke againe of the hathorne grene.
20. twedges.
20. twedges.
This curious little ballad was sung as a carol for St. Stephen's Day. Its counterpart is found in Danish (though not in an ancient form), printed in Erik Pontoppidan's book on the relics of Heathenism and Papistry in Denmark, 1736 (Jesusbarnet, Stefan, og HerodesGrundtvig, No. 96). There is also a similar ballad in Faroish. Only a slight trace of the story is now left in the SwedishStaffans Visa(Svenska F.V., No. 99), which is sung as a carol on St. Stephen's Day, as may very well have been the case with the Danish and Faroish ballads too.
The miracle of the roasted cock occurs in many other legends. The earliest mention of it is in Vincent of Beauvais'sSpeculum Historiale, L. xxv. c. 64. It is commonly ascribed to St. James, sometimes to the Virgin. (See the preface to the ballad in Grundtvig, and to Southey'sPilgrim to Compostella.) We meet with it in another English carol calledThe Carnal[5]and the Crane, printed in Sandys's collection, p. 152, from a broadside copy, corrupt and almost unintelligiblein places. The stanzas which contain the miracle are the following:
There was a star in the West land,So bright it did appearInto King Herod's chamber,And where King Herod were.The Wise Men soon espied it,And told the king on high,A princely babe was born that nightNo king could e'er destroy."If this be true," King Herod said,"As thou tellest unto me,This roasted cock that lies in the dishShall crow full fences[6]three."The cock soon freshly feather'd was,By the work of God's own hand,And then three fences crowed he,In the dish where he did stand."Rise up, rise up, you merry men all,See that you ready be;All children under two years oldNow slain they all shall be."
There was a star in the West land,So bright it did appearInto King Herod's chamber,And where King Herod were.The Wise Men soon espied it,And told the king on high,A princely babe was born that nightNo king could e'er destroy."If this be true," King Herod said,"As thou tellest unto me,This roasted cock that lies in the dishShall crow full fences[6]three."The cock soon freshly feather'd was,By the work of God's own hand,And then three fences crowed he,In the dish where he did stand."Rise up, rise up, you merry men all,See that you ready be;All children under two years oldNow slain they all shall be."
There was a star in the West land,So bright it did appearInto King Herod's chamber,And where King Herod were.
The Wise Men soon espied it,And told the king on high,A princely babe was born that nightNo king could e'er destroy.
"If this be true," King Herod said,"As thou tellest unto me,This roasted cock that lies in the dishShall crow full fences[6]three."
The cock soon freshly feather'd was,By the work of God's own hand,And then three fences crowed he,In the dish where he did stand.
"Rise up, rise up, you merry men all,See that you ready be;All children under two years oldNow slain they all shall be."
[5]crow?
[5]crow?
[6]rounds?
[6]rounds?
Seynt Stevene was a clerk in kyng Herowdes halle,And servyd him of bred and cloth, as ever kyngbefalle.Stevyn out of kechon cam, wyth boris hed on honde;He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght over Bedlem stonde.5Hekystadoun the bores hed, and went into the halle:"I forsake the, kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle."I forsak the, kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle:Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.""Quhateylytthe, Stevene? quhat is the befalle?10Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in kyng Herowdes halle?""Lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in kyng Herowdes halle:Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.""Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn? art thuwod, or thu gynnyst to brede?Lakkyt the eythar gold orfe, or ony ryche wede?"15"Lakyt 'me' neyther gold ne fe,nenon ryche wede;Ther is a chyld in Bedlem bornxalhelpen us at our nede.""That is al so soth, Stevyn, al sosoth, i-wys,As this capon crowe xal that lyth her in myn dysh."That word was not so sone seyd, that word in that halle,20The capon crew, CHRISTUS NATUS EST! among the lordes alle."Rysyt up, myn turmentowres,be toand al be on,And ledyt Stevyn out of this town, and stonyt hym wyth ston."TokynheStevene, and stonyd hym in the way;And therefor is his evyn on Crystes owyn day.
Seynt Stevene was a clerk in kyng Herowdes halle,And servyd him of bred and cloth, as ever kyngbefalle.
Stevyn out of kechon cam, wyth boris hed on honde;He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght over Bedlem stonde.
5Hekystadoun the bores hed, and went into the halle:"I forsake the, kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle.
"I forsak the, kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle:Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle."
"Quhateylytthe, Stevene? quhat is the befalle?10Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in kyng Herowdes halle?"
"Lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in kyng Herowdes halle:Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle."
"Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn? art thuwod, or thu gynnyst to brede?Lakkyt the eythar gold orfe, or ony ryche wede?"
15"Lakyt 'me' neyther gold ne fe,nenon ryche wede;Ther is a chyld in Bedlem bornxalhelpen us at our nede."
"That is al so soth, Stevyn, al sosoth, i-wys,As this capon crowe xal that lyth her in myn dysh."
That word was not so sone seyd, that word in that halle,20The capon crew, CHRISTUS NATUS EST! among the lordes alle.
"Rysyt up, myn turmentowres,be toand al be on,And ledyt Stevyn out of this town, and stonyt hym wyth ston."
TokynheStevene, and stonyd hym in the way;And therefor is his evyn on Crystes owyn day.
2. befalle,befell.
2. befalle,befell.
5. kyst,cast.
5. kyst,cast.
9. eylyt,aileth.
9. eylyt,aileth.
13. wod,mad: gynnyst to brede,beginnest to entertain capricious fancies, like a woman, &c.
13. wod,mad: gynnyst to brede,beginnest to entertain capricious fancies, like a woman, &c.
14. fe,wages: wede,clothes.
14. fe,wages: wede,clothes.
15. ne,nor.
15. ne,nor.
16. xall,shall.
16. xall,shall.
17. soth,true: i-wys,for a certainty.
17. soth,true: i-wys,for a certainty.
21. be to,by two.
21. be to,by two.
23. he,they.
23. he,they.